Mrs. Littlewood.
My dear, why shouldn’t I join a bridge club? [With a smile.] At my age it’s surely quite respectable.
Mrs. Wharton.
I’m bewildered. Don’t you want me to talk of your boys?
Mrs. Littlewood.
[Drily.] If you feel you really must pour out your sympathy, you may; but I don’t know that I particularly want it.
Mrs. Wharton.
No one can understand you. You’ve behaved so strangely since you came back from France.... I think it was dreadful of you to go to the theatre when the poor lad was hardly cold in his grave. You seem to think of nothing but bridge.
Mrs. Littlewood.
I suppose different people take things in different ways.
Mrs. Wharton.
I wonder if you’re quite in your right mind.
Mrs. Littlewood.
[Somewhat amused.] Yes, I saw you wondered that.
Mrs. Wharton.
If you only knew how eager I am to help you. But you won’t let me come near you. We’ve known one another for more than thirty years, Charlotte. Why do you put up a stone wall between us?
Mrs. Littlewood.
[Gently, as though she were talking to a child.] My dear, don’t worry your kind heart. If I wanted your help I would come to you at once. But I don’t. I really don’t.
[Mrs. Wharton hears her husband’s step on the stairs.
Mrs. Wharton.
Here is George. [Going to the window.] You can come in when you want to, John.
[The Colonel comes into the room. His face is a little whiter than it was two days ago, and there is in his eyes every now and then a haunted look.
Mrs. Wharton.
Charlotte Littlewood is here, George.
Colonel Wharton.
So I see. How do you do?
Mrs. Littlewood.
You’re not looking quite up to the mark to-day, Colonel.
Colonel Wharton.
That’s a cheering thing to say to a man. I’m feeling pretty well.
Mrs. Wharton.
I was thinking he was looking much better the last day or two.
Colonel Wharton.
I presume it’s not on my account that you’ve lit the fire on a day like this.
Mrs. Wharton.
No, I feel a little chilly. You always forget that I’m not as young as I was, George.
[The Colonel sits down in an arm-chair and Mrs. Wharton takes a couple of cushions.
Mrs. Wharton.
Let me put them behind you, darling.
Colonel Wharton.
For goodness’ sake don’t fuss me, Evelyn. If I want cushions I’m perfectly capable of getting them for myself.
[John enters with Sylvia and hears the last two speeches.
John.
Come, come, father, you mustn’t spoil mother. She’s waited on us both for thirty years. Don’t let her get into bad habits at her time of life.
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh, Sylvia, we didn’t expect to see you to-day. You said you’d be too busy.
Sylvia.
I felt I must just look in and see how you all were.
[The Colonel gives her a suspicious look. She kisses Mrs. Wharton and Mrs. Littlewood and the Colonel.
John.
[Showing Sylvia the pearl pin.] Look what Mrs. Littlewood has given me. Makes it worth while being married, doesn’t it?
Sylvia.
Oh, how lovely!
Mrs. Littlewood.
You’ll find a little present waiting for you when you get home.
Sylvia.
How exciting! I shall run all the way back.
Mrs. Wharton.
Now you’re here you’d better stay to tea, darling.
Sylvia.
I really can’t. I’ve got so much to do at home.
John.
Nonsense. You’ve got nothing to do at all. We’re not going to dream of letting you go.
Sylvia.
Remember that you’ll have me always from to-morrow on. Don’t you think you could well spare me to-day?
John.
No.
Sylvia.
Tiresome creature. Though I must say it’s rather pleasing.
Colonel Wharton.
I never saw two young people who were so thoroughly satisfied with one another as you are.
John.
[Putting his arm round Sylvia’s waist.] But I’m not in the least satisfied with Sylvia. I should like her to have jet black hair and eyes like sloes.
Sylvia.
What are sloes, idiot?
John.
I don’t know, but I’ve read about them from my youth up.
Sylvia.
Oh, Colonel, d’you know that on my way here through the fields, I actually saw a rabbit?
John.
I hear there’s absolutely nothing on the place now, father.
Colonel Wharton.
No, the vermin’s been allowed to increase so. There are one or two cock pheasants round the house and that’s about all. I don’t know what next season — but after all, I needn’t worry myself about next season. That’ll be your trouble, John.
John.
I wish I had as much chance of getting a shot at those cock pheasants as you have.
Colonel Wharton.
By George, I wish I were twenty years younger. I’d take my chance of being shot by a German. It’s a bit better than dying like a rat in a trap.
[Kate enters to announce the Vicar and Mrs. Poole.
Kate.
Mr. and Mrs. Poole.
[Exit.
Mrs. Wharton.
How do you do?
[There are general greetings. The Colonel looks at them and from them to his wife, suspiciously. The Pooles are rather cold with Mrs. Littlewood.
Colonel Wharton.
How do you do? It’s good of you to have come. Sit down.
Mrs. Poole.
Well, Sylvia, are you all ready for to-morrow?
Sylvia.
More or less.
Mrs. Poole.
We thought you might intend to postpone the wedding for a few days.
Colonel Wharton.
They’ve waited long enough. Why should they wish to do that?
Sylvia.
[Hastily.] I told Mrs. Poole yesterday that I didn’t think I could possibly get everything arranged by to-morrow.
Colonel Wharton.
I see that my wife has told you that I’m not very well.
Mrs. Poole.
Oh, aren’t you, Colonel? I’m so sorry to hear that.
Vicar.
She told me this morning after Communion that you weren’t quite up to the mark these days.
Colonel Wharton.
I remember in Egypt, when a horse or a mule sickened, the vultures used to gather round out of an empty sky. Most remarkable.
Mrs. Wharton.
George, what are you saying?
Colonel Wharton.
[With a bitter chuckle.] Did Evelyn ask you to come and minister to me?
Vicar.
It’s not very unnatural that when I hear you’re ill I should like to come and see you. And, of course, it does happen to be one of the duties of my office.
Colonel Wharton.
I don’t know why Evelyn should think I want to be molly-coddled out of the world like an old woman. I’ve faced death before. I don’t suppose anyone wants to die before he must, but when my time comes I hope to face it like a gentleman and a soldier.
John.
Oh, that I should live to hear my own father talking through his hat. Don’t you believe a word those rotten old doctors say. You’ll live to bully your devoted family for another twenty years.
Colonel Wharton.
Don’t talk nonsense to me, John. You all treat me like a child. No one must cross me. I must be petted and spoilt and amused and humoured. God damn it, you never let me forget it for a minute.
Mrs
. Wharton.
Shall we go for a little turn in the garden? The sun is out now.
Colonel Wharton.
If you like. I shall stay here. I’m chilly.
Mrs. Wharton.
A stroll would do you good, George. The Vicar was asking how the new Buff Orpingtons were getting on.
Colonel Wharton.
[With a chuckle.] You’re very transparent, my poor Evelyn. When I want to have a chat with the Vicar I’ll let him know.
Mrs. Littlewood.
[Who has been watching the scene with some amusement.] Why don’t you have a game of piquet with me, Colonel?
Colonel Wharton.
I haven’t played piquet for years. I will with pleasure. Where are the cards, Evelyn?
Mrs. Wharton.
I’ll get them for you.
[She gets cards from a drawer, and puts them on the card table. The Colonel sits down at the table and sorts the piquet cards out of the pack.
Vicar.
I called on you on Monday, Mrs. Littlewood.
Mrs. Littlewood.
So I heard.
Vicar.
I was told you were not at home. As I walked away it was impossible for me not to see that you were in your garden.
Mrs. Littlewood.
It’s inadequately protected from the road.
Vicar.
I was rather hurt. I’m not aware that there’s been anything in my behaviour since I came here to justify you in treating me with discourtesy. Our relations have always been more than cordial.
Mrs. Littlewood.
I didn’t wish to see you.
Vicar.
So much as that I had the intelligence to infer. But I felt it my duty not to allow pique to interfere with the due discharge of my office. I had various things to say to you which I thought you should hear, so yesterday I called again, and again was told you were out.
Mrs. Littlewood.
[Coolly.] I didn’t wish to see you.
Vicar.
May I ask why?
Mrs. Littlewood.
Well, I suppose you wanted to talk about my boy. I didn’t think your conversation could give him back to me.
Vicar.
Don’t you think I could have helped you to bear your loss? I think I could have found in my heart words to persuade you to resignation. I might at least have offered you my sympathy.
Mrs. Littlewood.
I’m sorry to seem ungracious, but I don’t want your sympathy.
Vicar.
Your attitude amazes me.
Mrs. Poole.
If we didn’t all know how devoted you were to your sons, one might really think you were indifferent to their loss.
Mrs. Littlewood.
[Reflectively.] No, I’m not exactly indifferent.
Vicar.
Since you won’t see me alone, I must say things to you here and now which I should rather have kept for your private ear. I have a right to remonstrate with you because your behaviour is a scandal to my parish.
Mrs. Littlewood.
[With a smile.] Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought it was my welfare you were concerned with. If it’s that of the parish, pray say anything you like.
Vicar.
[Flushing, but not to be put off.] I think it was horrible to go to a music-hall on the very day you had returned from your son’s grave in France. But that was in London, and you outraged nobody but yourself. What you do here is different. This is a very small place, and it’s shameful that you should give parties and go about from house to house playing cards.
Mrs. Poole.
It seems so heartless not to wear mourning.
John.
[Rather flippantly, to prevent the conversation from growing too awkward.] Why? I certainly should hate anyone to wear mourning for me.
Vicar.
You give all and sundry the impression that you’re perfectly callous. What influence do you think such a thing may have on these young fellows in the village who have to risk their lives with all the other brave lads at the front? You take from them the comfort that we at home love them and if they fall will hold their memories gratefully in our hearts for ever.
Mrs. Littlewood.
I shouldn’t have thought the eccentricity of one old woman could matter very much to anyone.
[She pauses and looks out into the open for a moment, and then makes up her mind to speak. She speaks quite quietly, almost to herself.
When they sent for me and I went over to France I wasn’t very anxious, because I knew that God, who had taken my eldest son, would leave my second. You see, he was the only one I had left. And when I got there and found he was dead — I suddenly felt that it didn’t matter.
Mrs. Wharton.
My dear, what do you mean? How can you say such a thing?
John.
Don’t, mother. Let her go on.
Mrs. Littlewood.
I didn’t feel that anything very much mattered. It’s difficult to explain exactly what I mean. I feel that I have nothing more to do with the world and the world has nothing more to do with me. So far as I’m concerned it’s a failure. You know I wasn’t very happy in my married life, but I loved my two sons, and they made everything worth while, and now they’re gone. Let others take up the — the adventure. I step aside.
Mrs. Wharton.
You’ve suffered too much, my dear.
Mrs. Littlewood.
No, the strange thing is that I haven’t suffered very much. Don’t you know how sometimes one has a horrid dream and knows one’s only dreaming all the time? [To the Vicar, with the same good temper, almost amused.] You’re surprised that I should go to the theatre. Why? To me, it’s no more unreal a spectacle than life. Life does seem to me just like a play now. I can’t take it very seriously. I feel strangely detached. I have no ill-feeling for my fellow-creatures, but you don’t seem very real to me or very important. Why shouldn’t I play bridge with you?
Vicar.
Oh, but, my dear, my dear, there’s one reality that you can never escape from. There’s God.
[A flash passes behind the old woman’s eyes. She rises and puts out her hand as though to ward off a blow.
Mrs. Littlewood.
I don’t think we’ll talk about God if you please. I prefer to play piquet.
[She sits down at the table at which the Colonel has already taken his seat.
Colonel Wharton.
Do you play four hands or six to the game?
Mrs. Littlewood.
Four — and double the first and last. It makes it more exciting.
Colonel Wharton.
Shall we cut for deal?
Mrs. Littlewood.
[Cutting.] You’re not likely to beat that.
Colonel Wharton.
I suppose in the Vicar’s presence we daren’t play for money?
Mrs. Littlewood.
We’ll pretend he’s not there. Will a shilling a hundred suit you?
Colonel Wharton.
I don’t think that’ll break either of us.
[Kate enters, followed by Dr. Macfarlane.
Kate.
Dr. Macfarlane.
[Exit.
Dr. Macfarlane.
How d’you do?
Mrs. Wharton.
[Shaking hands with him.] So nice of you to come in.
Dr. Macfarlane.
How is the Colonel to-day?
Colonel Wharton.
Playing piquet.
John.
You’re coming to-morrow, aren’t you, Doctor?
Dr. Macfarlane.
Of course I am. I brought you both into the world. I have almost a personal interest in seeing you made one flesh.
Vicar.
[Jovially.] It’s many a long day since you’ve been inside a church, Doctor.
Dr. Macfarlane.
Since you clerical gentlemen left off threatening me with eternal flames I feel justified in following my own inclinations in the matte
r.
Vicar.
[Chaffing him.] But we still believe in annihilation.
Dr. Macfarlane.
I’m willing to take my chance of that. It has no terrors for a man who’s not had a holiday for twenty years.
Vicar.
You’re not an irreligious man. I don’t know why you don’t come to church.
Dr. Macfarlane.
Shall I tell you? Because after repeated experiment I’ve reached the conclusion that I’m not a whit the better for it.
John.
You’ll have to give him up, Vicar. He’s a stubborn old thing. He takes advantage of the fact that he’s the only doctor within ten miles who won’t kill you so long as he can make seven and sixpence a visit by keeping you alive.
Colonel Wharton.
Do you mean to say that our Church doesn’t believe any longer in eternal punishment?
John.
Oh, father, hell has always left me perfectly cold. You and I are quite safe. You see, mother would never be happy in heaven without us, and God couldn’t refuse her anything she asked.
Mrs. Wharton.
[Affectionately.] John, what nonsense you talk.
Mrs. Poole.
I sometimes think the modern Church has been very rash in surrendering a belief which has the authority of Our Lord himself. How many sinners have been brought to repentance by the fear of everlasting punishment!
John.
That rather suggests calling down fire from heaven to light a cigar.
Mrs. Poole.
That may be funny, but I don’t see the point of it.
John.
[Good-humouredly.] Well, I should have thought it hardly required anything so tremendous as eternity to deal with human wickedness. I suppose sin is due to a man’s character, which he can’t help, or to his ignorance, for which he isn’t to blame.
Vicar.
In fact, to your mind sin is all moonshine.
John.
I think it a pity that Christianity has laid so much stress on it. We assert in church that we’re miserable sinners, but I don’t think we mean it, and what’s more I don’t think we are.
Mrs. Poole.
We are conceived in sin, and sin is part of our inheritance. Why did Christ die if not to atone for the sin of men?
John.
In war one gets to know very intimately all sorts of queer people. I don’t suppose I shall ever know any men so well as I knew the men in my company. They were honest and brave and cheerful, unselfish, good fellows; perhaps they swore a good deal, and they got drunk if they had the chance, and they had the glad eye for a pretty girl. But do you think they were sinners for that? I don’t.
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 396