Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  Mrs. Wharton.

  It was very good of you to come. Good-bye, my dear, and God bless you.

  Mrs. Littlewood.

  Good-bye.

  [They kiss one another and Mrs. Littlewood goes out.]

  Dr. Macfarlane.

  [Shaking hands with Mrs. Wharton.] I may look in later in the day to see how you are.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  Oh, my dear doctor, I’m not in the least ill, you know.

  Dr. Macfarlane.

  Still, don’t try to do too much. You’re not quite a young woman, you know. Good-bye, Sylvia.

  [Sylvia does not answer. Dr. Macfarlane goes out. Sylvia advances into the room and then turns and looks again at the door through which John must come. She does all she can to control her great nervousness.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  Sylvia, is anything the matter?

  Sylvia.

  No. Why?

  Mrs. Wharton.

  You seem so strange.

  Sylvia.

  [Paying no attention to the remark.] John is just coming.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  You know, my dear, it seems to me that in this life most difficulties can be arranged if both parties are willing to give way a little.

  Sylvia.

  Sometimes it’s impossible to give way, and then the only hope is — a miracle.

  [She says the last word with a little smile to conceal the fact that she attaches the greatest importance to it. John comes in. He is pale and looks extremely tired. He stops for a moment in surprise on seeing his mother. He goes over and kisses her.

  John.

  Oh, mother, I thought you were upstairs. I’m afraid I’m very late.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  It doesn’t matter, my dear. How dreadfully white you look.

  John.

  I went for a walk this morning. I’ve had nothing to eat. I’m rather tired.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  My dear, you frighten me, your face is all drawn and pinched.

  John.

  Oh, mother, don’t worry about me. I shall be all right after breakfast. After all, it’s quite enough to have one invalid on your hands.

  [Mrs. Wharton looks at him in surprise. Sylvia gives a nervous start, but immediately controls herself.

  Sylvia.

  Have you been — where you said you were going?

  John.

  Yes.

  [Sylvia opens her mouth to speak, but stops; she gives John a long, searching look; she realises that what she had hoped for has not taken place, and with a little gasp of misery turns away her head and sinks, dejected and exhausted, into a chair. John has held her look with his and now turns to his mother.

  John.

  Is father asleep?

  Mrs. Wharton.

  [With a little shiver.] John!

  John.

  What’s the matter?

  Mrs. Wharton.

  I thought you knew. My dearest, your father’s dead.

  John.

  Mother!

  Mrs. Wharton.

  I asked Sylvia to break it to you. I thought....

  Sylvia.

  [In a dull voice.] I didn’t tell him when you asked me to, Mrs. Wharton.

  John.

  I don’t understand. It seems impossible. He was well enough last night. When did he die?

  Mrs. Wharton.

  At about seven this morning.

  John.

  But, mother dear, why didn’t you call me?

  Mrs. Wharton.

  I didn’t expect it. We’d been talking and he said he was tired and he thought he could sleep a little. He dozed off quietly, and in a little while I saw he was dead.

  John.

  Oh, my poor mother, how will you bear your grief?

  Mrs. Wharton.

  You know, it’s so strange, I’m not in the least unhappy. I don’t feel that he’s left me. I feel him just as near to me as before. I don’t know how to explain it to you. I think he’s never been so much alive as now. Oh, John, I know that the soul is immortal.

  John.

  Darling, I’m so glad you’re not unhappy. Your dear eyes are positively radiant.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  If you only knew what I seem to see with them!

  John.

  Won’t you take me up and let me see him?

  Mrs. Wharton.

  I think the women are not done yet, John. I’ll go up and see. I’ll call you as soon as everything is ready.

  John.

  I’m sorry I’ve caused you so much pain since I came back, mother. I wish I could have avoided it.

  Mrs. Wharton.

  [She puts her arms round his neck, and he kisses her.]

  My dear son!

  [She goes out. John goes towards the window and looks out into the garden. For a moment Sylvia does not dare to speak to him. At last she makes an effort.

  Sylvia.

  [Desperately.] John, whatever you have to say to me, say it.

  John.

  [With frigid politeness.] I don’t think I have anything in particular to say to you.

  Sylvia.

  I suppose you think I’m just a wicked liar.

  John.

  I ask you no questions. I make you no reproaches. What is the matter?

  Sylvia.

  Oh, John, after all we’ve been to one another it’s brutal to talk to me like that. If you think I did wrong, say so.

  John.

  Why?

  Sylvia.

  You’re cruel and hard. [She goes up to him.] John, you must listen to me.

  John.

  Well?

  Sylvia.

  Your mother asked me to tell you of your father’s death. I concealed it from you. I told you a whole tissue of lies. I traded deliberately on your tenderness for your father. I was horrified at myself. It was my only chance of getting you to take the Communion.

  John.

  If you’d had any affection for me, you couldn’t have done such an abominable thing. If you’d had any respect for me you couldn’t have done it.

  Sylvia.

  Let me speak, John.

  John.

  Be quiet! You’ve insisted on talking about it, and now, by God, you’re going to listen to me. Do you know what I felt? Shame. When I took the bread and the wine, I thought they’d choke me. Because once I believed so devoutly it seemed to me that I was doing an awful thing. Deliberately, with full knowledge of what I was doing, I told a dirty lie. And I feel dirty to the depths of my soul.

  Sylvia.

  I thought perhaps it wouldn’t be a lie. I had to do it, John. It was my only chance.

  John.

  Why did you do it?

  Sylvia.

  Don’t look at me so sternly. I can’t bear it. You frighten me. I can’t collect my thoughts.

  John.

  Why did you do it? Shall I tell you? Because at the back of all your Christian humility there’s the desire to dominate. It isn’t so much that I didn’t believe as that I didn’t believe what you wanted me to believe. You wanted to grind my face in the dust.

  Sylvia.

  [Passionately.] John, if you only knew! I only thought of you. I only thought of you all the time.

  John.

  Don’t be such a hypocrite.

  Sylvia.

  [Brokenly.] I expected a miracle.

  John.

  At this time of day?

  Sylvia.

  For God’s sake have mercy on me! It was your mother who put the idea in my head. Your father received the Communion last night.

  John.

  You have no charity for human weakness. You were all so terrified that he shouldn’t make an edifying end. As if it mattered if the poor dear’s nerve failed him at the last.

  Sylvia.

  [Eagerly.] But it didn’t. That’s just it. You noticed your mother’s face yourself. Notwithstanding all her grief she’s happy. Do you know why?

  John.

  W
hy?

  Sylvia.

  [As though suddenly inspired.] Because when he’d received the Blessed Sacrament the fear of death left him. He was once more a brave and gallant gentleman. He had no dread any longer of the perilous journey before him. He was happy to die.

  John.

  [More gently.] Is that true? Dear father, I’m very glad.

  Sylvia.

  It was a miracle. It was a miracle.

  John.

  I still don’t follow.

  Sylvia.

  I thought that when you knelt at the chancel steps, and received the Communion as you used to receive it when you were a boy, all the feelings of your boyhood would rush back on you. I had to make you take it.

  John.

  In my frame of mind? Surely I had no right to.

  Sylvia.

  I know. That’s what makes my sin the greater. Perhaps I was mad. To God all things are possible. I felt certain you’d believe.

  John.

  [Very gravely.] Perhaps you have worked a miracle, but not the one you expected.

  Sylvia.

  What do you mean?

  John.

  When you said you wouldn’t marry me I was — I was knocked endways — I felt like a man who’s been shipwrecked. All my plans for the future had been bound up with you. I couldn’t imagine it without you. I felt utterly forlorn.

  Sylvia.

  But don’t you know what it cost me?

  John.

  At first I couldn’t think you meant it. When you said you didn’t love me, I couldn’t believe it. It seemed too preposterous. I was awfully miserable, Sylvia.

  Sylvia.

  John, I didn’t want you to be unhappy.

  John.

  And then, when I received the Communion something quite strange took place in me. I can’t tell you what I felt. I felt as though mother had heard me saying something obscene. I forced myself to go through with it, because I really did think it might give poor father some peace of mind. But it was you who made me do it. The thought of you filled me with horror.

  Sylvia.

  [With dismay.] John!

  John.

  You’ve cured me, Sylvia. I ought to be grateful to you for that. My love for you has fallen from me as a cloak might fall from one’s shoulders. I see the truth now. You were quite right. In these long years we’ve become different people and we have nothing to say to one another any more.

  Sylvia.

  [Passionately.] But I love you, John! How can you be so blind? Don’t you see that I only did it because I loved you? Oh, John, you can’t leave me now! I’ve waited for you all these years. I’ve longed for you to come back. Forgive me if I did wrong. I can’t lose you now. I love you, John, you won’t leave me?

  John.

  [After a moment’s pause.] Of course I won’t leave you. I thought you didn’t want to marry me.

  Sylvia.

  [Hardly knowing what she is saying.] I’m not young any more. I’ve lost my freshness. I’ve got nobody but you now. Oh, John, don’t forsake me! I couldn’t bear it.

  John.

  [As though he were talking to a child.] My dear, don’t distress yourself. I’m not thinking of forsaking you. We’ll be married as soon as ever we can.

  Sylvia.

  Yes, we’ll be married, won’t we? I love you so much, John, I’ll make you love me. I couldn’t lose you now. I’ve waited too long.

  John.

  Come, darling, you mustn’t be unhappy. It’s all settled now. Dry your eyes. You don’t want to look a fright, do you?

  Sylvia.

  [Clinging to him.] I’m so miserable.

  John.

  Nonsense, give me a nice kiss, and we’ll forget all about our troubles. I’ll try to make you a good husband, Sylvia. I’ll do all I can to make you happy. Give me a kiss.

  [When he seeks to raise her face in order to kiss her, she tears herself violently from him.

  Sylvia.

  No, don’t! Don’t touch me! God give me strength! I’m so pitifully weak.

  John.

  Sylvia!

  Sylvia.

  Don’t come near me! For God’s sake! [She puts her hands before her face, trying to control and to collect herself, and there is a moment’s pause.] It never occurred to me that you didn’t care for me any more, and when you told me, for a moment I lost my head. Forgive me for that, dear, and forget it. I’m not going to marry you.

  John.

  Now, Sylvia, don’t be idiotic. It would be so unseemly if I had to drag you to the altar by the hair of your head.

  Sylvia.

  You’re very kind, John. I suppose it wouldn’t be very good form to back out of it now. I’m poor, and I’ve wasted my best years waiting for you. You needn’t worry about what is going to happen to me. I can earn my living as well as other women.

  John.

  Oh, Sylvia, you’re torturing yourself and me. Can’t you forget what I said in a moment of exasperation? You must know how deep my affection is for you.

  Sylvia.

  I don’t want to forget. It is the will of God. I lied. I did an abominable and evil thing. I don’t think you can imagine how terrible my sin has been. I risked my soul to save you, John, and God has inflicted on me a punishment infinitely less than I deserved. He has taken out of your heart the love you bore me.

  John.

  But you love me, Sylvia.

  Sylvia.

  Better than anyone in the world. I’ve loved you ever since I was a child of ten. That’s only the weakness of my flesh. My soul exults in the great mercy that God has shown me.

  John.

  Oh, my dear, you’re going to be so unhappy.

  Sylvia.

  No, don’t be sorry for me. You’ve given me a great opportunity.

  John.

  I?

  Sylvia.

  I’ve been mortified because I was able to do so little in the war. I knew it was my duty to stay here and look after mother. But I wanted to go out to France and do my bit like all my friends.

  John.

  That was very natural.

  Sylvia.

  Now at last I have the chance to do something. No sacrifice is worthless in the eyes of God. A broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise. I sacrifice now all that was precious to me in the world, my love and my hope of happiness in this life, and I sacrifice it with a cheerful heart, and I pray that God may accept it. So shall I do my part to atone for the sins which have brought on this horrible war.

  John.

  It would have been better if I’d never come back. I’ve caused misery and suffering to all of you.

  Sylvia.

  John, you took away the ring you gave me when we became engaged. You threw it in the fire.

  John.

  I’m afraid that was very silly of me. I did it in a moment of bitterness.

  Sylvia.

  You went into Canterbury to buy a wedding ring. What have you done with it?

  John.

  I have it here. Why?

  Sylvia.

  Can I have it?

  John.

  Of course.

  [He takes it out of his waistcoat pocket, and, wondering, gives it to her.

  Sylvia.

  [Slipping the ring on her finger.] I will put the love of man out of my life. I will turn from what is poor and transitory to what is everlasting. I will be the bride of One whose love is never denied to them that seek it. The love of God is steadfast and enduring. I can put all my trust in that and I shall never find it wanting.... Good-bye, John, God bless you now and always.

  John.

  Good-bye, dear child.

  [She goes out quickly. In a minute Kate comes in. She is carrying a square wooden box in which are papers, firewood, a hearth-brush, and a large soiled glove.

  Kate.

  Please, sir, Mrs. Wharton says, will you go upstairs now?

  John.

  Yes.

  [He goes out. Kate goe
s to the fire-place, kneels down, puts on the glove, and begins to rake out the ashes. The Cook enters. She is a stout homely body of forty-five.

  Cook.

  The butcher’s come, Kate. I don’t exactly like to go up to Mrs. Wharton just now. I’ve got the cold beef for lunch, but they’ll be wanting something for dinner.

  Kate.

  Oh, well, they always like best end. You can’t go far wrong if you have that.

  Cook.

  I’ve got a fine lot of pease.

  Kate.

  Well, they’ll do nicely.

  Cook.

  I was thinking I’d make a fruit tart. I think p’raps I’d better order two and a half pounds of best end.

  [She goes out. Kate continues to lay the fire.

  THE END

  THE CIRCLE

  CONTENTS

  PERSONS OF THE PLAY

  THE FIRST ACT

  THE SECOND ACT

  THE THIRD ACT

  PERSONS OF THE PLAY

  Clive Champion-Cheney

  Arnold Champion-Cheney, M.P.

  Lord Porteous

  Edward Luton

  Lady Catherine Champion-Cheney

  Elizabeth

  Mrs. Shenstone.

  The action takes place at Aston-Adey, Arnold Champion-Cheney’s house in Dorset.

  THE FIRST ACT

  The Scene is a stately drawing-room at Aston-Adey, with fine pictures on the walls and Georgian furniture. Aston-Adey has been described, with many illustrations, in Country Life. It is not a house, but a place. Its owner takes a great pride in it, and there is nothing in the room which is not of the period. Through the French windows at the back can be seen the beautiful gardens which are one of the features.

  It is a fine summer morning.

  Arnold comes in. He is a man of about thirty-five, tall and good-looking, fair, with a clean-cut, sensitive face. He has a look that is intellectual, but somewhat bloodless. He is very well dressed.

  Arnold. [Calling.] Elizabeth! [He goes to the window and calls again.] Elizabeth! [He rings the bell. While he is waiting he gives a look round the room. He slightly alters the position of one of the chairs. He takes an ornament from the chimney-piece and blows the dust from it.]

  [A Footman comes in.

  Oh, George! see if you can find Mrs. Cheney, and ask her if she’d be good enough to come here.

  Footman. Very good, sir.

  [The Footman turns to go.

  Arnold. Who is supposed to look after this room?

  Footman. I don’t know, sir.

  Arnold. I wish when they dust they’d take care to replace the things exactly as they were before.