Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  Kate.

  Mrs. Poole.

  [Exit.

  Colonel Wharton.

  What do you mean by trying to get away without showing yourself? Is this how you do your district visiting?

  Mrs. Poole.

  [Shaking hands with Mrs. Wharton and with the Colonel.] I wanted to come in, but I thought you mightn’t wish to see me to-day, so I put it like that to make it easier for you to send me about my business.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  We always wish to see you, my dear.

  Mrs. Poole.

  If I had a son that I hadn’t seen for four years and he’d been dangerously wounded, I think I’d want to keep him to myself for the first few days after he got home.

  Colonel Wharton.

  Then you’re not as unselfish a woman as Evelyn.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  Or perhaps not nearly so vain.

  Mrs. Poole.

  Did you go down to the station to meet him on Saturday?

  Mrs. Wharton.

  The Colonel went. He wouldn’t let me go because he said I’d make a fool of myself on the platform.

  Colonel Wharton.

  I took Sylvia. I thought that was enough. I knew I could trust her to control herself.

  Mrs. Poole.

  And when are they going to be married.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  Oh, I hope very soon. It’s been a long and anxious time for her.

  Mrs. Poole.

  Can you bear to give him up when he’s only just come back to you?

  Mrs. Wharton.

  Oh, but it’s not giving him up when he’s marrying Sylvia. She’s been like a daughter to us. D’you know, they’ve been engaged for seven years.

  Mrs. Poole.

  I hope they’ll be very happy. Sylvia certainly deserves to be.

  Colonel Wharton.

  She’s done cheerfully the most difficult thing anyone can do. All through the war when she was pining to be off and do her bit she stayed at home with a bed-ridden mother.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  Poor Mrs. Bullough.

  Colonel Wharton.

  Yes, but poor Sylvia too. It’s easy enough to do your duty when duty is dangerous and exciting, but when you can do nothing — no one knows better than I what it is to sit still and look on when others are doing the things that are worth while. This war came ten years too late for me.

  Mrs. Poole.

  That’s what the Vicar has been saying ever since the war began. But after all your son has taken your place, and I think you can be proud of him.

  Colonel Wharton.

  [With intense satisfaction.] The rascal with his Military Cross and his D.S.O.

  Mrs. Poole.

  I’m so glad that his first day here was a Sunday.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  You don’t know what I felt when we knelt down side by side in church. I was very grateful.

  Mrs. Poole.

  I know. I could see it in your face and the Colonel’s.

  Colonel Wharton.

  God has vouchsafed us a great mercy.

  Mrs. Poole.

  The Vicar was dreadfully disappointed that he didn’t stay for Holy Communion. You know that he looks upon that as the essential part of the service.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  I think we were a little disappointed, too. We were so surprised when John walked out.

  Mrs. Poole.

  Did he say why he had?

  Mrs. Wharton.

  No. I talked it over with the Colonel. We didn’t quite know what to do. I don’t know whether to mention it or not.

  Mrs. Poole.

  I do hope he’ll stay next Sunday.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  He was always a very regular communicant.

  Colonel Wharton.

  I don’t see why you shouldn’t say something to him about it, Evelyn.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  I will if you like.

  [There is the sound of a laugh in the garden.

  Why, here he is. And Sylvia.

  [Sylvia Bullough and John Wharton come in. She is no longer quite young. She has a pleasant, friendly look rather than beauty, and she suggests the homely virtues of a girl very well brought up in a nice English family; she gives the impression of a practical, competent, and sensible woman. She will make a good wife and an excellent mother. She is very simply dressed in light summery things, and she wears a straw hat. She is carrying a string bag, in which are a number of household purchases. John Wharton is in mufti. He is a man of thirty.

  Sylvia.

  Good morning everybody!

  Mrs. Wharton.

  My dear, how nice of you to come in.

  John.

  She didn’t want to, but I made her.

  [Sylvia kisses Mrs. Wharton and shakes hands with Mrs. Poole, then she kisses the Colonel.

  Sylvia.

  [Gaily.] That’s a deliberate lie, John.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  This is my son, Mrs. Poole.

  John.

  [Shaking hands with her.] I daresay you suspected it.

  Mrs. Poole.

  I had a good look at you in church, you know.

  John.

  Is that how vicars’ wives behave themselves?

  Mrs. Poole.

  They allow themselves a little licence when young people come home on leave.

  Colonel Wharton.

  Did you meet in the village?

  John.

  Not exactly. I saw Sylvia darting into Mrs. Gann’s shop, evidently to avoid me....

  Sylvia.

  [Interrupting.] I don’t know how you imagined I could see you out of the back of my head.

  John.

  So I ran like a hare, and caught her in the very act of buying two pounds of vermicelli.

  Sylvia.

  To say nothing of a tin of sardines and a packet of mustard.

  John.

  Now take off your hat, Sylvia. You mustn’t hide the best feature you’ve got.

  Sylvia.

  [Taking it off.] I hope you don’t think I shall go on doing exactly what you tell me a minute after the war’s over.

  John.

  I haven’t noticed any startling alacrity to do what I tell you as it is.

  Sylvia.

  You ungrateful fellow! When have I hesitated to carry out your slightest wish?

  Mrs. Wharton.

  He’s only been back forty-eight hours, poor dear.

  John.

  Didn’t I go down to you on my bended knees in the middle of the road and ask you to come for a walk with me?

  Sylvia.

  Oh, well, I wanted to see your father. I was anxious to hear what the specialist had said.

  John.

  [Surprised.] Have you been seeing a specialist, father? Aren’t you well?

  Colonel Wharton.

  Perfectly. It was only to satisfy your poor mother.

  John.

  But why didn’t you tell me? Is anything the matter with him, mother?

  Mrs. Wharton.

  My dear, your father wouldn’t let me tell you anything about it when you came. He didn’t want you to be worried. And I thought myself it might just as well keep till to-day.

  Colonel Wharton.

  The fact is I haven’t been quite up to the mark lately, and Dr. Macfarlane thought I’d better see a specialist. So I went into Canterbury on Saturday and saw Dr. Keller.

  Mrs. Poole.

  Yes, I heard you’d been to see him. They say he’s very clever.

  John.

  What did he say?

  Colonel Wharton.

  Well, you know what these doctor fellows are. He wouldn’t say much to me. He said he’d write to Macfarlane.

  John.

  Well?

  Colonel Wharton.

  I suppose Macfarlane got the letter this morning. He’ll probably be round presently.

  Mrs. Poole.

  I saw him going along the Bleane Road in his d
og-cart about an hour ago. You might ask him who it was he was going to see.

  John.

  Are you feeling ill, father?

  Colonel Wharton.

  No. I shouldn’t have dreamed of going to a specialist, only your mother was worrying.

  Sylvia.

  Don’t put all the blame on her. I was, too.

  John.

  [Going over to him and putting his arm in his.] Poor old father, you mustn’t be ill.

  Colonel Wharton.

  Oh, I’m not going to die just yet, you know.

  John.

  I should jolly well think not. Wait till you’re a hundred and two, and then we’ll begin talking about it.

  [The Vicar of Stour, the Rev. Norman Poole, appears at the window. He is a tall, thin man, bald, dressed in a short black coat, with a black straw hat. He is energetic, breezy, and cheerful. He likes to show that, although a clergyman, he is a man; and he affects a rather professional joviality. Mr. and Mrs. Poole have that physical resemblance which you sometimes see in married people. You wonder if they married because they were so much alike, or if it is marriage which has created the similarity.

  Vicar.

  Hulloa, hulloa, hulloa! May I come in?

  Mrs. Wharton.

  [Smiling.] Of course. How do you do?

  Colonel Wharton.

  My dear Vicar!

  Vicar.

  [Entering.] I suppose I ought to have gone round to the front door, and rung the bell like a gentleman. My dear Dorothy, when will you teach me how to behave?

  Mrs. Poole.

  I’ve long given up the attempt.

  Vicar.

  I thought I’d look in and say how-do-you-do to the wounded hero.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  My son. The Vicar.

  Vicar.

  Welcome! I passed you in the village just now. I had half a mind to come up and wring your hand, but I thought you’d say, who the deuce is this clerical gent?

  John.

  How do you do?

  Vicar.

  An authentic hero. And he speaks just like you and me. The world’s a strange place, my masters. Well, what d’you think of Blighty?

  John.

  I’m very glad to be home again. I thought I never should get back.

  Vicar.

  You’ve not been home since the beginning of the war, have you?

  John.

  No, you see I was in India when it broke out. What with Gallipoli and one thing and another, I was done out of my leave every time.

  Vicar.

  Well, it’s a long lane that has no turning. But I understand that you’ve picked up some bits and pieces here and there. The Military Cross and the D.S.O., isn’t it?

  Mrs. Poole.

  You must be a very proud man.

  Vicar.

  How did you win them?

  John.

  Oh, I don’t know. Playing about generally.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  I don’t think you’ll get very much more than that out of John.

  Vicar.

  [To John.] You lucky beggar! You’ve had your chance and you were able to take it. That’s where I should have been, where my heart was, with the brave lads at the front. And my confounded chest has kept me chained to this little tin-pot parish.

  Mrs. Poole.

  My husband suffers from his lungs.

  John.

  I’m sorry to hear that.

  Vicar.

  Yes, the Great White Peril. They say its ravages are terrible. That’s why I came here, you know; I was in charge of the parish of St. Jude’s, Stoke Newington when I crocked up. I tried to get them to let me go when the war broke out, but they wouldn’t hear of it.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  They also serve who only stand and wait.

  Vicar.

  I know, I know. It’s this confounded energy of mine. I’m a crock, and I’ve just had to make the best of it. I’m on the shelf. The future is in the hands of you brave lads who’ve been through the fire. I suppose you went to sleep during my sermon yesterday.

  John.

  Not at all. I listened to it very attentively.

  Vicar.

  I shouldn’t blame you if you had. That’s about all I’ve been able to do during the war, to preach. And, upon my word, I sometimes wonder what good I’ve done.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  You’ve been a great help to us all.

  Vicar.

  For my part I don’t deplore the war. Our Lord said: “Think not that I come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword.” The Christian Church has lived by her sword. Every advance which this world of ours has known in liberty, in justice, in enlightenment, has been won for it by the sword of Jesus Christ.

  Colonel Wharton.

  I wish all parsons were as broad-minded. I know what war is. I was in Egypt and in South Africa. I’ve been through half a dozen wars in India. I have no use for slop and sentimentality. My own belief is that war is necessary to a nation. It brings out all a man’s best qualities.

  Vicar.

  There I heartily agree with you. It is the great school of character. Amid the clash of arms the great Christian virtues shine forth with an immortal lustre. Courage, self-sacrifice, charity, self-reliance. No one knew before the war what a pinnacle of heroism was within the power of our brave lads at the front.

  Mrs. Poole.

  What do you think about it, Major Wharton?

  John.

  [Smiling.] I? I think it’s a lovely day. I have three weeks leave, and the war is a long way off.

  Vicar.

  [With a chuckle.] A very good answer. I’ve been saying the obvious, I know that just as well as you do, but, you know, sometimes the obvious has to be said, and when it has, I think a man should have the courage to say it. Now, my dear, let’s be off.

  Mrs. Poole.

  I don’t know what Mrs. Wharton will think of us for inflicting ourselves on her like this.

  Vicar.

  We’re all friends here, I hope and trust. If we weren’t welcome, Mrs. Wharton only had to say so. To my mind the afternoon call is a convention more honoured in the breach than the observance.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  It’s been very good of you to come.

  [There is a general shaking of hands.

  Vicar.

  [To John.] Well, good-bye, young fellow. I’ve tried to show you that I’m by way of being rather broad-minded as parsons go. It wouldn’t shock me in the least to hear you say “damn” or “blast.” I’m often inclined to use a bit of strong language myself. I asked you just now if you’d gone to sleep during my sermon. I wouldn’t have turned a hair if you had.

  John.

  It’s very kind of you to say so. I may avail myself of your suggestion on some future occasion.

  Vicar.

  On a future occasion, perhaps — shall we say next Sunday? — I hope you won’t leave the House of God without partaking in the greatest of all the Sacraments of our Church. Don’t forget that the Almighty has in His mercy brought you in safety through great and terrible peril. That’s all I wanted to say to you. Good-bye, God bless you.

  John.

  Good-bye.

  Vicar.

  [Shaking hands with Mrs. Wharton] Good-bye. These parsons, what a nuisance they make of themselves, don’t they?

  Mrs. Wharton.

  I wanted to ask you if you’d seen poor Mrs. Littlewood since her return.

  Vicar.

  No, she didn’t come to church yesterday. And of course, Sunday’s my busy day — I’m the only man in the parish who works seven days a week — so I haven’t had a chance to see her yet, poor soul.

  Sylvia.

  She came down by the 6.35 on Saturday. She was in the same train as John, but I wasn’t bothering much about anyone else just then, and I didn’t speak to her.

  Colonel Wharton.

  I wish we could do something for her.

  Mrs. Whar
ton.

  [Explaining to John.] She was telegraphed for last week to go to Ned at Boulogne. He died on Tuesday.

  John.

  [With astonishment.] Ned! But he was only a kid.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  Oh, he’d grown up since you were home. He was nearly nineteen.

  Mrs. Poole.

  Both her sons are gone now. She’s quite alone.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  We must all be very kind to her. It will be terrible for her in that big house all by herself. I wish you’d spoken to her on Saturday, George.

  Colonel Wharton.

  I felt rather shy about it. After all, we’ve had rather an anxious time over that young scamp there. If anything had happened to him — well, I should have had Evelyn, but she, poor soul, has nobody.

  Sylvia.

  I ought to have gone to see her yesterday.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  She must be absolutely prostrated with grief.

  Vicar.

  I wonder if she’d like to come and stay at the Vicarage. I can’t bear to think of her all alone.

  Mrs. Poole.

  That’s a splendid idea, Norman, and just like you. I’ll ask her at once. I’ll be glad to do what I can for her.

  Sylvia.

  Of course one ought to try and find something to occupy her mind.

  Vicar.

  Happily she has always been a deeply religious woman. When all’s said and done, in grief like that there’s only one unfailing refuge.

  [Kate enters, followed by Mrs. Littlewood. She is a little elderly woman. She is not dressed in mourning, but in the clothes she may be expected to have been wearing before her bereavement.

  Kate.

  Mrs. Littlewood.

  [Exit Kate.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  [Rising and going to meet her.] My dear friend, how very glad I am to see you.

  Mrs. Littlewood.

  How do you do? [She smiles brightly at the assembled company.] Oh, John, have you come back? [To Mrs. Wharton.] I came to ask if you and the Colonel would come and play bridge this afternoon.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  Bridge!

  [They all look at her with surprise, but no one says anything.]

  Mrs. Littlewood.

  I was going to ask Dr. Macfarlane to make a fourth, but perhaps John will come.

  Mrs. Wharton..

  [With embarrassment.] It’s very kind of you, but the Colonel hasn’t been very well lately. I don’t think he feels like going out, and I shouldn’t like to leave him.