Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)
Page 362
Alec.
Quite. I see now that it was inevitable.
Lucy.
[With a sudden burst of furious anger.] You killed him! You killed him as surely as if you’d strangled him with your own hands.
[Robert Boulger goes to the door and flings
it open. Alec gives Lucy a look, then
slightly shrugs his shoulders. He walks
out without a word. The moment he has
gone Lucy sinks down and bursts into
passionate tears.
THE FOURTH ACT
Scene. — A library in the house of Dick Lomas in Portman Square.
Dick and his Valet. Dick is putting flowers into a vase.
Dick.
Has Mr. Mackenzie come in?
Charles.
Yes, sir. He’s gone to his room.
Dick.
I expect Mrs. Crowley and Miss Allerton to tea. If any one else comes I’m not at home.
Charles.
Very well, sir.
Dick.
And if a caller should ask at what time I’m expected back, you haven’t the least idea.
Charles.
Very well, sir.
Dick.
We shall want breakfast at eight to-morrow. I’m going down to Southampton to see Mr. Mackenzie off. But I shall be home to dinner. How about those cases in the hall?
Charles.
Mr. Mackenzie said they were to be sent for this afternoon. They’re only labelled Zanzibar. Is that sufficient, sir?
Dick.
Oh, I suppose so. Mr. Mackenzie will have given the shippers all directions. You’d better bring the tea at once. Mrs. Crowley is coming at four.
Charles.
Very well, sir.
[He goes out. Dick continues to arrange the
flowers, than goes to the window and looks
out. He comes back. The door is opened by
Charles, who announces Mrs. Crowley.
Charles.
Mrs. Crowley.
Dick.
[Going towards her eagerly and taking both her hands.] Best of women!
Mrs. Crowley.
You seem quite glad to see me?
Dick.
I am. But where is Lucy?
Mrs. Crowley.
She’s coming later.... I don’t know why you should squeeze my hands in this pointed manner.
Dick.
What an age it is since I saw you!
Mrs. Crowley.
If you bury yourself in Scotland all the summer, you can’t expect to see people who go to Homburg and the Italian lakes.
Dick.
Heavens, how you cultivate respectability!
Mrs. Crowley.
It’s a sensitive plant whose vagaries one has to humour.
Dick.
Aren’t you delighted to be back in town?
Mrs. Crowley.
London’s the most charming place in the world to get away from and to come back to. Now tell me all you’ve been doing, if I can hear it without blushing too furiously.
Dick.
My behaviour would have done credit to a clergyman’s only daughter. I dragged Alec off to Scotland after that horrible scene at Lady Kelsey’s, and we played golf.
Mrs. Crowley.
Was he very wretched, poor thing?
Dick.
He didn’t say a word. I wanted to comfort him, but he never gave me a chance. He never mentioned Lucy’s name.
Mrs. Crowley.
Did he seem unhappy?
Dick.
No. He was just the same as ever, impassive and collected.
Mrs. Crowley.
Really he’s inhuman.
Dick.
He’s an anomaly in this juvenile century. He’s an ancient Roman who buys his clothes in Savile Row. An eagle caged with a colony of canaries.
Mrs. Crowley.
Then he’s very much in the way in England, and it’s much better for him that he should go back to Africa.
Dick.
This time to-morrow he’ll be half-way down the channel.
Mrs. Crowley.
I’m really beginning to think you’re a perfect angel, Mr. Lomas.
Dick.
Don’t say that, it makes me feel so middle-aged. I’d much sooner be a young sinner than an elderly cherub.
Mrs. Crowley.
It was sweet of you to look after him through the summer and then insist on his staying here till he went away. How long is he going for this time?
Dick.
Heaven knows! Perhaps for ever.
Mrs. Crowley.
Have you told him that Lucy is coming?
Dick.
No. I thought that was a pleasing piece of information which I’d leave you to impart.
Mrs. Crowley.
Thanks!
Dick.
She’s only coming to indulge a truly feminine passion for making scenes, and she’s made Alec quite wretched enough already. Why doesn’t she marry Robert Boulger?
Mrs. Crowley.
Why should she?
Dick.
Half the women I know merely married their husbands to spite somebody else. It appears to be one of the commonest causes of matrimony.
Mrs. Crowley.
[With a quizzical look at him.] Talking of which, what are you going to do when Mr. Mackenzie is gone?
Dick.
Talking of the weather and the crops, I propose to go to Spain.
Mrs. Crowley.
[Opening her eyes wide.] How very extraordinary! I thought of going there, too.
Dick.
Then, without a moment’s hesitation, I shall go to Norway.
Mrs. Crowley.
It’ll be dreadfully cold.
Dick.
Dreadfully. But I shall be supported by the consciousness of having done my duty.
Mrs. Crowley.
You don’t think there would be room for both of us in Spain?
Dick.
I’m convinced there wouldn’t. We should always be running against one another, and you’d insist on my looking out all your trains in Bradshaw.
Mrs. Crowley.
I hope you remember that you asked me to tea to-day?
Dick.
Pardon me, you asked yourself. I keep the letter next to my heart and put it under my pillow every night.
Mrs. Crowley.
You fibber! Besides, if I did, it was only on Lucy’s account.
Dick.
That, I venture to think, is neither polite nor accurate.
Mrs. Crowley.
I don’t think I should so utterly detest you, if you hadn’t such a good opinion of yourself.
Dick.
You forget that I vowed on the head of my maternal grandmother never to speak to you again.
Mrs. Crowley.
Oh, I’m always doing that. I tell my maid that time she does my hair badly.
Dick.
You trifled with the tenderest affection of an innocent and unsophisticated old bachelor.
Mrs. Crowley.
Is that you by any chance?
Dick.
Of course, it’s me. D’you think I was talking of the man in the moon?
Mrs. Crowley.
[Looking at him critically.] With the light behind, you might still pass for thirty-five.
Dick.
I’ve given up youth and its vanities. I no longer pluck out my white hairs.
Mrs. Crowley.
Then how on earth do you occupy your leisure?
Dick.
For the last three months I’ve been laboriously piecing together the fragments of a broken heart.
Mrs. Crowley.
If you hadn’t been so certain that I was going to accept you, I should never have refused. I couldn’t resist the temptation of saying “No” just to see how you took it.
Dick.
I flatter myself that I took it very well.
Mrs. Crowley.
&nb
sp; You didn’t. You showed an entire lack of humour. You might have known that a nice woman doesn’t marry a man the first time he asks her. It’s making oneself too cheap. It was very silly of you to go off to Scotland as if you didn’t care.... How was I to know that you meant to wait three months before asking me again?
Dick.
I haven’t the least intention of asking you again.
Mrs. Crowley.
Then why in heaven’s name did you invite me to tea?
Dick.
May I respectfully remind you, first, that you invited yourself ...
Mrs. Crowley.
[Interrupting.] You’re so irrelevant.
Dick.
And, secondly, that an invitation to tea is not necessarily accompanied by a proposal of marriage.
Mrs. Crowley.
I’m afraid you’re lamentably ignorant of the usages of good society.
Dick.
I assure you it’s not done in the best circles.
Mrs. Crowley.
[With a little pout.] I shall be very cross with you in a minute.
Dick.
Why?
Mrs. Crowley.
Because you’re not behaving at all prettily.
Dick.
D’you know what I’d do if I were you? Propose to me.
Mrs. Crowley.
Oh, I couldn’t do anything so immodest.
Dick.
I have registered a vow that I will never offer my hand and heart to any woman again.
Mrs. Crowley.
On the head of your maternal grandmother?
Dick.
Oh no, far more serious than that. On the grave of my maiden aunt, who left me all my money.
Mrs. Crowley.
What will you say if I do?
Dick.
That depends entirely on how you do it. I may remind you, however, that first you go down on your bended knees.
Mrs. Crowley.
Oh, I waived that with you.
Dick.
And then you confess you’re unworthy of me.
Mrs. Crowley.
Mr. Lomas, I am a widow. I am twenty-nine and extremely eligible. My maid is a treasure. My dressmaker is charming. I am clever enough to laugh at your jokes, and not so learned as to know where they come from.
Dick.
Really you’re very long-winded. I said it all in four words.
Mrs. Crowley.
So could I if I might write it down.
Dick.
You must say it.
Mrs. Crowley.
But what I’m trying to make you understand is that I don’t want to marry you a bit. You’re just the sort of man who’ll beat his wife regularly every Saturday night.... You will say yes if I ask you, won’t you?
Dick.
I’ve never been able to refuse a woman anything.
Mrs. Crowley.
I have no doubt you will after six months of holy matrimony.
Dick.
I never saw any one make such a fuss about so insignificant a detail as a proposal of marriage.
Mrs. Crowley.
Dick. [She stretches out her hands, smiling, and he takes her in his arms.] You really are a detestable person.
Dick.
[With a smile, taking a ring from his pocket.] I bought an engagement ring yesterday on the off chance of its being useful.
Mrs. Crowley.
Then you meant to ask me all the time?
Dick.
Of course I did, you silly.
Mrs. Crowley.
Oh, I wish I had known that before. I’d have refused you again.
Dick.
You absurd creature.
[He kisses her.
Mrs. Crowley.
[Trying to release herself.] There’s somebody coming.
Dick.
It’s only Alec.
[Alec comes in.
Alec.
Hulloa!
Dick.
Alec, we’ve made friends, Mrs. Crowley and I.
Alec.
It certainly looks very much like it.
Dick.
The fact is, I’ve asked her to marry me, and she....
Mrs. Crowley.
[Interrupting, with a smile.] After much pressure —
Dick.
Has consented.
Alec.
I’m so glad. I heartily congratulate you both. I was rather unhappy at leaving Dick, Mrs. Crowley. But now I leave him in your hands, I’m perfectly content. He’s the dearest, kindest old chap I’ve ever known.
Dick.
Shut up, Alec! Don’t play the heavy father, or we shall burst into tears.
Alec.
He’ll be an admirable husband because he’s an admirable friend.
Mrs. Crowley.
I know he will. And I’m only prevented from saying all I think of him and how much I love him, by the fear that he’ll become perfectly unmanageable.
Dick.
Spare me these chaste blushes which mantle my youthful brow. Will you pour out the tea ... Nellie?
Mrs. Crowley.
Yes ... Dick.
[She sits down at the tea-table and Dick makes
himself comfortable in an arm-chair by
her side.
Alec.
Well, I’m thankful to say that everything’s packed and ready.
Mrs. Crowley.
I wish you’d stay for our wedding.
Dick.
Do. You can go just as well by the next boat.
Alec.
I’m afraid that everything is settled now. I’ve given instructions at Zanzibar to collect bearers, and I must arrive as quickly as I can.
Dick.
I wish to goodness you’d give up these horrible explorations.
Alec.
But they’re the very breath of my life. You don’t know the exhilaration of the daily dangers — the joy of treading where only the wild beasts have trodden before. Oh, already I can hardly bear my impatience when I think of the boundless country and the enchanting freedom. Here one grows so small, so despicable, but in Africa everything is built to a nobler standard. There a man is really a man; there one knows what are will and strength and courage. Oh, you don’t know what it is to stand on the edge of some great plain and breathe the pure keen air after the terrors of the forest. Then at last you know what freedom is.
Dick.
The boundless plain of Hyde Park is enough for me, and the aspect of Piccadilly on a fine day in June gives me quite as many emotions as I want.
Mrs. Crowley.
But what will you gain by it all, now that your work in East Africa is over, by all the dangers and the hardships?
Alec.
Nothing. I want to gain nothing. Perhaps I shall discover some new species of antelope or some unknown plant. Perhaps I shall find some new waterway. That is all the reward I want. I love the sense of power and mastery. What do you think I care for the tinsel rewards of kings and peoples?
Dick.
I always said you were melodramatic. I never heard anything so transpontine.
Mrs. Crowley.
And the end of it, what will be the end?
Alec.
The end is death in some fever-stricken swamp, obscurely, worn out by exposure and ague and starvation. And the bearers will seize my gun and my clothes and leave me to the jackals.
Mrs. Crowley.
Don’t. It’s too horrible.
Alec.
Why, what does it matter? I shall die standing up. I shall go the last journey as I have gone every other.
Mrs. Crowley.
Without fear?
Dick.
For all the world like the wicked baronet: Once aboard the lugger and the girl is mine!
Mrs. Crowley.
Don’t you want men to remember you?
Alec.
Perhaps they will. Perhaps in a hundred years or so, in some flourishing town where I discovered nothing but
wilderness, they will commission a second-rate sculptor to make a fancy statue of me. And I shall stand in front of the Stock Exchange, a convenient perch for birds, to look eternally upon the various shabby deeds of human kind.
[During this speech Mrs. Crowley makes a sign
to Dick, who walks slowly away and goes
out.
Mrs. Crowley.
And is that really everything? I can’t help thinking that at the bottom of your heart is something that you’ve never told to a living soul.
[He gives her a long look, and then after a
moment’s thought breaks into a little smile.
Alec.
Why do you want to know so much?
Mrs. Crowley.
Tell me.
Alec.
I daresay I shall never see you again. Perhaps it doesn’t much matter what I say to you. You’ll think me very silly, but I’m afraid I’m rather — patriotic. It’s only we who live away from England who really love it. I’m so proud of my country, and I wanted so much to do something for it. Often in Africa I’ve thought of this dear England, and longed not to die till I had done my work. Behind all the soldiers and the statesmen whose fame is imperishable, there is a long line of men who’ve built up the Empire piece by piece. Their names are forgotten, and only students know their history, but each one of them gave a province to his country. And I, too, have my place among them. For five years I toiled night and day, and at the end of it was able to hand over to the Commissioners a broad tract of land, rich and fertile. After my death England will forget my faults and my mistakes. I care nothing for the flouts and gibes with which she has repaid all my pain, for I have added another fair jewel to her crown. I don’t want rewards. I only want the honour of serving this dear land of ours.
Mrs. Crowley.
Why is it, when you’re so nice really, that you do all you can to make people think you utterly horrid?
Alec.
Don’t laugh at me because you’ve found out that at heart I’m nothing more than a sentimental old woman.
Mrs. Crowley.
[Putting her hand on his arm.] What would you do if Lucy came here to-day?
[Alec starts, looks at her sharply, then answers
with deliberation.
Alec.
I have always lived in polite society. I should never dream of outraging its conventions. If Miss Allerton happened to come, you may be sure I should be scrupulously polite.
Mrs. Crowley.
Is that all? Lucy has suffered very much.
Alec.
And do you suppose I’ve not suffered? Because I don’t whine my misery to all and sundry, d’you think I don’t care? I’m not the man to fall in and out of love with every pretty face I meet. All my life I’ve kept an ideal before my eyes. Oh, you don’t know what it meant to me to fall in love. I felt that I had lived all my life in a prison, and at last Lucy came and took me by the hand and led me out. And for the first time I breathed the free air of heaven. Oh God! how I’ve suffered for it! Why should it have come to me? Oh, if you knew my agony and the torture!