Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  And this being so, how could she fail to adore him! Bertha was only happy in her husband’s company, and it was an exquisite pleasure for her to think that their bonds could not be sundered, that so long as they lived they would be always together, always inseparable. She followed him like a dog, with a subjection that was really touching; her pride had utterly vanished, and she desired to exist only in Edward, to fuse her character with his and be entirely one with him. She wanted him to be her only individuality, likening herself to ivy climbing to the oak tree; for he was an oak tree, a pillar of strength, and she was very weak. In the morning after breakfast she accompanied him on his walk around the farms, and only when her presence was impossible did she stay at home to look after her house. The attempt to read was hopeless, and she had thrown aside her books. Why should she read? Not for entertainment, since her husband was a perpetual occupation; and if she knew how to love, what other knowledge was useful? Often, left alone for a while, she would take up some volume, but her mind quickly wandered and she thought of Edward again, wishing to be with him.

  Bertha’s life was an exquisite dream, a dream which need never end; for her happiness was not of that boisterous sort which needs excursions and alarums, but equable and smooth; she dwelt in a paradise of rosy tints, in which were neither violent shadows nor glaring lights. She was in heaven, and the only link attaching her to earth was the weekly service at Leanham. There was a delightful humanity about the bare church with its pitch-pine, highly varnished pews, and the odours of hair-pomade and Reckitt’s Blue. Edward was in his Sabbath garments, the organist made horrid sounds, and the village choir sang out of tune; Mr. Glover’s mechanical delivery of the prayers cleverly extracted all beauty from them, and his sermon was intensely prosaic. Those two hours of church gave Bertha just the touch of earthliness which was necessary to make her realize that life was not entirely spiritual.

  Now came April. The elms before Court Leys were beginning to burst into leaf; the green buds covered the branches like a delicate rain, a verdant haze that was visible from a little distance and vanished when one came near. The brown fields also clothed themselves with a summer garment; the clover sprang up green and luxurious, and the crops showed good promise for the future. There were days when the air was almost balmy, when the sun was warm and the heart leapt, certain at last that the spring was at hand. The warm and comfortable rain soaked into the ground; and from the branches continually hung the countless drops, glistening in the succeeding sun. The self-conscious tulip unfolded her petals and carpeted the ground with gaudy colour. The clouds above Leanham were lifted up and the world was stretched out in a greater circle. The birds now sang with no uncertain notes as in March, but from a full throat, filling the air; and in the hawthorn behind Court Leys the first nightingale poured out his richness. And the full scents of the earth rose up, the fragrance of the mould and of the rain, the perfumes of the sun and of the soft breezes.

  But sometimes, without ceasing, it rained from morning till night, and then Edward rubbed his hands.

  “I wish this would keep on for a week; it’s just what the country wants.”

  One such day Bertha was lying on a sofa while Edward stood at the window, looking at the pattering rain. She thought of the November afternoon when she had stood at the same window considering the dreariness of the winter, but her heart full of hope and love.

  “Come and sit down beside me, Eddie dear,” she said. “I’ve hardly seen you all day.”

  “I’ve got to go out,” he said, without turning round.

  “Oh no, you haven’t. Come here and sit down.”

  “I’ll come for two minutes, while they’re putting the trap in.”

  “Kiss me.”

  He kissed her and she laughed. “You funny boy, I don’t believe you care about kissing me a bit.”

  He could not answer this, for at that moment the trap came to the door and he sprang up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m driving over to see old Potts at Herne about some sheep.”

  “Is that all? Don’t you think you might stay in for an afternoon when I ask you?”

  “Why?” he replied. “There’s nothing to do in here. Nobody is coming, I suppose.”

  “I want to be with you, Eddie,” she said, plaintively.

  He laughed. “I’m afraid I can’t break an appointment just for that.”

  “Shall I come with you then?”

  “What on earth for?” he asked, with surprise.

  “I want to be with you; I hate being always separated from you.”

  “But we’re not always separated. Hang it all, it seems to me that we’re always together.”

  “You don’t notice my absence as I notice yours,” said Bertha in a low voice, looking down.

  “But it’s raining cats and dogs, and you’ll get wet through, if you come.”

  “What do I care about that if I’m with you!”

  “Then come by all means if you like.”

  “You don’t care if I come or not; it’s nothing to you.”

  “Well, I think it would be very silly of you to come in the rain. You bet, I shouldn’t go if I could help it.”

  “Then go,” she said. She kept back with difficulty the bitter words which were on the tip of her tongue.

  “You’re much better at home,” said her husband, cheerfully. “I shall be in to tea at five. Ta-ta!”

  He might have said a thousand things. He might have said that nothing would please him more than that she should accompany him, that the appointment could go to the devil and he would stay with her. But he went off, cheerfully whistling. He didn’t care. Bertha’s cheeks grew red with the humiliation of his refusal.

  “He doesn’t love me,” she said, and suddenly burst into tears — the first tears of her married life, the first she had wept since her father’s death; and they made her ashamed. She tried to control them, but could not and wept ungovernably. Edward’s words seemed terribly cruel; she wondered how he could have said them.

  “I might have expected it,” she said; “he doesn’t love me.”

  She grew angry with him, remembering the little coldnesses which had often pained her. Often he almost pushed her away when she came to caress him — because he had at the moment something else to occupy him; often he had left unanswered her protestations of undying affection. Did he not know that he cut her to the quick? When she said she loved him with all her heart, he wondered if the clock was wound up! Bertha brooded for two hours over her unhappiness, and, ignorant of the time, was surprised to hear the trap again at the door; her first impulse was to run and let Edward in, but she restrained herself. She was very angry. He entered, and shouting to her that he was wet and must change, pounded upstairs. Of course he had not noticed that for the first time since their marriage his wife had not met him in the hall when he came in — he never noticed anything.

  Edward entered the room, his face glowing with the fresh air.

  “By Jove, I’m glad you didn’t come. The rain simply poured down. How about tea? I’m starving.”

  He thought of his tea when Bertha wanted apologies, humble excuses, a plea for pardon. He was as cheerful as usual and quite unconscious that his wife had been crying herself into a towering passion.

  “Did you buy your sheep?” she said, in an indignant tone. She was anxious for Edward to notice her discomposure, so that she might reproach him for his sins; but he noticed nothing.

  “Not much,” he cried. “I wouldn’t have given a fiver for the lot.”

  “You might as well have stayed with me, as I asked you.”

  “As far as business goes, I really might. But I dare say the drive across country did me good.” He was a man who always made the best of things.

  Bertha took up a book and began reading.

  “Where’s the paper?” asked Edward. “I haven’t read the leading articles yet.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  They sat til
l dinner, Edward methodically going through the Standard, column after column; Bertha turning over the pages of her book, trying to understand, but occupied the whole time only with her injuries. They ate the meal almost in silence, for Edward was not talkative. He merely remarked that soon they would be having new potatoes and that he had met Dr. Ramsay. Bertha answered in mono-syllables.

  “You’re very quiet, Bertha,” he remarked, later in the evening. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing!”

  “Got a headache?”

  “No!”

  He made no more inquiries, satisfied that her silence was due to natural causes. He did not seem to notice that she was in any way different from usual. She held herself in as long as she could, but finally burst out, referring to his remark of an hour before.

  “Do you care if I have a headache or not?” It was hardly a question so much as a taunt.

  He looked up with surprise. “What’s the matter?”

  She looked at him and then, with a gesture of impatience, turned away. But coming to her, he put his arm round her waist.

  “Aren’t you well, dear?” he asked, with concern.

  She looked at him again, but now her eyes were full of tears and she could not repress a sob.

  “Oh, Eddie, be nice to me,” she said, suddenly weakening.

  “Do tell me what’s wrong.”

  He put his arms round her and kissed her lips. The contact revived the passion which for an hour had lain a-dying, and she burst into tears.

  “Don’t be angry with me, Eddie,” she sobbed; it was she who apologised and made excuses. “I’ve been horrid to you; I couldn’t help it. You’re not angry, are you?”

  “What on earth for?” he asked, completely mystified.

  “I was so hurt this afternoon because you didn’t seem to care about me two straws. You must love me, Eddie; I can’t live without it.”

  “You are silly,” he said, laughing.

  She dried her tears, smiling. His forgiveness comforted her and she felt now trebly happy.

  Chapter XI

  BUT Edward was certainly not an ardent lover. Bertha could not tell when first she had noticed his irresponsiveness; at the beginning she had known only that she loved her husband with all her heart, and her ardour had lit up his somewhat pallid attachment till it seemed to glow as fiercely as her own. Yet gradually she began to think that he made very little return for the wealth of affection which she lavished upon him. The causes of her dissatisfaction were scarcely explicable: a slight motion of withdrawal, an indifference to her feelings — little nothings which had seemed almost comic. Bertha at first likened Edward to the Hippolitus of Phædra, he was untamed and wild; the kisses of woman frightened him; his phlegm pleased her disguised as rustic savagery, and she said her passion should thaw the icicles in his heart. But soon she ceased to consider his passiveness amusing, sometimes she upbraided him, and often, when alone, she wept.

  “I wonder if you realise what pain you cause me at times,” said Bertha.

  “Oh, I don’t think I do anything of the kind.”

  “You don’t see it.... When I kiss you, it is the most natural thing in the world for you to push me away, as if — almost as if you couldn’t bear me.”

  “Nonsense!”

  To himself Edward was the same now as when they were first married.

  “Of course after four months of married life you can’t expect a man to be the same as on his honeymoon. One can’t always be making love and canoodling. Everything in its proper time and season,” he added, with the unoriginal man’s fondness for proverbial philosophy.

  After the day’s work he liked to read his Standard in peace, so when Bertha came up to him he put her gently aside.

  “Leave me alone for a bit, there’s a good girl.”

  “Oh, you don’t love me,” she cried then, feeling as if her heart would break.

  He did not look up from his paper nor make reply; he was in the middle of a leading article.

  “Why don’t you answer?” she cried.

  “Because you’re talking nonsense.”

  He was the best-humoured of men, and Bertha’s temper never disturbed his equilibrium. He knew that women felt a little irritable at times, but if a man gave ’em plenty of rope, they’d calm down after a bit.

  “Women are like chickens,” he told a friend. “Give ’em a good run, properly closed in with stout wire netting, so that they can’t get into mischief, and when they cluck and cackle just sit tight and take no notice.”

  Marriage had made no great difference in Edward’s life. He had always been a man of regular habits, and these he continued to cultivate. Of course he was more comfortable.

  “There’s no denying it: a fellow wants a woman to look after him,” he told Dr. Ramsay, whom he sometimes met on the latter’s rounds. “Before I was married I used to find my shirts wore out in no time, but now when I see a cuff getting a bit groggy I just give it to the Missis and she makes it as good as new.”

  “There’s a good deal of extra work, isn’t there, now you’ve taken on the Home Farm?”

  “Oh, bless you, I enjoy it. Fact is, I can’t get enough work to do. And it seems to me that if you want to make farming pay nowadays you must do it on a big scale.”

  All day Edward was occupied, if not on the farms, then with business at Blackstable, Tercanbury, and Faversley.

  “I don’t approve of idleness,” he said. “They always say the devil finds work for idle hands to do, and upon my word I think there’s a lot of truth in it.”

  Miss Glover, to whom this sentiment was addressed, naturally approved, and when Edward immediately afterwards went out, leaving her with Bertha, she said —

  “What a good fellow your husband is! You don’t mind my saying so, do you?”

  “Not if it pleases you,” said Bertha, drily.

  “I hear praise of him from every side. Of course Charles has the highest opinion of him.”

  Bertha did not answer, and Miss Glover added, “You can’t think how glad I am that you’re so happy.”

  Bertha smiled. “You’ve got such a kind heart, Fanny.”

  The conversation dragged, and after five minutes of heavy silence Miss Glover rose to go. When the door was closed upon her, Bertha sank back in her chair, thinking. This was one of her unhappy days — Eddie had walked into Blackstable, and she had wished to accompany him.

  “I don’t think you’d better come with me,” he said. “I’m in rather a hurry and I shall walk fast.”

  “I can walk fast too,” she said, her face clouding over.

  “No, you can’t — I know what you call walking fast. If you like you can come and meet me on the way back.”

  “Oh, you do everything you can to hurt me. It looks as if you welcomed an opportunity of being cruel.”

  “How unreasonable you are, Bertha. Can’t you see that I’m in a hurry, and I haven’t got time to saunter along and chatter about the buttercups.”

  “Well, let’s drive in.”

  “That’s impossible. The mare isn’t well, and the pony had a hard day yesterday; he must rest to-day.”

  “It’s simply because you don’t want me to come. It’s always the same, day after day. You invent anything to get rid of me.”

  She burst into tears, knowing that what she said was unjust, but feeling notwithstanding extremely ill-used. Edward smiled with irritating good temper.

  “You’ll be sorry for what you’ve said when you’ve calmed down, and then you’ll want me to forgive you.”

  She looked up, flushing. “You think I’m a child and a fool.”

  “No, I just think you’re out of sorts to-day.”

  Then he went out, whistling, and she heard him give an order to the gardener in his usual manner, as cheerful as if nothing had happened. Bertha knew that he had already forgotten the little scene. Nothing affected his good humour. She might weep, she might tear her heart out (metaphorically), and bang it on the floor, Edward
would not be perturbed; he would still be placid, good-tempered, forbearing. Hard words, he said, broke nobody’s bones— “Women are like chickens, when they cluck and cackle sit tight and take no notice!”

  On his return Edward appeared not to see that his wife was out of temper. His spirits were always equable, and he was an unobservant person. She answered him in mono-syllables, but he chattered away, delighted at having driven a good bargain with a man in Blackstable. Bertha longed for him to remark upon her condition so that she might burst out with reproaches, but Edward was hopelessly dense — or else he saw and was unwilling to give her an opportunity to speak. Bertha, almost for the first time, was seriously angry with her husband and it frightened her — suddenly Edward seemed an enemy, and she wished to inflict some hurt upon him. She did not understand herself — what was going to happen next? Why wouldn’t he say something so that she might pour forth her woes and then be reconciled! The day wore on and she preserved a sullen silence; her heart was beginning to ache terribly — the night came, and still Edward made no sign; she looked about for a chance of beginning the quarrel, but nothing offered. Bertha pretended to go to sleep and she did not give him the kiss, the never-ending kiss of lovers which they always exchanged. Surely he would notice it, surely he would ask what troubled her, and then she could at last bring him to his knees. But he said nothing; he was dog-tired after a hard day’s work, and without a word went to sleep — in five minutes Bertha heard his heavy, regular breathing.

  Then she broke down; she could never sleep without saying good-night to him, without the kiss of his lips.

  “He’s stronger than I,” she said, “because he doesn’t love me.”

  Bertha wept silently; she could not bear to be angry with her husband. She would submit to anything rather than pass the night in wrath, and the next day as unhappily as this. She was entirely humbled. At last, unable any longer to bear the agony, she woke him.