The Complete Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham: East and West (Vol. 1 of 2))

by W. Somerset Maugham

“I’ve had the bed in my room taken away. It took up so much space. I’ve had a little camp bed put there instead.”

  “My dear, what are you talking about?”

  Now she looked at him steadily.

  “I’m not going to live with you as your wife again.”

  “Never?”

  She shook her head. He looked at her in a puzzled way. He could hardly believe he had heard aright and his heart began to beat painfully.

  “But that’s awfully unfair to me, Doris.”

  “Don’t you think it was a little unfair to me to bring me out here in the circumstances?”

  “But you just said you didn’t blame me.”

  “That’s quite true. But the other’s different. I can’t do it.”

  “But how are we going to live together like that?”

  She stared at the floor. She seemed to ponder deeply.

  “When you wanted to kiss me on the lips last night I-it almost made me sick.”

  “Doris.”

  She looked at him suddenly and her eyes were cold and hostile.

  “That bed I slept on, is that the bed in which she had her children?” She saw him flush deeply. “Oh, it’s horrible. How could you?” She wrung her hands, and her twisting, tortured fingers looked like little writhing snakes. But she made a great effort and controlled herself. “My mind is quite made up. I don’t want to be unkind to you, but there are some things that you can’t ask me to do. I’ve thought it all over. I’ve been thinking of nothing else since you told me, night and day, till I’m exhausted. My first instinct was to get up and go. At once. The steamer will be here in two or three days.”

  “Doesn’t it mean anything to you that I love you?”

  “Oh, I know you love me. I’m not going to do that. I want to give us both a chance. I have loved you so, Guy.” Her voice broke, but she did not cry. “I don’t want to be unreasonable. Heaven knows, I don’t want to be unkind. Guy, will you give me time?”

  “I don’t know quite what you mean.”

  “I just want you to leave me alone. I’m frightened by the feelings that I have.”

  He had been right then; she was afraid. “What feelings?”

  “Please don’t ask me. I don’t want to say anything to wound you. Perhaps I shall get over them. Heaven knows, I want to. I’ll try, I promise you. I’ll try. Give me six months. I’ll do everything in the world for you, but just that one thing.” She made a little gesture of appeal. “There’s no reason why we shouldn’t be happy enough together. If you really love me you’ll-you’ll have patience.”

  He sighed deeply.

  “Very well,” he said. “Naturally I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t like. It shall be as you say.”

  He sat heavily for a little, as though, on a sudden grown old, it was an effort to move; then he got up.

  “I’ll be getting along to the office.”

  He took his topee and went out.

  A month passed. Women conceal their feelings better than men and a stranger visiting them would never have guessed that Doris was in any way troubled. But in Guy the strain was obvious; his round, good-natured face was drawn, and in his eyes was a hungry, harassed look. He watched Doris. She was gay and she chaffed him as she had been used to do; they played tennis together; they chatted about one thing and another. But it was evident that she was merely playing a part, and at last, unable to contain himself, he tried to speak again of his connexions with the Malay woman.

  “Oh, Guy, there’s no object in going back on all that,” she answered breezily. “We’ve said all we had to say about it and I don’t blame you for anything.”

  “Why do you punish me then?”

  “My poor boy, I don’t want to punish you. It’s not my fault if …” she shrugged her shoulders. “Human nature is very odd.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t try.”

  The words might have been harsh, but she softened them with a pleasant, friendly smile. Every night when she went to bed she leaned over Guy and lightly kissed his cheek. Her lips only touched it. It was as though a moth had just brushed his face in its flight.

  A second month passed, then a third, and suddenly the six months which had seemed so interminable were over. Guy asked himself whether she remembered. He gave a strained attention now to everything she said, to every look on her face and to every gesture of her hands. She remained impenetrable. She had asked him to give her six months; well, he had.

  The coasting steamer passed the mouth of the river, dropped their mail, and went on its way. Guy busily wrote the letters which it would pick up on the return journey. Two or three days passed by. It was a Tuesday and the prahu was to start at dawn on Thursday to await the steamer. Except at meal time when Doris exerted herself to make conversation they had not of late talked very much together; and after dinner as usual they took their books and began to read; but when the boy had finished clearing away and was gone for the night Doris put down hers.

  “Guy, I have something I want to say to you,” she murmured.

  His heart gave a sudden thud against his ribs and he felt himself change colour.

  “Oh, my dear, don’t look like that, it’s not so very terrible,” she laughed.

  But he thought her voice trembled a little.

  “Well?”

  “I want you to do something for me.”

  “My darling, I’ll do anything in the world for you.”

  He put out his hand to take hers, but she drew it away.

  “I want you to let me go home.”

  “You?” he cried, aghast. “When? Why?”

  “I’ve borne it as long as I can. I’m at the end of my tether.”

  “How long do you want to go for? For always?”

  “I don’t know. I think so.” She gathered determination. “Yes, for always.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  His voice broke and she thought he was going to cry.

  “Oh, Guy, don’t blame me. It really is not my fault. I can’t help myself.”

  “You asked me for six months. I accepted your terms. You can’t say I’ve made a nuisance of myself.”

  “No, no.”

  “I’ve tried not to let you see what a rotten time I was having.”

  “I know. I’m very grateful to you. You’ve been awfully kind to me. Listen, Guy, I want to tell you again that I don’t blame you for a single thing you did. After all, you were only a boy, and you did no more than the others; I know what the loneliness is here. Oh, my dear, I’m so dreadfully sorry for you. I knew all that from the beginning. That’s why I asked you for six months. My common sense tells me that I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. I’m unreasonable; I’m being unfair to you. But, you see, common sense has nothing to do with it; my whole soul is in revolt. When I see the woman and her children in the village I just feel my legs shaking. Everything in this house; when I think of that bed I slept in it gives me goose-flesh… . You don’t know what I’ve endured.”

  “I think I’ve persuaded her to go away. And I’ve applied for a transfer.”

  “That wouldn’t help. She’ll be there always. You belong to them, you don’t belong to me. I think perhaps I could have stood it if there’d only been one child, but three; and the boys are quite big boys. For ten years you lived with her.” And now she came out with what she had been working up to. She was desperate. “It’s a physical thing, I can’t help it, it’s stronger than I am. I think of those thin black arms of hers round you and it fills me with a physical nausea. I think of you holding those little black babies in your arms. Oh, it’s loathsome. The touch of you is odious to me. Each night, when I’ve kissed you, I’ve had to brace myself up to it. I’ve had to clench my hands and force myself to touch your cheek.” Now she was clasping and unclasping her fingers in a nervous agony, and her voice was out of control. “I know it’s I who am to blame now. I’m a silly, hysterical woman. I thought I’d get over it. I can’t, and now I neve
r shall. I’ve brought it all on myself; I’m willing to take the consequences; if you say I must stay here, I’ll stay, but if I stay I shall die. I beseech you to let me go.”

  And now the tears which she had restrained so long overflowed and she wept broken-heartedly. He had never seen her cry before.

  “Of course I don’t want to keep you here against your will,” he said hoarsely.

  Exhausted, she leaned back in her chair. Her features were all twisted and awry. It was horribly painful to see the abandonment of grief on that face which was habitually so placid.

  “I’m so sorry, Guy. I’ve broken your life, but I’ve broken mine too. And we might have been so happy.”

  “When do you want to go? On Thursday?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at him piteously. He buried his face in his hands. At last he looked up.

  “I’m tired out,” he muttered.

  “May I go?”

  “Yes.”

  For two minutes perhaps they sat there without a word. She started when the chik-chak gave its piercing, hoarse, and strangely human cry. Guy rose and went out on to the veranda. He leaned against the rail and looked at the softly flowing water. He heard Doris go into her room.

  Next morning, up earlier than usual, he went to her door and knocked.

  “Yes?”

  “I have to go up-river today. I shan’t be back till late.”

  “All right.”

  She understood. He had arranged to be away all day in order not to be about while she was packing. It was heartbreaking work. When she had packed her clothes she looked round the sitting-room at the things that belonged to her. It seemed dreadful to take them. She left everything but the photograph of her mother. Guy did not come in till ten o’clock at night.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to dinner,” he said. “The headman at the village I had to go to had a lot of things for me to attend to.”

  She saw his eyes wander about the room and notice that her mother’s photograph no longer stood in its place.

  “Is everything quite ready?” he asked. “I’ve ordered the boatman to be at the steps at dawn.”

  “I told the boy to wake me at five.”

  “I’d better give you some money.” He went to his desk and wrote out a cheque. He took some notes from a drawer. “Here’s some cash to take you as far as Singapore and at Singapore you’ll be able to change the cheque.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Would you like me to come to the mouth of the river with you?”

  “Oh, I think it would be better if we said good-bye here.”

  “All right. I think I shall turn in. I’ve had a long day and I’m dead beat.”

  He did not even touch her hand. He went into his room. In a few minutes she heard him throw himself on his bed. For a little while she sat looking for the last time round that room in which she had been so happy and so miserable. She sighed deeply. She got up and went into her own room. Everything was packed except the one or two things she needed for the night.

  It was dark when the boy awakened them. They dressed hurriedly and when they were ready breakfast was waiting for them. Presently they heard the boat row up to the landing-stage below the bungalow, and then the servants carried down her luggage. It was a poor pretence they made of eating. The darkness thinned away and the river was ghostly. It was not yet day, but it was no longer night. In the silence the voices of the natives at the landing-stage were very clear. Guy glanced at his wife’s untouched plate.

  “If you’ve finished we might stroll down. I think you ought to be starting.”

  She did not answer. She rose from the table. She went into her room to see that nothing had been forgotten and then side by side with him walked down the steps. A little winding path led them to the river. At the landing-stage the native guards in their smart uniform were lined up and they presented arms as Guy and Doris passed. The head boatman gave her his hand as she stepped into the boat. She turned and looked at Guy. She wanted desperately to say one last word of comfort, once more to ask for his forgiveness, but she seemed to be struck dumb.

  He stretched out his hand.

  “Well, good-bye, I hope you’ll have a jolly journey.”

  They shook hands.

  Guy nodded to the head boatman and the boat pushed off. The dawn now was creeping along the river mistily, but the night lurked still in the dark trees of the jungle. He stood at the landing-stage till the boat was lost in the shadows of the morning. With a sigh he turned away. He nodded absent-mindedly when the guard once more presented arms. But when he reached the bungalow he called the boy. He went round the room picking out everything that had belonged to Doris.

  Tack all these things up,” he said. “It’s no good leaving them about.”

  Then he sat down on the veranda and watched the day advance gradually like a bitter, an unmerited, and an overwhelming sorrow. At last he looked at his watch. It was time for him to go to the office.

  In the afternoon he could not sleep, his head ached miserably, so he took his gun and went for a tramp in the jungle. He shot nothing, but he walked in order to tire himself out. Towards sunset he came back and had two or three drinks, and then it was time to dress for dinner. There wasn’t much use in dressing now; he might just as well be comfortable; he put on a loose native jacket and a sarong. That was what he had been accustomed to wear before Doris came. He was barefoot. He ate his dinner listlessly and the boy cleared away and went. He sat down to read the Tatler. The bungalow was very silent. He could not read and let the paper fall on his knees. He was exhausted. He could not think and his mind was strangely vacant. The chik-chak was noisy that night and its hoarse and sudden cry seemed to mock him. You could hardly believe that this reverberating sound came from so small a throat. Presently he heard a discreet cough.

  “Who’s there?” he cried.

  There was a pause. He looked at the door. The chik-chak laughed harshly. A small boy sidled in and stood on the threshold. It was a little half-caste boy in a tattered singlet and a sarong. It was the elder of his two sons.

  “What do you want?” said Guy.

  The boy came forward into the room and sat down, tucking his legs away under him.

  “Who told you to come here?”

  “My mother sent me. She says, do you want anything?”

  Guy looked at the boy intently. The boy said nothing more. He sat and waited, his eyes cast down shyly. Then Guy in deep and bitter reflection buried his face in his hands. What was the use? It was finished. Finished! He surrendered. He sat back in his chair and sighed deeply.

  “Tell your mother to pack up her things and yours. She can come back.”

  “When?” asked the boy, impassively.

  Hot tears trickled down Guy’s funny, round spotty face.

  “Tonight.”

  THE OUTSTATION

  THE new assistant arrived in the afternoon. When the Resident, Mr. Warburton, was told that the prahu was in sight he put on his solar topee and went down to the landing-stage. The guard, eight little Dyak soldiers, stood to attention as he passed. He noted with satisfaction that their bearing was martial, their uniforms neat and clean, and their guns shining. They were a credit to him. From the landing-stage he watched the bend of the river round which in a moment the boat would sweep. He looked very smart in his spotless ducks and white shoes. He held under his arm a gold-headed Malacca cane which had been given him by the Sultan of Perak. He awaited the newcomer with mingled feelings. There was more work in the district than one man could properly do, and during his periodical tours of the country under his charge it had been inconvenient to leave the station in the hands of a native clerk, but he had been so long the only white man there that he could not face the arrival of another without misgiving. He was accustomed to loneliness. During the war he had not seen an English face for three years; and once when he was instructed to put up an afforestation officer he was seized with panic, so that when the stranger was due t
o arrive, having arranged everything for his reception, he wrote a note telling him he was obliged to go up-river, and fled; he remained away till he was informed by a messenger that his guest had left.

  Now the prahu appeared in the broad reach. It was manned by prisoners, Dyaks under various sentences, and a couple of

  warders were waiting on the landing-stage to take them back to jail. They were sturdy fellows, used to Uie river, and they rowed with a powerful stroke. As the boat reached the side a man got out from under the attap awning and stepped on shore. The guard presented arms.

  “Here we are at last. By God, I’m as cramped as the devil. I’ve brought you your mail.”

  lie spoke with exuberant joviality. Mr. Warburton politely held out his hand.

  “Mr. Cooper, I presume?”

  “That’s right. Were you expecting any one else?”

  The question had a facetious intent, but the Resident did not smile.

  “My name is Warburton. I’ll show you your quarters. They'll bring your kit along.”

  He preceded Cooper along the narrow pathway and they entered a compound in which stood a small bungalow.

  “I’ve had it made as habitable as I could, but of course no one has lived in it for a good many years.”

  It was built on piles. It consisted of a long living-room which opened on to a broad verandah, and behind, on each side of a passage, were two bedrooms.

  “This’ll do me all right,” said Cooper.

  “I daresay you want to have a bath and a change. I shall be very much pleased if you’ll dine with me to-night. Will eight o’clock suit you?”

  “Any old time will do for me.”

  The Resident gave a polite, but slightly disconcerted, smile and withdrew. He returned to the Fort where his own residence was. The impression which Allen Cooper had given him was not very favourable, but he was a fair man, and he knew that it was unjust to form an opinion on so brief a glimpse. Cooper seemed to be about thirty. He was a tall, thin fellow, with a sallow face in which there was not a spot of colour. It was a face all in one tone. He had a large, hooked nose and blue eyes. When, entering the bungalow, he had taken off his topee and flung it to a waiting boy, Mr. Warburton noticed that his large skull, covered with short, brown hair, contrasted somewhat oddly with a weak, small chin. He was dressed in khaki shorts and a khaki shirt, but they were shabby and soiled; and his battered topee had not been cleaned for days. Mr. Warburton reflected that the young man had spent a week on a coasting steamer and had passed the last forty-eight hours lying in the bottom of a prahu.