John.
Do you remember our going to the Russian ballet before the war? I’ve never forgotten a certain gesture of one of the dancers. It was an attitude she held for an instant, in the air; it was the most lovely thing I ever saw in my life; you felt it could only have been achieved by infinite labour, and the fact that it was so fleeting, like the shadow of a bird flying over a river, made it all the more wonderful. I’ve often thought of it since, and it has seemed to me a very good symbol of life.
Sylvia.
John, you can’t be serious.
John.
I’ll tell you what I mean. Life seems to me like a huge jig-saw puzzle that doesn’t make any picture, but if we like we can make little patterns, as it were, out of the pieces.
Sylvia.
What is the use of that?
John.
There’s no use, and no need. It’s merely something we can do for our own satisfaction. Pain and sorrow are some of the pieces that we have to deal with. By making the most of all our faculties, by using all our opportunities, out of the manifold events of life, our deeds, our feelings, our thoughts, we can make a design which is intricate, dignified, and beautiful. And death at one stroke completes and destroys it.
[There is a moment’s silence.
Mrs. Poole.
I wonder why you’re coming to church to-morrow to be married?
John.
[With a smile.] I think Sylvia would be outraged at the thought of being married in a registry office.
Mrs. Poole.
It’s lucky for you the Vicar is broad-minded. A stricter man might think it his duty to refuse the blessing of the Church to an unbeliever.
Mrs. Wharton.
[Anxiously.] Vicar, you’re not thinking of doing anything like that?
Vicar.
I confess the question has crossed my mind. [Kindly.] I don’t think I can bring myself to expose such good Christians as you and Sylvia to such a humiliation.
Sylvia.
You need not harass yourself, Vicar. I’ve decided not to marry John.
John.
[Aghast.] Sylvia! Sylvia, you can’t mean that!
Sylvia.
I was dreadfully troubled the other day when you told us you’d lost your faith, but I hadn’t the courage to say anything then. It came as such an awful shock.
John.
But you never made the least sign.
Sylvia.
I hadn’t time to think it out, but I’ve been thinking hard ever since, day and night, and I’ve listened very carefully to what you’ve said to-day. I can’t keep up the pretence any more. I’ve quite made up my mind. I won’t marry you.
John.
But in God’s name, why?
Sylvia.
You are not the John I loved and promised myself to. It’s a different man that has come back from abroad. I have nothing in common with that man.
John.
Sylvia, you don’t mean to say that you don’t care for me any more because on certain matters I don’t hold the same views as you?
Sylvia.
But those matters are the most important in the world. You talk as though it were a difference of opinion over the colour of our drawing-room curtains. You don’t even understand me any more.
John.
How can I understand something that seems absolutely unreasonable to me?
Sylvia.
Do you think religion is something I take up with my Prayer-book when I go to church, and put away on a shelf when I get home again? John, God is a living presence that is always with me. I never at any moment lose the consciousness of that divine love which with infinite mercy tends and protects me.
John.
But, dear heart, you know me well enough. You know I would never hinder you in the exercise of your religion. I would always treat it with the utmost respect.
Sylvia.
How could we possibly be happy when all that to me is the reason and the beauty of life, to you is nothing but a lie?
John.
With tolerance on both sides, and, I hope, respect, there’s no reason why two people shouldn’t live peaceably together no matter how different their views are.
Sylvia.
How can I be tolerant when I see you deep in error? Oh, it’s more than error, it’s sin. You’ve had your choice between light and darkness, and you’ve deliberately chosen darkness. You are a deserter. If words mean anything at all you are condemned.
John.
But, my dear, a man believes what he can. You don’t seriously think that a merciful God is going to punish him because he’s unable to believe something that he finds incredible?
Sylvia.
No one doubts that Our Lord will have mercy on those who have never had the chance of receiving His teaching. You’ve had the chance, and you’ve refused to take it. Do you forget the Parable of the Ten Talents? It is a terrible warning.
John.
After all, if I’m wrong I hurt nobody but myself.
Sylvia.
You forget what marriage is. It makes us one flesh. I am bidden to cleave to you and to follow you. How can I, when our souls must ever be separated by an unsurpassable abyss?
Mrs. Wharton.
Sylvia, this is a dreadfully grave decision you’re making. Be careful that you’re acting rightly.
John.
Sylvia, you can’t throw me over like this after we’ve been engaged for seven years. It’s too heartless.
Sylvia.
I don’t trust you. I have no hold over you. What have you to aim at beside the satisfaction of your own vulgar appetite? Sin means nothing to you.
John.
My dear, you don’t suppose it’s religion that makes a man decent? If he’s kind and honest and truthful it’s because it’s his nature, not because he believes in God or fears hell.
Sylvia.
We’re neither of us very young any more, there’s no reason why we should make a mystery of natural things. If we married my greatest hope was that we should have children.
John.
It was mine too.
Sylvia.
Have you asked yourself how this would affect them? Which are they to be, Christians or Agnostics?
John.
My dear, I promise you I will not interfere with your teaching of them.
Sylvia.
Do you mean to say you will stand by while they are taught a pack of worthless lies?
John.
Your faith has been the faith of our people for hundreds of years. In the case of a difference of opinion I could not take it on myself to refuse children instruction in it. When they reach years of discretion they can judge for themselves.
Sylvia.
And supposing they ask you about things? The story of Our Saviour appeals to children, you know. It’s very natural that they should put you questions. What will you answer?
John.
I don’t think you could ask me to say what I thought untrue.
Mrs. Wharton.
He could always refer them to you, Sylvia dear.
Sylvia.
You naturally wouldn’t come to church. What sort of an example would you set your children in a matter of which I was impressing on them the enormous importance?
John.
[With a smile.] My dear, surely you’re letting a lack of humour cloud a lively intelligence. Vast numbers of excellent churchmen don’t go to church, and I’m not aware that their children are corrupted by it.
Sylvia.
[Passionately.] You don’t understand. You’ll never understand. It’s a joke to you. It’s all over and done with, John. Let me go. I beseech you to let me go.
Colonel Wharton.
[Half rising from his chair.] I feel most awfully ill.
Mrs. Wharton.
[In alarm.] George!
John.
[Simultaneously.] Father!
[Mrs. Wharton, John, and the Doctor hurry towards him.
What’s the matter?
Mrs. Wharton.
George, are you in pain?
Colonel Wharton.
Awful!
Dr. Macfarlane.
You’d better lie down on the sofa.
Colonel Wharton.
No, I’d rather go upstairs.
Dr. Macfarlane.
Don’t crowd round him.
Colonel Wharton.
I feel as if I were going to die.
Dr. Macfarlane.
Do you think you can manage to walk?
Colonel Wharton.
Yes. Help me, Evelyn.
John.
Put your arm round my neck, father.
Colonel Wharton.
No, it’s all right. I can manage.
Dr. Macfarlane.
We’ll get you upstairs and put you to bed.
Mrs. Wharton.
Come, darling, put all your weight on me.
Dr. Macfarlane.
That’s right. You needn’t come, John. You’ll only be in the way.
[Mrs. Wharton and the Doctor help the Colonel out of the room.
Mrs. Poole.
We’d better go, Norman. [To John.] I hope it’s nothing very serious.
John.
I’m sure I hope not.
Mrs. Poole.
Please don’t bear us a grudge for any of the things Norman or I have said to you to-day. You know, I saw the letter your Colonel wrote to Mrs. Wharton when you were wounded, and I know how splendid you’ve been.
John.
Oh, nonsense!
Vicar.
I’m afraid you may have to go through a good deal of distress in the near future. If you should change your mind in some of the things that we’ve talked about this afternoon no one would be more happy than myself.
John.
It’s very good of you to say so, but I don’t think it likely.
Vicar.
One never knows by what paths the Most High will call His creatures to Himself. He is more cunning to save His children than they are to lose themselves. If you listen to the call, come to the Communion Table. I will ask no questions. It will be a joyful day for me if I am privileged to offer you the Blessed Sacrament of Our Lord and Saviour.
[He stretches out his hand and John takes it.
John.
Good-bye.
[The Vicar and Mrs. Poole go into the garden. John turns to Sylvia.
John.
Is it the question that the Vicar put me when we were talking about sin that has upset you, Sylvia?
Sylvia.
No, I don’t think it was very nice of him to put it. I never thought about the matter. I don’t see why I should expect you to be better than other men.
John.
Did you really mean all you said just now?
Sylvia.
Every word.
[She takes off her engagement ring and hands it to him. He does not take it.
John.
[With deep emotion.] Sylvia, I couldn’t say it before all those people, it seemed too intimate and private a matter. Doesn’t it mean anything to you that I love you? It’s been so much to me in all I’ve gone through to think of you. You’ve been everything in the world to me. When I was cold and wet and hungry and miserable, I’ve thought of you, and it all grew bearable.
Sylvia.
I’m very sorry. I can’t marry you.
John.
How can you be so cold and heartless? Sylvia, my dear, I love you! Won’t you give it a chance?
[She looks at him steadily for a moment. She braces herself for the final effort.
Sylvia.
But I don’t love you any more, John.
[She hands him the ring again and he takes it silently.
John.
It’s not a very swagger one, is it? I was none too flush in those days and I didn’t want to ask father to help me. I wanted to buy it out of my own money.
Sylvia.
I’ve worn it for seven years, John.
[He turns away from Sylvia and walks over to the fire-place. When Sylvia sees what he is going to do she makes a gesture as though to prevent him, but immediately controls herself. He stands looking at the fire for a moment, then throws the ring in; he watches what will happen to it. Sylvia clutches her heart. She can hardly prevent the sobs which seem to tear her breast.
Sylvia.
I think I’ll be getting home. John — if your father or mother want me you can send, can’t you?
John.
[Looking over his shoulder.] Of course. I’ll let you know at once.
Sylvia.
[In a natural voice.] Good-bye, John.
John.
Good-bye, Sylvia.
[He turns back to look at the fire, and she walks slowly out of the room.
THE END OF THE SECOND ACT.
ACT III
The Scene is the same as in the preceding Acts. It is early morning on the following Wednesday. The dead ashes of yesterday’s fire are still in the grate. Not far away is heard the ringing of a church bell to call the faithful to the first service.
Mrs. Wharton is standing by a table on which is a large basket of white flowers which she had just brought in from the garden. She picks up a rose, and with a faint smile gives it a little caress. Sylvia comes in from the garden.
Sylvia.
[With surprise.] Mrs. Wharton!
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh, Sylvia, is it you?
Sylvia.
It startled me to see you there. I came in this way because I saw the door was open and your front door bell’s so noisy. I thought if the Colonel was asleep it might wake him.
Mrs. Wharton.
It’s early, isn’t it?
Sylvia.
Yes, I’m on my way to the early service. I thought I’d look in just to ask how the Colonel was. But I didn’t expect to see you. I thought Kate or Hannah might be about.
Mrs. Wharton.
George is dead, Sylvia.
Sylvia.
[In amazement.] Mrs. Wharton!
Mrs. Wharton.
He died quite peacefully about an hour ago. I’ve just been to gather some flowers to put in his room.
Sylvia.
Oh, Mrs. Wharton, I’m so sorry. I’m so dreadfully sorry for you.
Mrs. Wharton.
[Patting her hand.] Thank you, my dear; you’ve been very kind to us during these days.
Sylvia.
Where is John?
Mrs. Wharton.
I think he must have gone out for a walk. I went to his room a little while ago and he wasn’t there. He wanted to sit up with me last night, but I wouldn’t let him.
Sylvia.
But ... but doesn’t John know his father is dead?
Mrs. Wharton.
No, not yet.
Sylvia.
Didn’t you call him?
Mrs. Wharton.
I had no idea the end was so near. George wanted to be alone with me, Sylvia. We’d been married for thirty-five years, you see. He was conscious almost to the last. He died quite suddenly, like a child going to sleep.
Sylvia.
It’s such a terrible loss. You poor dear, you must be quite heart-broken.
Mrs. Wharton.
It’s a very great loss, but I’m not heart-broken. George is happy and at rest. We should be very poor Christians if the death of those we love made us unhappy. George has entered into eternal life.
Sylvia.
Oh, Mrs. Wharton, what a blessed thing it is to have a faith like yours.
Mrs. Wharton.
My dear, a very wonderful thing happened last night. I can’t feel grief for dear George’s death because of the recollection of that. I feel so strange. I feel as though I were walking in an enchanted garden.
Sylvia.
I don’t know what you mean.
Mrs. Wharton.
Since that day when George refused to talk
with the Vicar I never dared mention the subject. He was not himself. It made me so unhappy. And then last night, soon after Dr. Macfarlane went away, he asked of his own accord for Mr. Poole. The Vicar’s a dear, kind man. He’d said to me that if ever George asked for him he’d come at once, at any hour of the day or night. So I sent for him. He gave George the Holy Sacrament. And Sylvia, a miracle happened.
Sylvia.
A miracle?
Mrs. Wharton.
No sooner had the bread and the wine touched his lips than he was transfigured. All his — his anxiety left him, and he was once more his dear, good, brave self. He was quite happy to die. It was as though an unseen hand had pulled back a dark curtain of clouds and he saw before him, not night and a black coldness, but a path of golden sunshine that led straight to the arms of God.
Sylvia.
I’m so glad. I’m happy too now.
Mrs. Wharton.
The Vicar read the prayers for the dying and then he left us. We talked of the past and of our reunion in a little while. And then he died.
Sylvia.
It’s wonderful. Yes, it was a miracle.
Mrs. Wharton.
All through my life I’ve been conscious of the hand of God shaping the destinies of man. I’ve never seen His loving mercy more plainly manifest.
[Kate opens the door and stands on the threshold, but does not come into the room.
Kate.
The woman’s come, ma’am.
Mrs. Wharton.
Very well. I’m just coming.
[Kate goes out and shuts the door behind her. Mrs. Wharton takes up her basket of flowers.
Mrs. Wharton.
John will be in immediately, Sylvia. He promised to come and relieve me at half-past eight, so that I might get something to eat. Will you see him?
Sylvia.
Yes, Mrs. Wharton, if you wish me to.
Mrs. Wharton.
Will you tell him that his father is dead? I know you’ll do it very gently.
Sylvia.
Oh, Mrs. Wharton, wouldn’t you prefer to tell him yourself?
Mrs. Wharton.
No.
Sylvia.
Very well.
Mrs. Wharton.
You know he loves you, Sylvia. It would make me so happy if you two could arrive at some understanding. It seems such a pity that the happiness of both of you should be ruined.
Sylvia.
I would do anything in the world for John, but I can’t sacrifice what is and must be dearer to me even than he.
Mrs. Wharton.
Can’t you teach him to believe?
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 398