Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  George. Everyone’s been so extraordinarily good to me. I had no idea there was so much kindness in the world.

  Daisy. [To Sylvia, very pleasantly.] Will you come and look at the temple now while they’re bringing tea?

  Sylvia. Yes, I’d like to very much.

  Daisy. I think you’ll enjoy your tea more if you feel you’ve done the sight.

  Sylvia. It’s all so new to me. Everything interests me. I’ve fallen passionately in love with Peking.

  [They wander off, talking gaily.

  George. Harold, you’re a very nice boy.

  Knox. That’s what the girls tell me. But I don’t know why you should.

  George. I think it was rather sporting of you to bring your sister to see Daisy.

  Knox. I don’t deserve any credit for that. She insisted on coming.

  George. Oh?

  Knox. She met Harry at the club and took rather a fancy to him. When I told her Daisy was a half-caste and people didn’t bother much about her she got right up on her hind legs. I told her she’d only just come out to China and didn’t know what she was talking about and then she gave me what she called a bit of her mind. I was obliged to remark that if that was a bit I didn’t much care about knowing the rest.

  George. It sounds as though you’d had a little tiff.

  Knox. She said she had no patience with the airs people gave themselves in the East. A Eurasian was just as good as anybody else. And when I happened to say I was coming here to-day to see how you were she said she’d come too.

  George. It’s very kind of her. Daisy leads a dreadfully lonely life. It would mean so much to her if she knew one or two white women. If they take to one another, you won’t try to crab it, will you? I fancy Daisy wants a friend rather badly.

  Knox. I shouldn’t like it very much, you know. Would you much care for your sister to be very pally with a half-caste?

  George. Daisy is one in a thousand. You can’t think what she’s done for me during my illness. My mother couldn’t have taken more care of me.

  Knox. They’re often very good-hearted. But as a matter of fact nothing I can say will have the least effect on Sylvia. Girls have changed a lot since the war. If she wants to do a thing and she thinks it right, she’ll do it. And if I try to interfere she’s quite capable of telling me to go to the devil.

  George. She seems to be a young woman of some character.

  Knox. Perhaps because she’s had rather a rough time. The fellow she was engaged to was killed in the war and she was awfully cut up. She drove an ambulance for the last two years and then she went up to Girton. After that my father thought she’d better come out here for a bit.

  George. She ought to like it.

  Knox. If she doesn’t put up people’s backs too much. She can’t stand anything like injustice or cruelty. If she thinks people are unkind to Daisy or sniffy about her, she’ll stick to her like a leech. However, I daresay she’ll get married.

  George. [Smiling.] That’ll learn her.

  Knox. Why don’t you marry her? It’s about time you settled down.

  George. [With a chuckle.] You fool.

  Knox. Why? You’re by way of being rather eligible, aren’t you?

  George. I don’t know why you want to get rid of her. She seems a very nice sister.

  Knox. Of course I love having her with me, but she does cramp my style a bit. And she ought to marry. She’d make you a first-rate wife.

  George. Much too good for the likes of me.

  Knox. Of course she’s a bit independent, but one has to put up with that in girls nowadays. And she’s as good as gold.

  George. One can see that at a mile, my son.

  Knox. I say, who was Rathbone, Daisy’s first husband, do you know?

  George. [His face a blank.] Harry told me he was an American. He said he was in business in the F. M. S.

  Knox. That’s what Harry told me. I met a fellow the other day who lives in Singapore who told me he’d never heard of Rathbone.

  George. [Chaffing him.] Perhaps he didn’t move in the exalted circles that a friend of yours would naturally move in.

  Knox. I suppose there was a Mr. Rathbone?

  [There is a distant sound in the street of Chinese instruments being played.

  George. Hulloa, there’s the procession coming along.

  Knox. What procession?

  George. It’s a Manchu wedding. The amah was talking about it this morning.

  Knox. I must call Sylvia. She’d love to see it. Sylvia.

  [Daisy and Sylvia come out of the house just as he calls.

  Sylvia. Don’t shout, Harold.

  Knox. Come along and have your education improved. A Manchu wedding is just going to pass by....

  Sylvia. Oh, good, let’s go out into the street!

  Daisy. You can see it just as well from here. I’ll have the doors opened. Boy, open the gate.

  Knox. Yes, that’s the ticket. We shall see it better from here.

  [Wu during the last few speeches has appeared with the tea, which he sets down on the table. On receiving Daisy’s order he goes to the doorway and draws the bolt. He pulls back one heavy door while Knox pulls back the other. The empty street is seen. The music grows louder. Now the procession comes, gay, brilliant, and barbaric against the white wall of the street; first men on horseback, then Buddhist monks in gray, with their shaven heads; then the band, playing wild, discordant music; after them passes a long string of retainers in red, with strange shaped hats; then come retainers bearing in open palanquins great masses of cardboard fruits and all manner of foodstuffs, silver vessels and gold; these are followed by two or three youths on horseback, gorgeously dressed, and these again by the palanquin, carved and richly painted and gilt, of the bride. Then pass more priests and another band and finally a last string of retainers in red. When the last one has disappeared a beggar shows himself at the open doorway. He is excessively thin, and he has a bush of long, bristly hair; he is clothed in pale rags, torn and patched; his legs and feet are bare. He puts out a bony hand and breaks into a long, high-pitched whine.

  Knox. Oh, Lord, get out!

  Daisy. Oh, no, please, Harold, give him a copper or two.

  George. Daisy never lets a beggar go away without something.

  Daisy. It’s not because I’m charitable. I’m afraid they’ll bring me bad luck.

  Knox. [Taking a coin from his pocket.] Here you are, Clarence. Now buzz off.

  [The beggar takes his dole and saunters away. Wu closes the doors.

  Sylvia. [Enthusiastically.] I am glad I saw that.

  Daisy. You’ll get very tired of that sort of thing before you’ve been here long. Now let’s have tea.

  Sylvia. Oh, I don’t think we’ll stay, thank you very much. We have another call to make.

  Daisy. How tiresome of you. Harry ought to be back in a few minutes. He’ll be disappointed not to have seen you.

  Sylvia. I promised to go and see Mrs. Stopfort. Do you know her?

  Daisy. I know who you mean.

  Sylvia. I think people are being absolutely beastly to her. It simply makes my blood boil.

  Daisy. Oh, how?

  Sylvia. Well, you know that her husband’s a drunken brute who’s treated her abominably for years. At last she fell in love with a man and now her husband is going to divorce her. It’s monstrous that he should be able to.

  Daisy. Are the ladies of Peking giving her the cold shoulder?

  Knox. The cold shoulder hardly describes it. The frozen silverside.

  George. I think she’s well rid of Reggie Stopfort at any price, but I’m sorry the other party is André Leroux.

  Sylvia. Why? She introduced me to him. I thought he was a very nice fellow.

  George. Well, you see, if he’d been English or American, he would have married her as a matter of course.

  Sylvia. So I should hope.

  Daisy. Because she was divorced on his account, you mean?

  George. Yes. But the Frenc
h haven’t our feeling on that matter. I’m not quite sure if André will be willing to marry her.

  Sylvia. Oh, that would be dreadful! Under those circumstances the man must marry the woman. He simply must.

  George. Of course.

  Knox. Come along, Sylvia. We won’t discuss women’s rights now.

  Sylvia. [Giving Daisy her hand very cordially.] And if there’s anything I hate it’s people who say they’re going and then don’t go. Good-bye, Mrs. Anderson.

  Daisy. It’s been very nice to see you.

  Sylvia. I do hope you’ll come and see me soon. I’m so very much alone you’d be doing me a charity if you’d look me up. We might do the curio shops together.

  Daisy. That would be great fun.

  Sylvia. Good-bye, Mr. Conway. I’m glad to see you so well.

  George. Thank you very much, good-bye.

  [Knox and Sylvia go out. Daisy has walked with them towards the doorway and now returns to George.

  George. What a very nice girl, Daisy.

  Daisy. She seems to make a specialty of speckled peaches. First me and then Mrs. Stopfort.

  George. I was hoping you’d like her.

  Daisy. It’s hardly probable. She’s everything that I’m not. She has everything that I haven’t. No, I don’t like her. But I’d give anything in the world to be her.

  George. [Smiling.] I don’t think you need envy her.

  Daisy. Don’t you think she’s pretty?

  George. Yes, very. But you’re so much more than pretty. I expect you have more brains in your little finger than she has in her whole body.

  Daisy. [Gravely.] She has something that I haven’t got, George, and I’d give my soul to have.

  George. [Embarrassed.] I don’t know what you mean. [Changing the conversation abruptly.] Daisy, now that I’m going away....

  Daisy. [Interrupting.] Are you really going to-morrow?

  George. [Breezily.] I’m quite well. I’m ashamed to have stayed so long.

  Daisy. I don’t look forward very much to the long, empty days when you’re no longer here.

  George. [Seriously.] I must go, Daisy. I really must.

  Daisy. [After a moment’s pause.] What were you going to say to me? Don’t thank me for anything I may have done. It’s given me a happiness I never knew before.

  George. Except for you I should have died. And when I think of the past I am ashamed.

  Daisy. What does the past matter? The past is dead and gone.

  George. And I’m ashamed when I think how patient you were when I was irritable, how kind and thoughtful. I hardly knew I wanted a thing before you gave it to me. Sometimes when I felt I couldn’t breathe, the tenderness of your hand on my forehead — oh, it was like a dip in a highland stream on a summer day. I think I never knew that there was in you the most precious thing that anyone can have, goodness. Oh, Daisy, it makes me feel so humble.

  Daisy. Goodness? [With the shadow of a laugh.] Oh, George.

  George. It’s because Harry is better and simpler than I am that he was able to see it in you. He felt it in you always and he was right.

  [The Amah comes in.

  Daisy. [Sharply.] What d’you want?

  [The Amah crosses from one to the other and a thin smile crosses her eyes.

  Amah. Master telephone, Daisy.

  Daisy. Why didn’t you take the message?

  [She is about to go into the house.

  Amah. He have go now. He say very much hurry. I say no can findee you. I think you go out.

  Daisy. Why did you say that?

  Amah. I think more better, maybe.

  George. [Smiling.] That’s right, amah. Never tell the truth when a lie will do as well.

  Daisy. Well, what was the message?

  Amah. Master say he must to go Tientsin. Very important business. No come back to-night. Come back first train to-morrow.

  Daisy. Very well. Tell the boy that we shall be only two to dinner.

  Amah. I go talkee he.

  [Exit.

  George. [Urbanely.] I say, I don’t want to be an awful trouble to you. I think I’d better go back to my own place to-night.

  Daisy. [Looking at him.] Why should you do that?

  George. I was going to-morrow anyway.

  Daisy. Do you think my reputation is such a sensitive flower?

  George. [Lightly.] Of course not. But people aren’t very charitable. It seems rather funny I should stay here when Harry’s away.

  Daisy. What do you suppose I care if people gossip?

  George. I care for you.

  Daisy. [With a smile, almost archly.] It’s not very flattering to me that you should insist on going the moment Harry does. Do I bore you so much as all that?

  George. [With a chuckle.] How can you talk such nonsense? I haven’t wanted to get well too quickly. I’ve so enjoyed sitting quietly here while you read or sewed. I’ve got so much in the habit of seeing you about me that if I don’t go at once I shall never be able to bring myself to go at all.

  Daisy. Since that horrible accident I’ve been rather nervous at the thought of sleeping here by myself. I’m terrified at the thought of being left alone to-night.

  George. Come in with me, then. The Knoxes will be delighted to put you up for the night.

  Daisy. [With a sudden change of manner.] I don’t want you to go, George. I want you to stay.

  George. [As serious as she is.] Daisy, don’t be too hard on me. You don’t know. You don’t know. [With an effort he regains his self-control and returns to his easy, chaffing tone.] Don’t forget it’s not only a wound in the lung that I’ve been suffering from. While you and the doctor between you have been patching that up, I’ve been busy sticking together the pieces of a broken heart. It’s nicely set now, no one could tell that there’d ever been anything wrong with it, but I don’t think it would be very wise to give it a sudden jolt or jerk.

  Daisy. [In a low quivering voice.] Why do you say things like that? What is the good of making pretences?

  George. [Determined to keep the note of lightness.] It was very silly of me to bother you with my little troubles. It was very hot. I was overworked and nervous at the time or I shouldn’t have made so much of it. I’m sure that you’ll be as pleased as I am to know that I’m making a very good recovery, thank you.

  Daisy. [As though asking a casual question.] You don’t care for me any more?

  George. I have the greatest affection for you. I admire you and of course I’m grateful to you. But if I thought I was in love with you I was mistaken.

  Daisy. Do you know why I wouldn’t have a professional nurse and when you were unconscious for two days refused to leave you for a minute? Do you know why, afterwards, at night when you grew delirious I wouldn’t let Harry watch you? I said it would interfere with his work. I dared not leave you for a single moment. And it was your secret and mine. I wouldn’t let anybody in the world share it with me. Do you know what you said in your delirium?

  George. [Disturbed.] I expect I talked an awful lot of rot. People always do, I believe.

  Daisy. [Passionately.] You used to call me, “Daisy, Daisy,” as though your heart was breaking. And when I leaned over you and said: “I’m here,” you would take my face in your hands so that I could hardly believe you weren’t conscious. And you said: “I love you.”

  George. Oh, God!

  Daisy. And sometimes I didn’t know how to calm you. You were frantic because you thought they were taking me away from you. “I can’t bear it,” you said, “I shall die.” I had to put my hands over your mouth so that no one should hear.

  George. I didn’t know what I was saying. I wasn’t myself. It was just the madness of the fever.

  Daisy. And sometimes you were so exquisitely tender. Your voice was soft and caressing. And you called me by sweet names so that the tears ran down my cheeks. You thought you held me in your arms and you pressed me to your heart. You were happy then; you were so happy that I was afraid you’d die of it. I know w
hat love is and you love me.

  George. For God’s sake, stop. Why do you torture me?

  Daisy. And then you were madly jealous. You hated Harry. I think you could have killed him.

  George. That’s not true. That’s infamous. Never. Never.

  Daisy. Oh, you can say that with your lips! Sometimes you thought he put his arms round me and kissed me and you sobbed aloud. Oh, it was so painful. I forgot that you were unconscious and I took your hands and said: “He’s not here. You and I are alone, alone, alone.” And sometimes I think you understood. You fell back. And a look of peace came on your face as if you were in heaven and you said — do you know what you said? You said: “Beloved, beloved, beloved.”

  [Her voice breaks and the tears course down her cheeks. George is shattered by what she has told him.

  George. I suppose there are few of us that wouldn’t turn away from ourselves in horror if the innermost thoughts of our heart, the thoughts we’re only conscious of to hate, were laid bare. But that shameful thing that showed itself in me isn’t me. I disown it....

  Daisy. I thought you had more courage. I thought you had more sense. Do you call that you, a few conventional prejudices? The real you is the love that consumes you more hotly than ever the fever did. The only you is the you that loves me. The rest is only frills. It’s a domino that you put on at a masked ball.

  George. You don’t know what you say. Frills? It’s honour, and duty, and decency. It’s everything that makes it possible for me to cling to the shadow of my self-respect.

  Daisy. Oh, all that means nothing. You fool. You might as well try with your bare hands to stop the flow of the Yangtze.

  George. If I perish I perish. Oh, of course I love you. All night I’m tortured with love and tortured with jealousy, but the day does come at last and then I can get hold of myself again. My love is some horrible thing gnawing at my heart-strings. I hate it and despise it. But I can fight it, fight it all the time. Oh, I’ve been here too long. I ought to have got back to work long ago. Work is my only chance. Daisy, I beseech you to let me go.

  Daisy. How can I let you go? I love you.

  George. [Thunderstruck.] You? [Impatiently, with a shrug of the shoulders.] Oh, you’re talking nonsense.

  Daisy. Why do you suppose I’ve said all these things? Do you think a woman cares twopence for a man’s love when she doesn’t love him?