Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  Claude.

  Darling, how can you talk such rot?

  Grace.

  She might have had children. You wanted them so much, Claude, and I haven’t given you any.

  Claude.

  That’s been hard luck on both of us, darling.

  Grace.

  [With deep feeling.] It might have made all the difference.

  Claude.

  If I wanted children it was chiefly because I thought you’d be happier. You wouldn’t have minded the dull life down here then. And you might have cared a bit more for me because I was their father.

  Grace.

  It all comes back to me, doesn’t it? I’m in all your thoughts always.

  Claude.

  D’you mind?

  Grace.

  I’m so ashamed.

  [Archibald comes in from the hall.

  Archibald.

  Oh, Claude, I met the coroner’s officer on my way along here. He wants to see you.

  Claude.

  All right. I’ll come. Is he in the hall?

  Archibald.

  [With a nod.] I told him you knew nothing more than I’d said. But I’m afraid they’ll call you at the inquest.

  Claude.

  The only thing’s to grin and bear it.

  [They go out. Grace sinks into a chair at the writing-table and buries her face in her hands. In a moment Henry Cobbett enters. She starts up when she hears his footstep on the gravel. He has his hat in his hand and his coat over his arm.

  Cobbett.

  I’m just starting. I was looking for you to say good-bye.

  Grace.

  Is it time for you to go already? I didn’t know it was late.

  Cobbett.

  Thanks awfully for putting me up. It’s been perfectly topping.

  Grace.

  It was nice of you to come. I hope you’ll run down again one of these days.

  Cobbett.

  [In a lower tone.] I suppose you never want to set eyes on me again.

  Grace.

  Never.

  Cobbett.

  You’re not awfully unhappy, are you?

  Grace.

  [With something between a sob and a chuckle.] Awfully.

  Cobbett.

  I’m dreadfully sorry.

  Grace.

  That doesn’t do me much good, does it?

  Cobbett.

  If there’s anything I can do, I’d like awfully to do it if you’d let me.

  Grace.

  No, whatever happens no one can help me but myself.

  Cobbett.

  I shouldn’t have played the fool if I’d thought you were going to take things so much to heart.

  Grace.

  [Ironically.] That’s the nuisance of women, isn’t it? They will make an affair of what’s really only an episode.

  Cobbett.

  You have a way of saying things that makes one feel an awful bounder. After all, one can’t help falling in love, and one’s not a blackguard because one falls out of it.

  Grace.

  D’you remember asking me yesterday if I was beginning to care for Claude differently?

  Cobbett.

  Yes.

  Grace.

  I love him as I never thought it was possible to love. I don’t know why I love him. It’s come to me suddenly. I — oh, I can’t tell you what it is. It’s like hunger in my soul. And I’m frightened.

  Cobbett.

  I should have thought that made everything all right.

  Grace.

  It’s come too late. I’m — soiled. Afterwards — you know what I mean, when you and I — the first thing I felt was surprise because I found myself no different. I thought when a woman had done that everything would seem altered. But I felt just the same as before. It’s only now. It’s like the stain of blood — don’t you remember — not all the perfumes of Arabia....

  Cobbett.

  [Worried and moved.] You know, it’s absurd to take it like that.

  Grace.

  [With increasing agitation.] Oh, what have I done! If I’d only had the strength to resist! It’s now that I see it all, the utter degradation of it, the hateful ugliness. Oh, I loathe myself. How can I take my heart to Claude when there’s you standing between us?

  Cobbett.

  I’m awfully sorry, Grace.

  Grace.

  I’d give anything in the world if I hadn’t done what I have done. I might be so happy now. I haven’t a chance. The fates are against me. What’s the good of loving Claude now — I’m not fit to be his wife.

  [She is beside herself. Cobbett, not knowing what to do, stands looking at her. The sound is heard of a motor-horn blowing.

  Cobbett.

  [With a slight start.] What’s that?

  Grace.

  It’s Rooney. He’s afraid you’ll miss the train. You’d better hurry up.

  Cobbett.

  I can’t leave you like this.

  Grace.

  [Ironically.] I shouldn’t like you to miss your train.

  Cobbett.

  I suppose you hate and loathe me.

  Grace.

  I’d wish you were dead, only it wouldn’t do me much good, would it?

  Cobbett.

  [Reflectively.] The fact is, only the wicked should sin.... When the virtuous do things they shouldn’t they do make such an awful hash of it.

  [Moore comes in followed by the Footman.

  Grace.

  What is it?

  Moore.

  I was going to clear away, madam.

  Grace.

  Oh, yes, I forgot. [Holding out her hand to Cobbett.] You’ll have to look sharp.

  END OF THE THIRD ACT

  THE FOURTH ACT

  The Scene is the same as in the first and second Acts, the drawing-room at Kenyon-Fulton. Two days have elapsed. It is about twelve o’clock in the morning. Mrs. Insoley is seated with her dog on her lap, and Miss Hall is reading the leading article of the Times to her.

  Miss Hall.

  [Reading.] “ ... to whom it would give the suffrage are marked off from all citizens who have ever and anywhere enjoyed the franchise in great civil communities by physical differences which no legislation can affect. Women, they insist, pay rates and taxes as men do, and therefore, they argue, women ought to vote as men do. But rates and taxes may be imposed or abolished by legislation. Men may become ratepayers and taxpayers, or cease to be ratepayers and taxpayers. The one thing that no enthusiasm, no reasoning, no eloquence, demonstrations, or statutes can achieve is to make a woman a man.”

  Mrs. Insoley.

  How true that is, Louisa.

  Miss Hall.

  I’ve always thought exactly the same myself, Mrs. Insoley.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  And there’s another thing, Louisa. No man can become a mother.

  Miss Hall.

  [Reflectively.] No, I suppose not.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  Have you any doubts on the subject, Louisa?

  Miss Hall.

  Oh, no, Mrs. Insoley.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  [Ironically.] You may take it from me that no man can become a mother. And apparently very few women either nowadays.

  [Archibald Insoley comes in.

  Archibald.

  Good morning, mother.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  Good morning, my dear.

  [He bends down and kisses her.

  Archibald.

  Good morning, Miss Hall.

  Miss Hall.

  Good morning.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  Louisa, you may read the rest of that article to yourself in the garden.

  Miss Hall.

  [Getting up.] Very well, Mrs. Insoley. Shall I take the dog?

  Mrs. Insoley.

  [Handing it over.] Yes. And be very careful with him. He says he’s not very well to-day.

  [Miss Hall takes the dog and goes out.

  Mrs. Insoley.

&nb
sp; I’m glad to have an opportunity of talking to you, Archibald. I’ve fancied that you’ve been rather avoiding me the last day or two.

  Archibald.

  [Cheerfully.] Oh, no, my dear mother.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  When I asked Grace to invite Helen Vernon to stay here for a few days, it was in the confident hope that you would make her a proposal of marriage.

  Archibald.

  I respect and esteem Miss Vernon, but I confess that no warmer feeling has ever entered my bosom.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  It’s not necessary that warm feelings should enter a clergyman’s bosom, Archibald. She’s of very good family indeed, and an heiress. Five thousand acres and a house that’s only just been done up.

  Archibald.

  [With a chuckle.] If there only weren’t a wife to be taken along with the property!

  Mrs. Insoley.

  [With a twinkle in her eyes.] It shouldn’t be necessary for me to tell a person of your profession that none of the pleasures of this world can be had without some drawback.

  Archibald.

  What a pity it is you weren’t a man, mother. You would have made such a bishop.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  Are you trying to change the conversation, Archibald?

  Archibald.

  I don’t think it would be a bad idea.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  Then I will only say one thing more. I am the meekest woman in the world, and a lamb could lead me. But I should like to remind you that the living of Kenyon-Fulton is not worth more than a hundred and seventy a year, and if you can keep a curate and live like a gentleman it’s only owing to my generosity.

  Archibald.

  I’m quite prepared to live on a hundred and seventy a year, mother. I dare say it would have just as good an effect on my figure as matrimony.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  [Rather crossly.] I don’t know what you’re talking about, Archibald.

  Archibald.

  I understood you to recommend marriage as a sort of heroic remedy for corpulence.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  You have nothing against Helen, I presume?

  Archibald.

  [Smiling.] I could have wished that fewer summers had passed over a fringe which I shrewdly suspect to be artificial.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  Of course it’s artificial, but you’re no chicken yourself, Archibald.

  Archibald.

  On the contrary, I’m much too old a bird to be caught by chaff.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  I’m sure we don’t want another flighty young thing in the family.

  Archibald.

  I don’t think Grace has been very flighty the last day or two.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  What’s the matter with her? She’s been going about with a face as long as one of your sermons.

  Archibald.

  I’m afraid Peggy’s death upset her very much.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  [Irritably.] That’s the worst of those sort of people, they have no self-control. If she’s going to give way like this at the death of a kitchen-maid, what on earth is she going to do at the death of a duchess?

  Archibald.

  Is it a riddle, mother?

  [Grace comes in. She looks tired and worn. She is in a very nervous state. She gives the impression that any folly, any wildness may be expected from her.

  Grace.

  Good morning, Archibald.

  Archibald.

  Good morning.

  Grace.

  I thought you’d be at the inquest.

  Archibald.

  No. There was no need for me to go. And Claude seemed to think he’d rather I didn’t.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  What is this?

  Archibald.

  The inquest on Peggy Gann.

  Grace.

  Have you seen Claude?

  Archibald.

  He looked in at the Rectory for five minutes. I’m afraid he’s awfully worried.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  I have no patience with Claude. He should have more self-respect than to let such a thing worry him.

  Archibald.

  He’s afraid he may be asked some very unpleasant questions.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  You seem entirely to forget the relative positions of the parties concerned. If Claude doesn’t want to answer an impertinent question, it’s the easiest thing in the world for him to fly into a passion and refuse. Who is the coroner?

  Grace.

  His name is Davies. He’s the local doctor.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  You’re not going to suggest that the local doctor would dream of asking a question unless he was quite sure Claude was prepared to answer it?

  Archibald.

  Davies is an advanced Radical. I’m afraid he may take the opportunity to have a fling at Claude.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  I’m all at sea. In my day we wouldn’t have stood a doctor for five minutes who was a Radical. We’d have made life unbearable for him until he became a Conservative or left the district.

  Archibald.

  [With a shrug of the shoulders.] You’re looking rather dicky, Grace.

  Grace.

  Oh, I’m quite well, thank you.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  Am I mistaken in thinking you have rouge on your cheeks?

  Grace.

  I’ve not been sleeping very well, and I didn’t want to look ill.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  In my young days ladies did not paint their faces.

  Grace.

  [With suppressed rage.] We don’t live in your young days, and I’m not a lady.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  [With a chuckle at the opportunity Grace has given her.] As you are my hostess, it would be insolent of me to contradict you, my dear Grace.

  [Delighted with her repartee, she gets up and walks out of the room. Grace goes up to the looking-glass over the chimney-piece and rubs her cheeks with a handkerchief.

  Archibald.

  I wonder if you’d be very angry if I said something to you?

  Grace.

  [Icily.] Do you object to the way I do my hair, or is it the cut of my skirt that doesn’t quite meet with your approval?

  Archibald.

  I was going to say something to you about Claude.

  [Grace gives a slight, an almost imperceptible start, but does not answer or look round.

  Archibald.

  You know how funny he is. He doesn’t say much when anything’s on his mind. But if one knows him well it’s not hard to tell when something’s bothering him.... He’s awfully worried about you.

  Grace.

  [Still looking in the glass.] I don’t know why I should worry him now more than I usually do.

  Archibald.

  He’s afraid you blame him for Peggy’s death.

  Grace.

  Why should I?

  Archibald.

  He feels it was his fault.

  Grace.

  I suppose it was in a way.

  Archibald.

  He’s so fond of you he can’t bear to think that — that it’s made a difference to you.

  Grace.

  Has he said anything to you about it?

  Archibald.

  No.

  Grace.

  Perhaps it’s only your fancy. [Turning round.] Why are you telling me now?

  Archibald.

  I’m afraid he’ll have rather a rough time at the inquest. I thought you might say something to buck him up a little. A word or two from you would mean so much.

  [There is a short pause.

  Grace.

  I think it’s so strange that you should say all this to me now. It’s not as if we’d ever been great friends, is it?

  Archibald.

  Our best friends are always those who put us in a good conceit of ourselves. I always think it’s a dreadful thing when a man loses his nerve.... You can
do so much for Claude if you choose.

  Grace.

  I think you exaggerate the influence I have over him. After all, he’s always taken care to keep me and his life strictly apart.

  Archibald.

  I think you should remember that if he made a mistake it was an honest one. He wouldn’t be human if he didn’t put his foot in it sometimes.

  Grace.

  You speak as if I were perfection itself.

  Archibald.

  And then, if he was so determined not to break that particular rule of the estate, it was partly for your sake, wasn’t it? Because he thought it his duty to keep you from any possibility of contact with evil.

  Grace.

  Did he tell you that?

  Archibald.

  No. It was not very difficult to guess.

  Grace.

  I suppose not — for anyone who had eyes to see.

  Archibald.

  You will do your best, Grace?

  Grace.

  What do you suggest I should do?

  Archibald.

  It’s very difficult for me to tell you. I think the chief thing is that you should tell Claude — if you can — that you’re fond of him, and that, whatever happens, you always will be fond of him.

  Grace.

  [Hoarsely.] That oughtn’t to be very hard. I love him with all my heart and soul.

  Archibald.

  [Smiling.] If you could only say that to him — just in that way, as if you really felt it — you would make him so happy.

  [There is a pause. Grace puts her hands in front of her eyes, and she keeps them there for a moment so that she should not see Archibald while she is speaking.

  Grace.

  Archibald, I want to speak to you for a minute — as a clergyman.

  Archibald.

  My dear Grace, you frighten me.

  Grace.

  I’m sorry if I’ve been often bitter and unkind to you. I’m ashamed when I think of all the silly, cruel things I must have said to you during the ten years I’ve lived here.

  Archibald.

  [Cheerfully.] Oh, what nonsense! You’ve got a clever tongue, and like most people who have, you can’t resist saying a sharp thing when it strikes you.

  Grace.

  I’ve often set out to wound you. I’ve been fiendish sometimes. I’d like you to know that I’m grateful to you for being so patient with me. It wouldn’t be surprising if you loathed me.

  Archibald.

  Oh, I think I’ve always had a very great affection for you, Grace. I know you’ve often found life down here rather dull. If any allowances have been necessary, I’ve been perfectly ready to make them.

  Grace.

  I expect I was often unjust to you. I sometimes felt you weren’t quite sincere.... I thought you’d only become a clergyman on account of the living and the house.