Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  Catherine.

  All that’s very harmless. You flattered me. The life you offered me seemed so large, so full, and I was very young. I was dazzled by your brilliancy and your success. I mistook it for love.

  George Winter.

  And I married you because I wanted a wife. You happened to have an uncle who’s a duke, and aristocratic connexions are devilish useful in England to a Radical politician.

  Catherine.

  [Bitterly.] Oh, yes, I found out soon enough why you married me.

  George Winter.

  It was a business arrangement on both sides, and you’ve had your full share of the profits.

  Catherine.

  [Outraged.] Oh, how can you?

  George Winter.

  You’d always lived in a pokey way and I gave you magnificence. I’ve kept even the spirit of my part of the bargain. Your father wasn’t mentioned in the settlements. But every stick of furniture in this house has been bought with my money. The very clothes on your mother’s back are paid for by me.

  Catherine.

  That’s not true.

  George Winter.

  You don’t think your father is worth the money I give him. He’s as incompetent as all the rest of these damned fools who come from the West-End and think they can make money in the City. The nincompoop thinks himself a financial authority. The charwoman of a bucket-shop could give him points.

  Catherine.

  He has his name and his position.

  George Winter.

  Nowadays even a country curate will fight shy of a title on a prospectus. The salaries he gets are merely payments for you.

  Catherine.

  Oh, you’ve said all this so often. For years you’ve bullied me with your money. I was such a fool, because you said it was dishonest of me to go, rather than that even you should have the smallest cause to blame me, I bore everything. I clenched my hands and suffered.

  George Winter.

  [With a chuckle.] In a diamond tiara and a Paquin dress.

  Catherine.

  I thought I should have the strength to suffer to the end. But I haven’t. If you bought an article and it hasn’t turned out worth the money you gave for it, that’s your look out. You see, you’ve taught me something after all.

  [A very short pause. George Winter makes up his mind to try compromise.

  George Winter.

  Now, look here; I’m willing to meet you half-way. I don’t ask you to come back to me. You can live as you like and where you like. I’ll give you five thousand a year. Your father can keep his directorships. The only thing I ask is that you shouldn’t apply for a divorce and that you should appear with me at certain public functions.

  Catherine.

  [Passionately.] I want to be free. I’ve lived in an atmosphere of lies and hypocrisy till I can hardly breathe. Your good nature is merely a pose. Your generosity is merely an advertisement. You care for nothing but your own self-advancement. And I want to be rid of the horrible feeling that all sorts of shady things are going on around me that I don’t know.

  George Winter.

  [Sharply.] What d’you mean?

  Catherine.

  I know that you’re not honest.

  [With a cry of rage George Winter seizes her by the shoulders violently. His passion for the moment is uncontrollable.

  George Winter.

  What d’you mean? What d’you mean? What d’you mean?

  Catherine.

  You’re hurting me.

  George Winter.

  [In his rage hardly able to articulate.] Damn you, how dare you say that to me?

  Catherine.

  Let me go.

  George Winter.

  Why don’t you answer? What d’you mean?

  Catherine.

  [Shaking herself free.] I’ll tell you what I mean. I know that if the occasion arose you wouldn’t hesitate to steal.

  George Winter.

  [With a laugh of relief.] Is that all?

  Catherine.

  For years I’ve been tortured by the horror of it. Each pearl you’ve given me — and you’ve thrust them upon me — I’ve asked myself if it was honestly come by. And that’s why I want to escape from you — not only because you’ve been odiously cruel to me, even now when you’re trying to persuade me to return to you, and because you’ve flaunted before me one vulgar intrigue after another — but because I feel that all this wealth rests on lying, and swindling, and roguery.

  George Winter.

  [Banteringly.] Well, you must confess that so far I’ve been eminently successful in not getting found out.

  Catherine.

  [Taking no notice of his remark.] And now surely you have nothing more to say to me.

  George Winter.

  [With a bland smile.] My dear, knowing how important it is to me that you should return to the conjugal roof, you don’t imagine I have come without some means to persuade you.

  Catherine.

  I assure you you’re wasting your time. You’ve always told me it was valuable.

  George Winter.

  [In his most delightful manner.] You seem to be under the delusion it rests with you to make conditions.

  Catherine.

  I make no conditions. I merely announce my decision.

  George Winter.

  [Taking a letter from his pocket and quietly smoothing it out on a table.] I’ve never suffered from that form of snobbishness which makes many self-made men hurl their origin in the face of a British public only too anxious to pretend it thinks them the scions of a noble house. But I have never concealed from you that mine was humble.

  Catherine.

  [Suspiciously.] What is that paper?

  George Winter.

  [Ignoring the question.] That is one of the pills you had to swallow when I married you and your excellent but impoverished family. I started life with neither friend nor money, but with exceptionally fine parts. I soon discovered that the simplest way to succeed is by blackmail. It is astonishing how many men keep a large-sized skeleton in their cupboards. If you only get a sight of those discreditable bones, you can often make a whole family your bosom friends. I’m not boring you, am I?

  Catherine.

  You’re torturing me.

  George Winter.

  This is a copy of a letter which you may remember. The original was so crumpled that I can’t help thinking you were romantic enough to sleep with it under your pillow. It begins: My very dear friend....

  Catherine.

  [Interrupting.] How did you get that?

  George Winter.

  I can never understand why people are such fools as to write love-letters. I never do. I only send telegrams.

  Catherine.

  [With flashing eyes.] You didn’t go to my dressing-case?

  George Winter.

  [Amused.] I did indeed.

  Catherine.

  [Looking at the Bramah-key on her bracelet.] You broke it open?

  George Winter.

  When I made you a present of your dressing-case, I kept the duplicate key in case you lost yours.

  Catherine.

  It’s infamous. It’s — it’s just like you.

  George Winter.

  [Smiling.] Why on earth were you so incautious as to leave it behind?

  Catherine.

  [Indignantly.] I thought I could trust you. It never struck me that you’d pry into my private papers.

  George Winter.

  [With a chuckle.] Nonsense. You were so taken with the dramatic gesture of leaving the house in a pink satin opera cloak that you forgot all about it.

  Catherine.

  There’s nothing in any of my letters that I’m ashamed of.

  George Winter.

  Would you like to look at this one?

  Catherine.

  [Refusing to take it.] I know that there can be absolutely no harm in it.

  George Winter.

  I wonder what a clever counsel wou
ld make of it. I can imagine it read in such a manner that those vague words should gather form and substance. A little irony, a grotesque emphasis here and there, and I can see the junior bar rolling with laughter. I don’t imagine a parliamentary light like your friend Robert Colby would take ridicule very well. It’s only by his entire lack of humour that he’s risen to the exalted position he now adorns.

  Catherine.

  [Frightened.] What d’you mean, George?

  George Winter.

  [Good-humouredly.] My dear, I’m going to bring a counter petition, that’s all. You want to wash your dirty linen in public, let’s have an entire spring cleaning.

  Catherine.

  [Scornfully.] Oh, my dear George, if you only knew how indifferent I am to such a threat! We haven’t done anything with which we can reproach ourselves.

  George Winter.

  [Banteringly.] You astonish me, my dear Kate. Surely it can’t have slipped your memory that Robert Colby, snatching a brief and well-earned holiday from affairs of state, made a tour of North Italy last Easter, and you accompanied him.

  Catherine.

  [Flaring up.] That’s not true. You know it’s not true. I went with Barbara Herbert....

  George Winter.

  [Interrupting, with a twinkle in his eye.] And a maid. It’s always a little unsafe to trust maids, especially Scotch maids with strongly religious principles.

  Catherine.

  What have you been doing?

  George Winter.

  [Taking a paper out of his pocket.] Here is another interesting little document that I’ve been at some pains to acquire. Being, alas! aware that the wife of my bosom might — turn troublesome one day or another, I thought it safe to have a weapon in my hand for future use. It is a list of the hotels at which you stayed. Shall I read it to you?

  Catherine.

  If you choose.

  George Winter.

  [Hugely amused.] At Milan you stayed at the Palace, and Robert Colby at the Cavour.

  Catherine.

  [Sarcastically.] Damning, isn’t it?

  George Winter.

  But perhaps finding the Palace noisy, and trusting in Mr. Robert Colby’s better judgment, at Venice you both stayed at the Danielli.

  Catherine.

  [With a shrug of the shoulders.] Where else should one stay?

  George Winter.

  I find in my Baedeker that there are twenty-seven hotels in Venice, but I daresay it was very natural that you should both hit upon the Danielli. And you took the precaution of arriving twenty hours after him. But at Ravenna, flinging prudence to the winds, you arrived on the same day, by the same train, and you put up at the same hotel.

  Catherine.

  There is only one.

  George Winter.

  You had rooms seventeen and eighteen, and Barbara Herbert had room five.

  Catherine.

  There was only one vacant room on the first floor, and of course I insisted that Barbara should take it.

  George Winter.

  Unselfish in the extreme, and just like you, my dear; but don’t you think it was a little indiscreet?

  Catherine.

  We had nothing to be ashamed of, and therefore we had nothing to fear.

  George Winter.

  I’ve often thought that was the greatest drawback of innocence. It makes one so devilish imprudent.

  Catherine.

  I went to Italy with your express consent. I wrote and told you that I’d met Robert Colby. Chance threw us together in Venice; we found we were making practically the same tour, and we joined forces. I saw no harm in it. I see no harm in it now. You can make what use of the admissions you like.

  George Winter.

  And do you think you will be able to persuade a British jury that you and Robert Colby travelled through Italy together merely to look at churches and pictures?

  Catherine.

  George, I know now that I never cared for you, but I promise you on my word of honour that I’ve never been unfaithful to you.

  George Winter.

  My dear, it’s not a question of convincing me — I am the most trusting, the most credulous of mortals — but of convincing the twelve good men and true who form a British jury.

  Catherine.

  You’re not a fool, George. You know people, and you know what I’m capable of and what I’m not. In your heart you’re certain that I’ve done nothing that can give you any cause for complaint. I’ve suffered a great deal during these four years — I wouldn’t wish my worst enemy to go through what I have — I implore you not to drag me through this horror.

  George Winter.

  My dear, your simple-mindedness positively takes me aback.

  Catherine.

  [Indignantly.] How can you be so ignoble?

  George Winter.

  [Dropping his bantering tone, quickly and sternly.] You must know me very little, Kate. My whole life is at stake, and you think I’m going to be moved by entreaties or abuse? I’m at the most critical point of my career. Part of my strength is that I never deceive myself. I’m only an adventurer. My millions are paper millions, and I want to be in such a position that if I’m in need of half a million I can go to the big men and get it, and if one of them asks me for half a million I can afford to put it down. And now, if only I hold on, I shall get everything I want. And you come and whine before me and play the fool. What d’you think I care for your twopenny-halfpenny love-affairs? Do what you like. I don’t care, so long as you’re not flagrant.

  Catherine.

  [Indignantly.] Oh!

  George Winter.

  That anyone can be such a fool as to let love interfere with his life! It’s so unimportant.

  Catherine.

  To me it means the whole world.

  George Winter.

  Well, I give you your choice. If you bring an action against me I bring a counter-petition.

  Catherine.

  [Stung into defiance.] My choice is made long ago. I’m strong in my innocence.

  George Winter.

  You’ll ruin me and ruin your father, but you’ll ruin Robert Colby as well.

  Catherine.

  [Quickly.] What do you mean?

  George Winter.

  You don’t mean to say you’re so simple-minded as to imagine he can do anything but resign his seat if he were made co-respondent in a divorce case? They say, if we get in again, he’s to be given the Ministry of War. Humpty-Dumpty. It’s the end of his political career.

  Catherine.

  [Desperately.] We have nothing to reproach ourselves with. Nothing.

  George Winter.

  You sent a note to him last night. What did you say?

  Catherine.

  [Defiantly.] I asked him to come here at twelve o’clock.

  George Winter.

  [Taking out his watch.] It’s nearly twelve now. I’ll wait. And you shall talk to him.

  [Enter Anne Etchingham and Teddie O’Donnell. Anne is like her sister Catherine, but smaller and slighter; she is brighter as well and more vivacious, with pretty caressing ways. Edward O’Donnell is an insignificant, amiable, good-looking young man of three-and-twenty.

  Anne.

  [As she comes in.] Good morning, good people.

  Catherine.

  [With a pleasant, affectionate smile.] Ah, Nan.

  Anne.

  [Going up to George Winter.] Well, how is my great brother-in-law?

  George Winter.

  He’s in his usual rude health, thank you.

  Anne.

  I’ve brought Teddie to introduce him to you.

  O’Donnell.

  How d’you do?

  Anne.

  [With a flourish.] This is the Napoleon of Finance. He owns seventeen companies, five gold mines, two railways, a house in Portman Square, two places in the country, a yacht, five motor-cars, the family of Etchingham....

  George Winter.

  [Interrupting.] Take a lo
ng breath and say ninety-nine.

  Anne.

  [Laughing.] Don’t be ridiculous.

  George Winter.

  Now, what is it you want?

  Anne.

  I? [Coaxingly.] You’re an old dear, George.

  George Winter.

  I thought so. Well, what is it?

  Anne.

  I want you to give Mr. O’Donnell a job.

  Catherine.

  Anne!

  O’Donnell.

  I say, Nan, you needn’t put it so bluntly.

  Anne.

  It’s no good beating about the bush with George, is it?

  George Winter.

  [Amused and pleased.] Not much.

  Anne.

  Now, sit down and let me talk sensibly to you.

  Catherine.

  Anne, I’d rather you didn’t — just now. George and I are busy.

  George Winter.

  Have they interrupted you, darling? I thought you had nothing more you wanted to say.

  Anne.

  Is anything the matter?

  George Winter.

  Nothing. Kate’s a little under the weather this morning.

  Anne.

  Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. What is it?

  George Winter.

  I warned you not to eat that pâté de foie gras last night, my dear. It always disagrees with you.

  Catherine.

  Please don’t worry about me.

  George Winter.

  [To Anne.] Why d’you want me to give Mr. O’Donnell a job?

  Anne.

  Because he’s my young man.

  George Winter.

  Is he, by Jove!

  O’Donnell.

  I offered her my hand and heart....

  Anne.

  [Interrupting.] And being a practical person I promptly inquired what were his worldly possessions.

  O’Donnell.

  They’re not only nil, they’re astonishingly nil. In point of fact, if you reckon debts they’re positively minus.

  Anne.

  So I fell into his arms and said, let us put up the banns at once.

  George Winter.

  [Very jolly and affable.] That’s where I come in.

  Anne.

  Well, I thought he might manage one of your railways or be your chauffeur, or if you didn’t think he was good enough for that you might make him director of one of your companies.

  Catherine.

  Nan, you don’t know what you’re talking about.