Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  “I wonder why you don’t.”

  “Because I’m a wicked old woman; and I’ve learnt by long experience that people generally keep their vices to themselves, but insist on throwing their virtues in your face. And if you don’t happen to have any of your own, you get the worst of the encounter.”

  “I think that’s what is so comfortable in you, Aunt Polly, that you’re not obstreperously good. You’re charity itself.”

  “My dear Gerald,” said Miss Ley, putting up an admonishing forefinger, “women are by nature spiteful and intolerant; when you find one who exercises charity, it proves that she wants it very badly herself.”

  Miss Ley was glad that Edward could not stay more than two days, for she was always afraid of surprising him. Nothing is more tedious than to talk with persons who treat your most obvious remarks as startling paradoxes; and Edward suffered likewise from that passion for argument, which is the bad talker’s substitute for conversation. People who cannot talk are always proud of their dialectic: they want to modify your tritest observations, and even if you suggest that the day is fine insist on arguing it out.

  Bertha, in her husband’s presence, had suffered singular discomfort; it had been such a constraint that she found it an effort to talk with him, and she had to rack her brain for subjects of conversation. Her heart was perceptibly lightened when she returned from Victoria after seeing him off, and it gave her a thrill of pleasure to hear Gerald jump up when she came in. He ran towards her with glowing eyes.

  “Oh, I’m so glad. I’ve hardly had a chance of speaking to you these last two days.”

  “We have the whole afternoon before us.”

  “Let’s go for a walk, shall we?”

  Bertha agreed, and like two schoolfellows they sallied out. The day was sunny and warm, and they wandered by the river. The banks of the Thames about Chelsea have a pleasing trimness, a levity which is infinitely grateful after the sedateness of the rest of London. The embankments, in spite of their novelty, recall the days when the huge city was a great, straggling village, when the sedan-chair was a means of locomotion, and ladies wore patches and hoops; when epigram was the fashion and propriety was not.

  Presently, as they watched the gleaming water, a penny steamboat approached the adjoining stage, and gave Bertha an idea.

  “Would you like to take me to Greenwich?” she cried. “Aunt Polly’s dining out; we can have dinner at the Ship and come back by train.”

  “By Jove, it will be ripping.”

  They bolted down the gangway and took their tickets; the boat started, and Bertha, panting, sank on a seat. She felt a little reckless, pleased with herself, and amused to see Gerald’s unmeasured delight.

  “I feel as if we were eloping,” she said, with a laugh; “I’m sure Aunt Polly will be dreadfully shocked.”

  The boat went on, stopping every now and then to take in passengers. They came to the tottering wharves of Millbank, and then to the footstool turrets of St. John’s, the eight red blocks of St. Thomas’s Hospital, and the Houses of Parliament. They passed Westminster Bridge, and the massive strength of New Scotland Yard, the hotels and public buildings which line the Victoria Embankment, the Temple Gardens; and opposite this grandeur, on the Surrey side, were the dingy warehouses and factories of Lambeth. At London Bridge Bertha found new interest in the varying scene; she stood in the bows with Gerald by her side, not speaking; they were happy in being near one another. The traffic became denser and the boat more crowded — with artisans, clerks, noisy girls, going eastwards to Rotherhithe and Deptford. Great merchantmen lay by the river-side, or slowly made their way downstream under the Tower Bridge; and then the broad waters were crowded with every imaginable craft, with lazy barges as picturesque with their red sails as the fishing-boats of Venice, with little tugs, puffing and blowing, with ocean tramps, and with huge packets. And as they passed in the penny steamer they had swift pictures of groups of naked boys wallowing in the Thames mud or diving from the side of an anchored coal-barge. A new atmosphere enveloped them now. Gray warehouses which lined the river, and the factories, announced the commerce of a mighty nation; and the spirit of Charles Dickens gave to the passing scenes a fresh delight. How could they be prosaic when the great master had described them? An amiable stranger put names to the various places.

  “Look, there’s Wapping Old Stairs.”

  And the words thrilled Bertha like poetry. They passed innumerable wharves and docks, London Dock, John Cooper’s wharves, and William Gibbs’s wharves (who are John Cooper and William Gibbs?), Limehouse Basin, and West India Dock. Then with a great turn of the river they entered Limehouse Reach; and soon the noble lines of the hospital, the immortal monument of Inigo Jones, came into view, and they landed at Greenwich Pier.

  Chapter XXXI

  THEY stood for a while on a terrace overlooking the river by the side of the hospital. Immediately below, a crowd of boys were bathing, animated and noisy, chasing and ducking one another, running to and fro with many cries, and splashing in the mud.

  The river was stretched more widely before them. The sun played on its yellow wavelets so that they shone with a glitter of gold. A tug grunted past with a long tail of barges, and a huge East Indiaman glided noiselessly by. In the late afternoon there was over the scene an old-time air of ease and spaciousness. The stately flood carried the mind away, so that the onlooker followed it in thought, and went down, as it broadened, with its crowd of traffic, till presently a sea-smell reached the nostrils, and the river, ever majestic, flowed into the sea. And the ships went east and west and south, bearing their merchandise to the uttermost parts of the earth, to southern, summer lands of palm-trees and dark-skinned peoples, bearing the name and wealth of England. The Thames became an emblem of the power of the mighty empire, and those who watched felt stronger in its strength, and proud of their name and of the undiminished glory of their race.

  But Gerald looked sadly.

  “In a very little while it must take me away from you, Bertha.”

  “But think of the freedom and the vastness. Sometimes in England one seems oppressed by the lack of room; one can hardly breathe.”

  “It’s the thought of leaving you.”

  She put her hand on his arm caressingly; and then, to take him from his sadness, suggested that they should walk.

  Greenwich is half London, half country town; and the unexpected union gives it a peculiar fascination. If the wharves and docks of London still preserve the spirit of Charles Dickens, here it is the happy breeziness of Captain Marryat which fills the imagination. Those tales of a freer life and of the sea-breezes come back amid the gray streets, still peopled with the vivid characters of Poor Jack. In the park, by the side of the labourers, navvies from the neighboring docks, asleep on the grass, or watching the boys play a primitive cricket, may be seen fantastic old persons who would have delighted the grotesque pen of the seaman-novelist.

  Bertha and Gerald sat beneath the trees, looking at the people, till it grew late, and then wandered back to the Ship for dinner. It amused them immensely to sit in the old coffee-room and be waited on by a black waiter, who extolled absurdly the various dishes.

  “We won’t be economical to-day,” cried Bertha. “I feel utterly reckless.”

  “It takes all the fun away if one counts the cost.”

  “Well, for once let us be foolish and forget the morrow.”

  And they drank champagne, which to women and boys is the acme of dissipation and magnificence. Presently Gerald’s green eyes flashed more brightly, and Bertha reddened before their ardent gaze.

  “I shall never forget to-day, Bertha,” said Gerald. “As long as I live I shall look back upon it with regret.”

  “Oh, don’t think that it must come to an end, or we shall both be miserable.”

  “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  Bertha laughed, showing her exquisite teeth, and was glad that her own knowledge told her she looked her best.
/>   “But come on the terrace again and smoke there. We’ll watch the sunset.”

  They sat alone, and the sun was already sinking. The heavy western clouds were a rich and vivid red, and over the river the bricks and mortar stood out in ink-black masses. It was a sunset that singularly fitted the scene, combining in audacious colour with the river’s strength. The murky wavelets danced like little flames of fire.

  Bertha and the youth sat silently, very happy, but with the regret gnawing at their hearts that their hour of joy would have no morrow. The night fell, and one by one the stars shone out. The river flowed noiselessly, restfully; and around them twinkled the lights of the riverside towns. They did not speak, but Bertha knew the boy thought of her, and desired to hear him say so.

  “What are you thinking of, Gerald?”

  “What should I be thinking of, but you — and that I must leave you.”

  Bertha could not help the exquisite pleasure that his words gave: it was so delicious to be really loved, and she knew his love was real. She turned her face, so that he saw her dark eyes, darker in the night.

  “I wish I hadn’t made a fool of myself before,” he whispered. “I feel it was all horrible; you’ve made me so ashamed.”

  “Oh, Gerald, you’re not remembering what I said the other day? I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ve been so sorry ever since.”

  “I wish you loved me. Oh, Bertha, don’t stop me now. I’ve kept it in so long, and I can’t any more. I don’t want to go away without telling you.”

  “Oh, my dear Gerald, don’t,” said Bertha, her voice almost breaking. “It’s no good, and we shall both be dreadfully unhappy. My dear, you don’t know how much older I am than you. Even if I wasn’t married, it would be impossible for us to love one another.”

  “But I love you with all my heart.”

  He seized her hands and pressed them, and she made no effort to resist.

  “Don’t you love me at all?” he asked.

  Bertha did not answer, and he bent nearer to look into her eyes. Then leaving her hands, he flung his arms about her and pressed her to his heart.

  “Bertha, Bertha!” He kissed her passionately. “Oh, Bertha, say you love me. It would make me so happy.”

  “My dearest,” she whispered, and taking his head in her hand, she kissed him.

  But the kiss that she had received fired her blood and she could not resist now from doing as she had wished. She kissed him on the lips, and on the eyes, and she kissed his curly hair. But at last she tore herself away, and sprang to her feet.

  “What fools we are! Let’s go to the station, Gerald; it’s growing late.”

  “Oh, Bertha, don’t go yet.”

  “We must. I daren’t stay.”

  He tried to take her in his arms, begging her eagerly to remain.

  “Please don’t, Gerald,” she said. “Don’t ask me, you make me too unhappy. Don’t you see how hopeless it is? What is the use of our loving one another? You’re going away in a week and we shall never meet again. And even if you were staying, I’m married and I’m twenty-six and you’re only nineteen. My dearest, we should only make ourselves ridiculous.”

  “But I can’t go away. What do I care if you’re older than I? And it’s nothing if you’re married: you don’t care for your husband and he doesn’t care two straws for you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Oh, I saw it. I felt so sorry for you.”

  “You dear boy!” murmured Bertha, almost crying. “I’ve been dreadfully unhappy. It’s true, Edward never loved me — and he didn’t treat me very well. Oh, I can’t understand how I ever cared for him.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “I would never allow myself to fall in love again. I suffered too much.”

  “But I love you with all my heart, Bertha; don’t you see it? Oh, this isn’t like what I’ve felt before; it’s something quite new and different. I can’t live without you, Bertha. Oh, let me stay.”

  “It’s impossible. Come away now, dearest; we’ve been here too long.”

  “Kiss me again.”

  Bertha, half smiling, half in tears, put her arms round his neck and kissed the soft, boyish lips.

  “You are good to me,” he whispered.

  Then they walked to the station in silence; and eventually reached Chelsea. At the flat-door Bertha held out her hand and Gerald looked at her with a sadness that almost broke her heart, then he just touched her fingers and turned away.

  But when Bertha was alone in her room, she threw herself down and burst into tears. For she knew at last that she loved him; Gerald’s kisses still burned on her lips and the touch of his hands was tremulous on her arms. Suddenly she knew that she had deceived herself; it was more than friendship that held her heart as in a vice; it was more than affection; it was eager, vehement love.

  For a moment she was overjoyed, but quickly remembered that she was married, that she was years older than he — to a boy nineteen a women of twenty-six must appear almost middle-aged. She seized a glass and looked at herself; she took it to the light so that the test might be more searching, and scrutinised her face for wrinkles and for crow’s feet, the signs of departing youth.

  “It’s absurd,” she said. “I’m making an utter fool of myself.”

  Gerald only thought he loved her, in a week he would be enamoured of some girl he met on the steamer. But thinking of his love, Bertha could not doubt that now at all events it was real; she knew better than any one what love was. She exulted to think that his was the real love, and compared it with her husband’s pallid flame. Gerald loved her with all his heart, with all his soul; he trembled with desire at her touch and his passion was an agony that blanched his cheek. She could not mistake the eager longing of his eyes. Ah, that was the love she wanted — the love that kills and the love that engenders. How could she regret that he loved her? She stood up, stretching out her arms in triumph, and in the empty room, her lips formed the words —

  “Come, my beloved, come — for I love you!”

  But the morning brought an intolerable depression. Bertha saw then the utter futility of her love: her marriage, his departure, made it impossible; the disparity of age made it even grotesque. But she could not dull the aching of her heart, she could not stop her tears.

  Gerald arrived at midday and found her alone. He approached almost timidly.

  “You’ve been crying, Bertha.”

  “I’ve been very unhappy,” she said. “Oh, please, Gerald, forget our idiocy of yesterday. Don’t say anything to me that I mustn’t hear.”

  “I can’t help loving you.”

  “Don’t you see that it’s all utter madness!”

  She was angry with herself for loving him, angry with Gerald because he had aroused in her a passion that made her despise herself. It seemed horrible and unnatural that she should be willing to throw herself into the arms of a dissolute boy, and it lowered her in her own estimation. He caught the expression of her eyes, and something of its meaning.

  “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Bertha. You look as if you almost hated me.”

  She answered gravely, “I love you with all my heart, Gerald; and I’m ashamed.”

  “How can you!” he cried, with such pain in his voice that Bertha could not bear it.

  “The whole thing is awful,” she groaned. “For God’s sake let us try to forget it. I’ve only succeeded in making you entirely wretched. The only remedy is to part quickly.”

  “I can’t leave you, Bertha. Let me stay.”

  “It’s impossible. You must go, now more than ever.”

  They were interrupted by the appearance of Miss Ley, who began to talk; but to her surprise neither Bertha nor Gerald showed their usual vivacity.

  “What is the matter with you both to-day?” she asked. “You’re unusually attentive to my observations.”

  “I’m rather tired,” said Bertha, “and I have a headache.”

  Miss Ley looked at Bertha more closely, and
fancied that she had been crying; Gerald also seemed profoundly miserable. Surely.... Then the truth dawned upon her, and she could hardly repress her astonishment.

  “Good Heavens!” she thought, “I must have been blind. How lucky he’s going in a week!”

  Miss Ley now remembered a dozen occurrences which had escaped her notice, and was absolutely confounded.

  “Upon my word,” she thought, “I don’t believe you can put a woman of seventy for five minutes in company of a boy of fourteen without their getting into mischief.”

  The week to Gerald and to Bertha passed with terrible quickness. They scarcely had a moment alone, for Miss Ley, under pretence of making much of her nephew, arranged little pleasure parties, so that all three might be continually together.

  “We must spoil you a little before you go; and the harm it does you will be put right by the rocking of the boat.”

  And though Bertha was in a torment, she had strength to avoid any further encounter with Gerald. She dared not see him alone, and was grateful to Miss Ley for putting obstacles in the way. She knew that her love was impossible, but also that it was beyond control. It made her completely despise herself. Bertha had been a little proud of her uprightness, of her liberty from any degrading emotion. And that other love to her husband had been such an intolerable slavery, that when it died away the sense of freedom seemed the most delicious thing in life. She had vowed that never under any circumstance would she expose herself to the suffering that she had once endured. But this new passion had taken her unawares, and before she knew the danger Bertha found herself bound and imprisoned. She tried to reason away the infatuation, but without advantage; Gerald was never absent from her thoughts. Love had come upon her like the sudden madness with which the gods of old afflicted those that had incensed them. It was an insane fire in the blood, irresistible for all the horror it aroused, as that passion which distracted Phædra for Theseus’ son.