Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  Golightly.

  How very singular.

  Penelope.

  It is till you know that Ada Fergusson adores racing. And the thing that makes me so furious is that I’m quite certain Dickie puts on her money for her; and when her horse wins she pockets the profits, and when it loses she doesn’t pay her stake.

  Golightly.

  That sounds very nasty of her. What makes you think it?

  Penelope.

  I do it myself.... Poor Dickie, it’s going to cost him a lot of money this month.

  Golightly.

  Why?

  Penelope.

  Because whenever he goes out for the day I have to console myself by buying something. I generally choose something rather dear.

  Golightly.

  I don’t remember that I advised that in the treatment of a volatile husband.

  Penelope.

  No, I added it of my own accord.

  Golightly.

  But why did you send for me to-day?

  Penelope.

  Because the end has come. And I can’t stand it any longer. This morning Dickie said that Mrs. Mack was well enough to be moved, and he was going to take her over to Paris to put her in the Riviera train.

  Golightly.

  Do you mean to say that....

  Penelope.

  [With an angry shrug of the shoulders.] Ada Fergusson wants a little jaunt in Paris.

  Golightly.

  What are you going to do?

  Penelope.

  I’m going to tell him he must choose between us. I’m going to do everything I can to prevent him from going. And I mean to let him know that if he goes it’s the end.

  Golightly.

  Oh!

  Penelope.

  Don’t say oh! Say I’m quite right. Say it’s the only thing to do.

  Golightly.

  But I think you’re quite wrong.

  Penelope.

  Wrong!

  Golightly.

  You don’t suppose he wants to go to Paris. No man in his senses would take the risk.

  Penelope.

  Then why is he going?

  Golightly.

  Because she’s making him. And once a woman in these circumstances makes a man do what he doesn’t want to, it’s the beginning of the end.

  Penelope.

  How d’you know?

  Golightly.

  I don’t know. I guess it.

  Penelope.

  It seems to me that a lifetime spent in the study of mathematics has resulted in some very various knowledge.

  Golightly.

  Be a good girl, Pen, and let them go.

  [There is a pause while Penelope, resting her face on her hands, looks straight at her father. She thinks the matter out.

  Penelope.

  You were right when you said I should want a great deal of tact, and a great deal of patience, and a great deal of self-control. My word!

  Golightly.

  [Smiling.] Well?

  Penelope.

  I’ll do nothing. I’ll hold my tongue, I’ll smile, I’ll make jokes, but....

  Golightly.

  Yes?

  Penelope.

  I want some hats badly. I’ll just go and ring up Françoise and tell her to send me all she’s got in the shop.

  [Dickie comes in.

  Golightly.

  I was just going.

  Dickie.

  I’m sorry. Why so soon?

  Golightly.

  I promised to fetch my wife.

  Penelope.

  You must come back. This is the first time I’ve been separated from Dickie since our marriage, and I shall want to hide my head in the maternal bosom while my noble father pats my hand.

  Dickie.

  I wish you wouldn’t take it so calmly, Pen. You might be a bit cut up.

  Penelope.

  But, darling, I’m making every preparation to have fit after fit of violent hysterics. I can’t do more.

  Dickie.

  Rot me, that’s right.

  Penelope.

  [With meaning.] After all, Dickie, I know you wouldn’t go if you could help it. It’s only because you feel it’s your duty, isn’t it?

  [Dickie is rather uncomfortable, but says nothing. Golightly breaks the momentary silence.

  Golightly.

  Why are you going by night?

  Dickie.

  [Relieved.] Oh, you see, there’s so much less of a crowd. It’s more convenient when you’re carting an invalid about.

  Penelope.

  [Gaily.] It’ll be great fun, because you’ll see all the gay young men who are making a little excursion to Paris with the object of their affections. I’m told they always go by night so that no one should see them on the journey.

  Golightly.

  Well, I must be getting on or I shall be late. Au revoir.

  Penelope.

  Don’t be too long, father, in case my emotions get the better of me before you come back.

  Golightly.

  [Nodding.] I may see you later, Dickie.

  [He goes out. Penelope makes as if to follow him.

  Penelope.

  I’m going upstairs to have tea.

  Dickie.

  [Rather stiffly.] I’d like to have a little talk with you, Pen.

  Penelope.

  Then come up into the drawing-room.

  Dickie.

  I’d rather talk to you down here.

  Penelope.

  [Sitting down.] Very well. Talk.

  Dickie.

  You can send for the tea if you like.

  Penelope.

  No; I’ll let it stand and ruin my digestion.

  Dickie.

  [Taking papers out of his pocket and giving them to Penelope.] D’you know what these are?

  Penelope.

  [With a charming smile.] Bills, darling?

  Dickie.

  I can see they’re bills, thank you!

  Penelope.

  [Flourishing one of them.] This is for the frock I’ve got on. You wouldn’t think it cost so much, would you? [Looking down at it.] You see, you have to pay for the cut.

  Dickie.

  [Trying to keep his temper.] And what do you expect me to do with them?

  Penelope.

  [Indifferently.] You can put them in the waste-paper basket if you like, but it would be shorter to pay them.

  Dickie.

  [Flying into a passion.] Now, look here, Pen. It’s perfectly preposterous. You know I’m not going to stand this sort of thing.

  Penelope.

  [Apparently much astonished, quite good-humouredly.] Darling, you’re not going to make a scene for a few little things I’ve bought myself. I was positively in rags, and I thought you liked me to dress neatly.

  Dickie.

  Hang it all, I’m a poor man, and you’ve spent more than a hundred and fifty pounds in this one month.

  Penelope.

  [Calmly.] Does it come to as much as that? It’s lucky you’ve got such a good patient in Mrs. Mack, isn’t it?

  [He gives her a suspicious look, but to get away from Mrs. Mack breaks out angrily.

  Dickie.

  Senseless extravagance I call it. Now look here, here’s thirty-five pounds for a dress in blue cloth — absurd price to pay — on 9th of October.

  Penelope.

  Duke of York’s Stakes at Kempton.

  Dickie.

  How d’you mean, Duke of York’s Stakes at Kempton?

  Penelope.

  I just happen to remember they were on that day because Madame Claude was so surprised to see me. It was only by the merest chance that she hadn’t gone to the races herself.

  Dickie.

  But what on earth put it into your head to go and buy a blue cloth dress?

  Penelope.

  [Sweetly.] Well, you see, darling, it was the day of the first operation that was performed on Mrs. Mack. And you were away all day, and I felt awfu
lly depressed and lonely. And I knew how anxious you were, and it made me anxious, so I just went and ordered a blue cloth to cheer myself up a bit.

  [Dickie looks at her for a moment, then looks down at the bill, is about to speak, but says nothing. Penelope watches him.

  Dickie.

  [Suddenly.] And look here, on the 13th of October there’s an ermine stole and a muff.

  Penelope.

  Yes, that was the second operation on poor Mrs. Mack.

  Dickie.

  I say, I think it’s a bit thick.

  Penelope.

  Well, I had to do something while you were away. And it made me feel so miserable to see everybody driving off with race glasses to Liverpool Street.

  Dickie.

  I beg your pardon.

  Penelope.

  You see, the 13th of October was the Cesarewitch.

  Dickie.

  And I suppose all the others are to be explained in the same way. [Looking at a bill.] October 22.

  Penelope.

  Sandown Races.

  [Dickie looks through the bill crossly, but does not speak.

  [Innocently.] I wonder why you always had your operations on the same day as an important race meeting.

  Dickie.

  I suppose you think it odd?

  Penelope.

  A little.

  Dickie.

  Well, it isn’t odd at all. It’s one of old Peter Marsden’s cranky ways. I told you it was Peter Marsden who did the operations, didn’t I? [Penelope nods.] The fact is, he’s simply mad on racing. And he’s lost such a pot of money that he always fixes an important operation for the same day as a race meeting so that he absolutely won’t be able to go to it.

  Penelope.

  Funny old thing.

  [Dickie looks up suspiciously.

  [With a laugh.] Peter Marsden, not you, darling.

  Dickie.

  Now look here, Pen, we’ll say no more about these bills. I’ll pay them this time....

  Penelope.

  I knew you would.

  Dickie.

  But there must be no more of them.

  Penelope.

  I really don’t know why you should make such a fuss. After all, you’ve been earning simply heaps and heaps of money with Mrs. Mack.

  Dickie.

  We mustn’t count our chickens before they’re hatched. I haven’t had a penny out of her yet.

  Penelope.

  But now that she’s going away you can send in your bill.

  Dickie.

  Oh, I couldn’t possibly. It would kill her.

  Penelope.

  Don’t you think you might risk it?

  Dickie.

  I think you’re awfully heartless, Pen. You forget that I’m very much attached to the old lady. I look upon her as a friend as well as a patient.

  Penelope.

  Perhaps she’ll leave you something in her will. We want a new electric brougham, don’t we?

  Dickie.

  Oh, I shouldn’t accept it. I have the strongest feeling against doctors getting legacies from their patients.

  Penelope.

  Well, you’ll be able to charge at least a hundred and fifty pounds for taking her to Paris.

  Dickie.

  [With a start.] Pen!

  Penelope.

  Oh, you made me jump.

  Dickie.

  You’re not proposing to buy anything more?

  Penelope.

  Well, darling, I know that when I get up to-morrow morning and you’re not here, I shall feel dreadfully lonely and depressed.

  Dickie.

  [Interrupting.] Have your sainted mother to stay with you.

  Penelope.

  And it’s struck me that I simply haven’t got a hat I can wear.

  Dickie.

  [Sternly.] Penelope.

  Penelope.

  [Persuasively.] It’ll make my frocks last so much longer if I have some nice hats. You see, you ring the changes, and people think you have a new gown on.

  Dickie.

  And may I venture to inquire how many hats you’ll want to overcome your depression?

  Penelope.

  [Decidedly.] Three.

  Dickie.

  I never heard anything so preposterous.

  Penelope.

  Now look here, Dickie, I’m willing to meet you half way; I promise you they shan’t cost more than five pounds each. You can afford that out of the hundred and fifty.

  Dickie.

  The fact is, Pen, that Mrs. Mack is more a friend than a patient, and she’s not so well to do as I thought. I’m proposing to make no charge for accompanying her to Paris.

  Penelope.

  [Quite firmly.] Oh, no, Dickie, I won’t hear of it. You’ve got a wife to think of — if you died to-morrow I should be totally unprovided for. You have no right to be quixotic. It’s not fair to me.

  [Dickie is just going to answer when Peyton comes in.

  Peyton.

  A lady wishes to see you, sir.

  Dickie.

  [Irritably.] At this hour?

  Peyton.

  It’s Mrs. Watson, sir.

  Dickie.

  Oh, yes, I know. Show her in.

  [Exit Peyton.

  Dickie.

  Thank heaven, there’s somebody. I’ll get a few guineas out of her at all events. [Looking at his case book.] Four visits. That’ll be five guineas. By Jove, I want them.

  Penelope.

  What’s the matter with her?

  Dickie.

  I don’t know, but I’m pretending I do. And she probably won’t find out.

  Penelope.

  I’ll leave you. I must just telephone to some one.

  [She goes out. Dickie walks up and down irritably. When Mrs. Watson appears he at once puts on his professional manner, and is very bland and affable. Mrs. Watson is a little, old lady in black.

  Dickie.

  Well, Mrs. Watson?

  Mrs. Watson.

  You mustn’t mind my coming so late. I know you don’t see any one after five, but I’m going away.

  Dickie.

  I’m delighted to see you. I promise you that.

  Mrs. Watson.

  I’m starting for the Riviera with my daughter to-morrow, and I thought I’d like to see you again before I went.

  Dickie.

  Of course. And how have you been getting on?

  Mrs. Watson.

  [With the keenest satisfaction.] Oh! I don’t get on. I never get better.

  Dickie.

  Have you been taking your medicine regularly?

  Mrs. Watson.

  [Cheerfully.] Yes; but it doesn’t do me any good.

  Dickie.

  Let’s try your knee jerks, shall we?

  [Mrs. Watson crosses one leg over the other, and Dickie taps below the knee; the leg is slightly jerked up.

  Dickie.

  That seems right enough.

  Mrs. Watson.

  Sir Benjamin Broadstairs tried everything, and he couldn’t cure me; and then I went to Sir William Wilson, and he told me not to do any of the things that Sir Benjamin Broadstairs told me to do, and I got worse and worse!

  Dickie.

  You seem uncommonly cheerful about it.

  Mrs. Watson.

  I’ve been to every doctor in London, and they all say I’m a wonderful case. I like being examined by doctors, and they take such an interest in me. The hours and hours they’ve spent over me. I can never be grateful enough for all the kindness I’ve had from them.

  Dickie.

  It’s very nice of you to say so. I think I’ll try you on something else to-day.

  Mrs. Watson.

  Oh! make it nice and strong; won’t you, doctor?

  Dickie.

  You seem to like your medicine with some body in it.

  Mrs. Watson.

  Well, I like taking medicines. It’s something to do; and now my daughter’s married I’m very much a
lone. I think I’ve taken every medicine in the Pharmacopœia, and they’ve none of them done me any good.

  Dickie.

  [Handing her a prescription.] Well, perhaps this will. You must take it three times a day before meals.

  Mrs. Watson.

  [Looking at it.] Oh! but I’ve had this before, Dr. O’Farrell. Sir Arthur Thomas gave me this only a few months ago.

  Dickie.

  Well, try it again. Perhaps you didn’t give it a fair chance.

  Mrs. Watson.

  I was reading in the Lancet the other day that a German doctor had discovered a new medicine which does nerve cases such a lot of good. I’m sure it’s the very thing for me.

  Dickie.

  What on earth were you reading the Lancet for?

  Mrs. Watson.

  Oh, I always read the Lancet and the British Medical Journal. You see, my poor husband had to take them in for his practice.

  Dickie.

  [With a gasp.] You don’t mean to say your husband was a doctor?

  Mrs. Watson.

  Oh, I thought I told you that I was a doctor’s widow.

  [Dickie tries to master his agitation while Mrs. Watson prattles on.

  Mrs. Watson.

  I can never bear to hear doctors spoken badly of. They never do me any good, but they’ve been kindness itself. I’ve only once been rudely treated, and that — if you’ll believe it — was by a mere nobody. I told him all my symptoms, and he said to me, Madam, can you eat? Yes, I said. I have breakfast in the morning and a little soup at eleven o’clock; and then I have lunch, and I always make a good tea, and I eat a little dinner at half-past seven, and before I go to bed I have some bread and milk. Then he said, Madam, can you sleep? Yes, I said, for an old woman I sleep very well; I sleep eight or nine hours regularly. Then he said, Madam, can you walk? Oh! yes, I said, I always make a point of walking four miles a day. Then he said, My opinion is that you’ve got nothing the matter with you at all. Good afternoon.

  Dickie.

  Fancy.

  Mrs. Watson.

  Well, I just looked him up and down, and I said to him, Sir, your opinion is not shared by Sir Benjamin Broadstairs, or Sir William Wilson, or Sir Arthur Thomas. And I didn’t even offer him a fee, but I just swept out of the room. [Archly.] You won’t give me that new medicine?

  Dickie.

  Honestly, I don’t think it’s quite what you want.

  Mrs. Watson.

  Very well. I expect you know best. And now I mustn’t take up any more of your time.

  Dickie.

  [Sarcastically.] Oh, it’s of no value, thank you.

  Mrs. Watson.

  [Persuasively.] Will you tell me what I owe you?

  Dickie.

  Oh, as a doctor’s widow, of course, I couldn’t dream of accepting a fee.