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

by W. Somerset Maugham

  “Oh, Charlie, it’s so late, you’d much better go to bed,” said Janet.

  “I shall sleep better if I have a stroll before turning in,” he replied.

  She gave him a worried look. You cannot forbid a middle-aged professor of pathology from going for a little walk if he wants to. She glanced brightly at her husband.

  “I daresay it’ll do Bill no harm.”

  I think the remark was tactless. Women are often a little too managing. Charlie gave her a sullen look.

  “There’s absolutely no need to drag Bill out,” he said with some firmness.

  “I haven’t the smallest intention of coming,” said Bill, smiling. “I’m tired out and I’m going to hit the hay.”

  I fancy we left Bill Marsh and his wife to a little argument.

  “They’ve been frightfully kind to me,” said Charlie, as we walked along by the railings. “I don’t know what I should have done without them. I haven’t slept for a fortnight.”

  I expressed regret but did not ask the reason, and we walked for a little in silence. I presumed that he had come with me in order to talk to me of what had happened, but I felt that he must take his own time. I was anxious to show my sympathy, but afraid of saying the wrong things; I did not want to seem eager to extract confidences from him. I did not know how to give him a lead. I was sure he did not want one. He was not a man given to beating about the bush. I imagined that he was choosing his words. We reached the corner.

  “You’ll be able to get a taxi at the church,” he said. “I’ll walk on a bit further. Good night.”

  He nodded and slouched off. I was taken aback. There was nothing for me to do but to stroll on till I found a cab. I was having my bath next morning when a telephone call dragged me out of it, and with a towel round my wet body I took up the receiver. It was Janet.

  “Well, what do you think of it all?” she said. “You seem to have kept Charlie up pretty late last night. I heard him come home at three.”

  “He left me at the Marylebone Road,” I answered. “He said nothing to me at all.”

  “Didn’t he?”

  There was something in Janet’s voice that suggested that she was prepared to have a long talk with me. I suspected she had a telephone by the side of her bed.

  “Look here,” I said quickly. “I’m having my bath.”

  “Oh, have you got a telephone in your bathroom?” she answered eagerly, and I think with envy.

  “No, I haven’t.” I was abrupt and firm. “And I’m dripping all over the carpet.”

  “Oh!” I felt disappointment in her tone and a trace of irritation. “Well, when can I see you? Can you come here at twelve?”

  It was inconvenient, but I was not prepared to start an argument.

  “Yes, good-bye.”

  I rang off before she could say anything more. In heaven when the blessed use the telephone they will say what they have to say and not a word beside.

  I was devoted to Janet, but I knew that there was nothing that thrilled her more than the misfortunes of her friends. She was only too anxious to help them, but she wanted to be in the thick of their difficulties. She was the friend in adversity. Other people’s business was meat and drink to her. You could not enter upon a love affair without finding her somehow your confidante nor be mixed up in a divorce case without discovering that she too had a finger in the pie. Withal she was a very nice woman. I could not help then chuckling in my heart when at noon I was shown into Janet’s drawing-room and observed the subdued eagerness with which she received me. She was very much upset by the catastrophe that had befallen the Bishops, but it was exciting, and she was tickled to death to have someone fresh whom she could tell all about it. Janet had just that business-like expectancy that a mother has when she is discussing with the family doctor her married daughter’s first confinement. Janet was conscious that the matter was very serious, and she would not for a moment have been thought to regard it flippantly, but she was determined to get every ounce of value out of it.

  “I mean, no one could have been more horrified than I was when Margery told me she’d finally made up her mind to leave Charlie,” she said, speaking with the fluency of a person who has said the same thing in the same words a dozen times at least. “They were the most devoted couple I’d ever known. It was a perfect marriage. They got on like a house on fire. Of course Bill and I are devoted to one another, but we have awful rows now and then. I mean, I could kill him sometimes.”

  “I don’t care a hang about your relations with Bill,” I said. “Tell me about the Bishops. That’s what I’ve come here for.”

  “I simply felt I must see you. After all you’re the only person who can explain it.”

  “Oh, God, don’t go on like that. Until Bill told me last night I didn’t know a thing about it.”

  “That was my idea. It suddenly dawned on me that perhaps you didn’t know and I thought you might put your foot in it too awfully.”

  “Supposing you began at the beginning,” I said.

  “Well, you’re the beginning. After all you started the trouble. You introduced the young man. That’s why I was so crazy to see you. You know all about him. I never saw him. All I know is what Margery has told me about him.”

  “At what time are you lunching?” I asked.

  “Half past one.”

  “So am I. Get on with the story.”

  But my remark had given Janet an idea.

  “Look here, will you get out of your luncheon if I get out of mine? We could have a snack here. I’m sure there’s some cold meat in the house, and then we needn’t hurry. I don’t have to be at the hairdresser’s till three.”

  “No, no, no,” I said. “I hate the notion of that. I shall leave here at twenty minutes past one at the latest.”

  “Then I shall just have to race through it. What do you think of Gerry?”

  “Who’s Gerry?”

  “Gerry Morton. His name’s Gerald.”

  “How should I know that?”

  “You stayed with him. Weren’t there any letters lying about?”

  “I daresay, but I didn’t happen to read them,” I answered somewhat tartly.

  “Oh, don’t be so stupid. I meant the envelopes. What’s he like?”

  “All right. Rather the Kipling type, you know. Very keen on his work. Hearty. Empire-builder and all that sort of thing.”

  “I don’t mean that,” cried Janet, not without impatience. “I mean, what does he look like?”

  “More or less like everybody else, I think. Of course I should recognize him if I saw him again, but I can’t picture him to myself very distinctly. He looks clean.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Janet. “Are you a novelist or are you not? What’s the colour of his eyes?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You must know. You can’t spend a week with anyone without knowing if their eyes are blue or brown. Is he fair or dark?”

  “Neither.”

  “Is he tall or short?”

  “Average, I should say.”

  “Are you trying to irritate me?”

  “No. He’s just ordinary. There’s nothing in him to attract your attention. He’s neither plain nor good-looking. He looks quite decent. He looks a gentleman.”

  “Margery says he has a charming smile and a lovely figure.”

  “I dare say.”

  “He’s absolutely crazy about her.”

  “What makes you think that?” I asked dryly.

  “I’ve seen his letters.”

  “Do you mean to say she’s shown them to you?”

  “Why, of course.”

  It is always difficult for a man to stomach the want of reticence that women betray in their private affairs. They have no shame. They will talk to one another without embarrassment of the most intimate matters. Modesty is a masculine virtue. But though a man may know this theoretically, each time he is confronted with women’s lack of reserve he suffers a new shock. I wondered what Morton would
think if he knew that not only were his letters read by Janet Marsh as well as by Margery, but that she had been kept posted from day to day with the progress of his infatuation. According to Janet he had fallen in love with Margery at first sight. The morning after they had met at my little supper party at Ciro’s he had rung up and asked her to come and have tea with him at some place where they could dance. While I listened to Janet’s story I was conscious of course that she was giving me Margery’s view of the circumstances and I kept an open mind. I was interested to observe that Janet’s sympathies were with Margery. It was true that when Margery left her husband it was her idea that Charlie should come to them for two or three weeks rather than stay on in miserable loneliness in the deserted flat and she had been extraordinarily kind to him. She lunched with him almost every day, because he had been accustomed to lunch every day with Margery; she took him for walks in Regent’s Park and made Bill play golf with him on Sundays. She listened with wonderful patience to the story of his unhappiness and did what she could to console him. She was terribly sorry for him. But all the same she was definitely on Margery’s side and when I expressed my disapproval of her she came down on me like a thousand of bricks. The affair thrilled her. She had been in it from the beginning when Margery, smiling, flattered, and a little doubtful, came and told her that she had a young man to the final scene when Margery, exasperated and distraught, announced that she could not stand the strain any more and had packed her things and moved out of the flat.

  “Of course, at first I couldn’t believe my ears,” she said. “You know how Charlie and Margery were. They simply lived in one another’s pockets. One couldn’t help laughing at them, they were so devoted to one another. I never thought him a very nice little man and heaven knows he wasn’t very attractive physically, but one couldn’t help liking him because he was so awfully nice to Margery. I rather envied her sometimes. They had no money and they lived in a hugger-mugger sort of way, but they were frightfully happy. Of course I never thought anything would come of it. Margery was rather amused.

  ‘Naturally I don’t take it very seriously,’ she told me, ‘but it is rather fun to have a young man at my time of life. I haven’t had any flowers sent me for years. I had to tell him not to send any more because Charlie would think it so silly. He doesn’t know a soul in London and he loves dancing and he says I dance like a dream. It’s miserable for him going to the theatre by himself all the time and we’ve done two or three matinees together. It’s pathetic to see how grateful he is when I say I’ll go out with him.’ ‘I must say,’ I said, ‘he sounds rather a lamb.’ ‘He is,’ she said. ‘I knew you’d understand. You don’t blame me, do you?’ ‘Of course not, darling,’ I said, ‘surely you know me better than that. I’d do just the same in your place.’”

  Margery made no secret of her outings with Morton and her husband chaffed her good-naturedly about her beau. But he thought him a very civil, pleasant-spoken young man and was glad that Margery had someone to play with while he was busy. It never occurred to him to be jealous. The three of them dined together several times and went to a show. But presently Gerry Morton begged Margery to spend an evening with him alone; she said it was impossible, but he was persuasive, he gave her no peace; and at last she went to Janet and asked her to ring up Charlie one day and ask him to come to dinner and make a fourth at bridge. Charlie would never go anywhere without his wife, but the Marshes were old friends, and Janet made a point of it. She invented some cock-and-bull story that made it seem important that he should consent. Next day Margery and she met. The evening had been wonderful. They had dined at Maidenhead and danced there and then had driven home through the summer night.

  “He says he’s crazy about me,” Margery told her.

  “Did he kiss you?” asked Janet.

  “Of course,” Margery chuckled. “Don’t be silly, Janet. He is awfully sweet and, you know, he has such a nice nature. Of course I don’t believe half the things he says to me.”

  “My dear, you’re not going to fall in love with him.”

  “I have,” said Margery.

  “Darling, isn’t it going to be rather awkward?”

  “Oh, it won’t last. After all he’s going back to Borneo in the autumn.”

  “Well, one can’t deny that it’s made you look years younger.”

  “I know, and I feel years younger.”

  Soon they were meeting every day. They met in the morning and walked in the Park together or went to a picture gallery. They separated for Margery to lunch with her husband and after lunch met again and motored into the country or to some place on the river. Margery did not tell her husband. She very naturally thought he would not understand.

  “How was it you never met Morton?” I asked Janet.

  “Oh, she didn’t want me to. You see, we belong to the same generation, Margery and I. I can quite understand that.”

  “I see.”

  “Of course I did everything I could. When she went out with Gerry she was always supposed to be with me.”

  I am a person who likes to cross a “t’ and dot an “i’.

  “Were they having an affair?” I asked.

  “Oh, no. Margery isn’t that sort of woman at all.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She would have told me.”

  “I suppose she would.”

  “Of course I asked her. But she denied it point-blank and I’m sure she was telling me the truth. There’s never been anything of that sort between them at all.”

  “It seems rather odd to me.”

  “Well, you see, Margery is a very good woman.”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “She was absolutely loyal to Charlie. She wouldn’t have deceived him for anything in the world. She couldn’t bear the thought of having any secret from him. As soon as she knew she was in love with Gerry she wanted to tell Charlie. Of course I begged her not to. I told her it wouldn’t do any good and it would only make Charlie miserable. And after all, the boy was going away in a couple of months, it didn’t seem much good to make a lot of fuss about a thing that couldn’t possibly last.”

  But Gerry’s imminent departure was the cause of the crash. The Bishops had arranged to go abroad as usual and proposed to motor through Belgium, Holland, and the North of Germany. Charlie was busy with maps and guides. He collected information from friends about hotels and roads. He looked forward to his holiday with the bubbling excitement of a schoolboy. Margery listened to him discussing it with a sinking heart. They were to be away four weeks and in September Gerry was sailing. She could not bear to lose so much of the short time that remained to them and the thought of the motor tour filled her with exasperation. As the interval grew shorter and shorter she grew more and more nervous. At last she decided that there was only one thing to do.

  “Charlie, I don’t want to come on this trip,” she interrupted him suddenly, one day when he was talking to her of some restaurant he had just heard of. “I wish you’d get someone else to go with you.”

  He looked at her blankly. She was startled at what she had said and her lips trembled a little.

  “Why, what’s the matter?”

  “Nothing’s the matter. I don’t feel like it. I want to be by myself for a bit.”

  “Are you ill?”

  She saw the sudden fear in his eyes. His concern drove her beyond her endurance.

  “No. I’ve never been better in my life. I’m in love.”

  “You? Whom with?”

  “Gerry.”

  He looked at her in amazement. He could not believe his ears. She mistook his expression.

  “It’s no good blaming me. I can’t help it. He’s going away in a few weeks. I’m not going to waste the little time he has left.” He burst out laughing.

  “Margery, how can you make such a damned fool of yourself? You’re old enough to be his mother.” She flushed.

  “He’s just as much in love with me as I am with him.”

  “Ha
s he told you so?”

  “A thousand times.”

  “He’s a bloody liar, that’s all.”

  He chuckled. His fat stomach rippled with mirth. He thought it a huge joke. I daresay Charlie did not treat his wife in the proper way. Janet seemed to think he should have been tender and compassionate. He should have understood. I saw the scene that was in her mind’s eye, the stiff upper lip, the silent sorrow, and the final renunciation. Women are always sensitive to the beauty of the self-sacrifice of others. Janet would have sympathized also if he had flown into a violent passion, broken one or two pieces of furniture (which he would have had to replace), or given Margery a sock in the jaw. But to laugh at her was unpardonable. I did not point out that it is very difficult for a rather stout and not very tall professor of pathology, aged fifty-five, to act all of a sudden like a cave-man. Anyhow, the excursion to Holland was given up and the Bishops stayed in London through August. They were not very happy. They lunched and dined together every day because they had been in the habit of doing so for so many years and the rest of the time Margery spent with Gerry. The hours she passed with him made up for all she had to put up with and she had to put up with a good deal. Charlie had a ribald and sarcastic humour and he made himself very funny at her expense and at Gerry’s. He persisted in refusing to take the matter seriously. He was vexed with Margery for being so silly, but apparently it never occurred to him that she might have been unfaithful to him. I commented upon this to Janet.