Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)
Page 351
Barlow.
Ah, Mrs. Fergusson, this is a delightful surprise.
Mrs. Fergusson.
You wicked, wicked man, I am told you’re such a rake.
Penelope.
Uncle Davenport?
Barlow.
[Delighted.] Ah, ah. Tales out of school, Mrs. Fergusson.
Mrs. Fergusson.
If I’d known what a reputation you had I wouldn’t have let you talk to me for half an hour in the park.
Barlow.
[Bubbling over with delight.] Oh, you mustn’t listen to all you hear. A man who goes out as much as I do is sure to get talked about. Our world is so small and so censorious.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Dr. O’Farrell has been writing a prescription for me. I haven’t been very well lately.
Barlow.
Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that. You look the picture of health and extremely handsome.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh, you horrid cruel thing! I wanted you to sympathise with me and tell me how ill I looked.
Barlow.
If you will allow me to call on you I can promise to sympathise with you, but I’m afraid I shall never be able to tell you that you look anything but charming.
Mrs. Fergusson.
That’s too nice of you. You must come and see me the moment I get back from Paris.
[Dickie gives a start.
Penelope.
Are you going to Paris?
Mrs. Fergusson.
I came on purpose to tell you. Really, I’ve got a head like a sieve. Poor Mrs. Mack has asked me if I would go as far as Paris with her. A most unfortunate thing has happened. Her maid’s mother has suddenly died, and the poor thing naturally wants to go to the funeral. And so....
Penelope.
Mrs. Mack has asked you to go in her maid’s place?
Mrs. Fergusson.
Only for two days, of course. Now, I want to know, dear, tell me honestly, do you mind?
Penelope.
I?
Mrs. Fergusson.
Some women are so funny. I thought you mightn’t like the idea of my going with Dr. O’Farrell as far as Paris, and, of course, we shall be travelling back together.
Penelope.
What nonsense! Of course, I’m only too glad. It’ll be so nice for Dickie to have some one to travel with.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Then that settles it. I like to do everything above board, you know.
Barlow.
[Seeing the guineas on the desk.] I see you’ve been raking in the shekels, Dickie.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh, that’s my fee. I insisted on paying a fee — I particularly want you to know that, Penelope — I’m so scrupulous about that sort of thing.
Penelope.
Oh, but Dickie can’t accept it. [To Dickie.] You are a grasping old thing!
Dickie.
I’m sure I didn’t want the money.
Penelope.
You really must take it back, Ada.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Putting up a defensive hand.] No, I couldn’t really. It’s one of my principles.
Penelope.
I know your principles are excellent, but I really shouldn’t like Dickie to accept a fee for seeing my greatest friend.
[Penelope takes up the money and gives it to Mrs. Fergusson.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh, well, of course, if you take it like that, I don’t know what to do.
Penelope.
Put it in your purse and say no more about it.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh, it’s too good of you.
[She puts it in her purse. Dickie’s face falls as he sees his own money disappearing.
Mrs. Fergusson.
And now I must really fly. [Holding out her hand to Barlow.] Good-bye. Don’t forget to come and see me, but, remember, I shall expect to hear all about that little ballet-girl.
Barlow.
[Delighted to be thought so gay.] You mustn’t ask me to be indiscreet.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[To Penelope.] Good-bye, dear.
Penelope.
I’ll come to the door with you.
[Penelope and Mrs. Fergusson go out.
Dickie.
[Going to the telephone.] I don’t believe you’ve ever known a ballet-girl in your life.
Barlow.
No, but it pleases women of our class to think one is hand and glove with persons of that profession.
Dickie.
Central 1234. If they only knew that nine ballet-girls out of ten go home every night to their children and a husband in the suburbs! I just want to ring up my broker. Is that you, Robertson? I say, d’you know anything about a mine called the Johannesburg and New Jerusalem? Rotten? I thought as much. That’s all, thank you. [He puts on the receiver — to himself, acidly.] A hundred and eighty pounds gone bang.
Barlow.
Look here, Dickie, now that you have a moment to spare you might give me a little professional advice. Of course, I shan’t pay you.
Dickie.
Good Lord! I might as well be a hospital. I’m not even supported by voluntary contributions.
Barlow.
The fact is, I’ve noticed lately that I’m not so thin as I was.
Dickie.
It can’t have required great perspicacity to notice that.
Barlow.
I’m not asking you for repartee, Dickie, but advice.
Dickie.
You don’t want to bother about a figure at your time of life.
Barlow.
To tell you the truth, I have an inkling that I’ve made something of an impression on a very charming lady....
Dickie.
[Interrupting.] Take my advice and marry her quickly before the impression wears off.
Barlow.
Strange as it may appear to you, she’s a married woman.
Dickie.
Then don’t hesitate — do a bolt.
Barlow.
What do you mean, Dickie?
Dickie.
My dear Uncle Davenport, I’m young enough to be your son; philandering with a married woman is the most exaggerated form of amusement that’s ever been invented. Take care! That’s all I say. Take care!
Barlow.
Why?
Dickie.
She’ll bind you hand and foot, and put a halter round your neck and lead you about by it. She’ll ask you ten times a day if you love her, and each time you get up to go away she’ll make a scene to force you to stay longer. Each time you put on your hat she’ll pin you down to the exact hour of your next visit.
Barlow.
But all women do that. It only shows that they like you.
Dickie.
Yes, I suppose all women do that — except Pen. Pen never bothers. She never asks you if you love her. She never keeps you when you want to get away. She never insists on knowing all your movements. And when you leave her she never asks that fatal, fiendish question, at what time will you be back?
Barlow.
Well, my boy, if my wife were as indifferent to me as that, I should ask myself who the other feller was.
Dickie.
What the dickens do you mean by that?
Barlow.
My dear Dickie, it’s woman’s nature to be exacting. If she’s in love with you she’s always a nuisance, and a very charming nuisance too, to my mind. I like it.
Dickie.
You are not suggesting that Penelope....
Barlow.
Now, my dear boy, I didn’t come to talk to you about Penelope, but about my own health.
Dickie.
[Impatiently.] Oh, you’ve got chronic adiposity. That’s all that’s the matter with you.
Barlow.
Good gracious me, that sounds very alarming. And what shall I do for it?
Dickie.
[Savagely, very quickly.] Give up wines, spirits and liqueurs,
bread, butter, milk, cream, sugar, potatoes, carrots, cauliflowers, peas, turnips, rice, sago, tapioca, macaroni, jam, honey, and marmalade.
Barlow.
But that’s not treatment, that’s homicide!
Dickie.
[Taking no notice.] Put on a sweater and run round the park every morning before breakfast. Let’s have a look at your liver.
Barlow.
But, my dear Dickie....
Dickie.
Lie down on that sofa. Now don’t make a fuss about it. I’m not going to kill you. [Barlow lies down.] Put your knees up.
Barlow.
[As Dickie feels his liver.] She’s a fine, dashing woman. There’s no doubt about that.
Dickie.
Let yourself go quite loose. Who’s a fine, dashing woman?
Barlow.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Dickie starts. He gives Barlow a look, and then walks away, open-mouthed.
Barlow.
Dickie, Dickie.
[Much alarmed he gets off the sofa.
Barlow.
Is my liver very wrong?
Dickie.
[Completely abstracted.] It’s in a beastly state. I thought it would be.
Barlow.
[In tragic tones.] Richard, tell me the worst at once.
Dickie.
[Impatiently.] Don’t be such an old donkey. Your liver’s as right as mine is. There’s nothing the matter with you except that you do yourself too well, and don’t take enough exercise.
Barlow.
[With unction.] I suppose one has to pay for being the most popular diner-out of one’s time.
Dickie.
[Looking at him sharply.] Is it on Mrs. Fergusson that you’ve made something of an impression?
Barlow.
[With great self-satisfaction.] My dear fellow, I am the last man to give a woman away.
Dickie.
Ah!
Barlow.
Between ourselves, Dickie, do you think Mrs. Fergusson would find it peculiar if I asked her to lunch with me tête-à-tête at the Carlton?
Dickie.
Peculiar! She’d jump at it.
Barlow.
Do you think her husband would mind?
Dickie.
Oh, her husband’s all right. He keeps on bravely serving his country in a foreign land.
Barlow.
It shows that she has a nice nature, or she wouldn’t have come to ask Penelope if she minded your going to Paris together.
Dickie.
Yes, she has a charming nature.
Barlow.
Lucky dog, I wish I were going to Paris with her.
Dickie.
[Fervently.] I wish you were.
Barlow.
Ha, ha. Well, well, I must be running away. I’m dining out as usual. These good duchesses, they will not leave me alone. Good-bye.
[He goes out. Dickie walks up and down the room thinking. In a moment Penelope puts her head in.
Penelope.
I say, darling, oughtn’t you to be packing?
Dickie.
Come in and let’s smoke a cigarette together.
Penelope.
All right.
[She takes a cigarette, which he lights for her.
Penelope.
I hope you’ll have a splendid time in Paris.
[She sits down.
Dickie.
You never sit on the arm of my chair as you used to.
Penelope.
I’m horribly afraid I’m growing middle-aged. I’ve discovered how much more comfortable it is to have a chair of my own.
Dickie.
[Trying to hide a slight embarrassment.] Weren’t you rather surprised when Mrs. Fergusson told you she was going to Paris to-night?
Penelope.
Surprised?
[Penelope gives a little gurgle, tries to stifle it but cannot, then, giving way, bursts into peal upon peal of laughter. Dickie watches her with increasing astonishment.
Dickie.
What on earth are you laughing at?
Penelope.
[Bubbling over.] Darling, you must think me an old silly. Of course, I knew you were going together.
Dickie.
[Thoroughly startled.] I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Penelope.
I have tried not to see anything, but you do make it so difficult.
Dickie.
[Making up his mind to be very haughty.] Will you have the goodness to explain yourself?
Penelope.
My dear, of course I know all about it.
Dickie.
I entirely fail to gather your meaning. What do you know all about?
Penelope.
About you and Ada, silly.
Dickie.
[Very haughtily.] Penelope, do you mean to say you suspect me of ...?
Penelope.
[With an affectionate smile.] Darling!
Dickie.
[Suddenly alarmed.] What d’you know?
Penelope.
Everything.
[He gives a gasp and looks at Penelope anxiously.
Penelope.
I’ve been so amused to watch you during the last two months.
Dickie.
Amused?
Penelope.
Upon my word, it’s been as good as a play.
Dickie.
[Quite at a loss.] Have you known all along?
Penelope.
My dear, didn’t you see that I did everything in the world to throw you together?
Dickie.
But I assure you there’s not a word of truth in it.
Penelope.
[Good-humouredly.] Come, come, Dickie!
Dickie.
But why haven’t you said anything?
Penelope.
I thought it would only embarrass you. I didn’t mean to say anything to-day, but I couldn’t help laughing when you asked me if I was surprised.
Dickie.
Aren’t you angry?
Penelope.
Angry? What about?
Dickie.
Aren’t you jealous?
Penelope.
Jealous? You must think me a little donkey.
Dickie.
You took it as a matter of course? It amused you? It was as good as a play?
Penelope.
Darling, we’ve been married for five years. It’s absurd to think there could be anything between us after all that time.
Dickie.
Oh, is it? I wasn’t aware of that fact.
Penelope.
The whole thing seemed to me of no importance. I was pleased to think you were happy.
Dickie.
[Flying into a passion.] Well, I think it’s positively disgraceful, Penelope.
Penelope.
Oh, my dear, don’t exaggerate. It was a harmless peccadillo.
Dickie.
I’m not talking of my behaviour, but of yours.
Penelope.
Mine?
Dickie.
Yes, scandalous I call it.
Penelope.
[Quite disappointed.] And I thought it was so tactful.
Dickie.
Tactful be blowed. You must be entirely devoid of any sense of decency.
Penelope.
My dear, I haven’t done anything.
Dickie.
That’s just it. You ought to have done something. You ought to have kicked up a row; you ought to have made scenes; you ought to have divorced me. But just to sit there and let it go on as if it were nothing at all! It’s too monstrous.
Penelope.
I’m awfully sorry. If I’d known you wanted me to make a scene of course I would have, but really it didn’t seem worth making a fuss about.
Dickie.
I’ve never heard anything so callous, anything so cold-blooded, anything so cynical.
Penelope.
You are difficult to pleas
e.
Dickie.
But don’t you realise that I’ve treated you abominably.
Penelope.
Oh, no, you’ve always been the best and most discreet of husbands.
Dickie.
No, I’ve been a bad husband. I’m man enough to acknowledge it. And I mean to turn over a new leaf, Penelope; I will give Ada up. I promise you never to see her again.
Penelope.
Darling, why should you cause her needless pain? After all, she’s an old friend of mine. I think the least I can expect is that you should treat her nicely.
Dickie.
D’you mean to say you want it to go on?
Penelope.
It’s an arrangement that suits us all three. It amuses you, Ada has some one to take her about, and I get a lot of new frocks.
Dickie.
Frocks?
Penelope.
Yes, you see, I’ve been consoling my aching heart by replenishing my wardrobe.
Dickie.
So you’re willing to sacrifice our whole happiness to your frocks. Oh, I’ve cherished a viper in my bosom. I may have acted like a perfect beast, but, hang it all, I do know what’s right and wrong. I have a moral sense.
Penelope.
It seems to have displaced your sense of humour.
Dickie.
Do you know that all these weeks I’ve been tortured with remorse? I’ve told myself every day that I was treating you shamefully, I’ve not had a moment’s happiness. I’ve lived on a perfect rack.
Penelope.
It doesn’t seem to have had any serious effect on your health.
Dickie.
And here have you been laughing up your sleeve all the time. It can’t go on.
Penelope.
Upon my word, I don’t see why not?
Dickie.
We’ve been mistaken in one another. I’m not the man to stand such a position with indifference. And I’ve been mistaken in you, Penelope. I thought you cared for me.
Penelope.
I dote upon you.
Dickie.
That’s a jolly nice way of showing it.
Penelope.
That’s just what I thought it was.
Dickie.
You’ve outraged all my better nature.
Penelope.
Then what do you propose to do?
Dickie.
I’m going to do the only possible thing. Separate.
Penelope.
[Hearing voices in the hall.] Here are papa and mamma. They said they were coming back.
Dickie.
I hope they’ll never find out what a wicked, cruel woman you are. It would send down their grey hairs in sorrow to the grave.
Penelope.
But, my dear, they know all about it.
Dickie.
What! Is there any one who doesn’t know?
Penelope.
We didn’t tell Uncle Davenport. He’s such a man of the world, he has no sense of humour.