Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  ‘Come and sit down,’ said Edward gaily.

  The new–comer approached. He was a very tall, thin man, in white ducks, with a fine head of curly white hair. His face was thin too, long, with a large, hooked nose and a beautiful, expressive mouth.

  ‘This is my old friend Bateman Hunter. I’ve told you about him,’ said Edward, his constant smile breaking on his lips.

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Hunter. I used to know your father.’

  The stranger held out his hand and took the young man’s in a strong, friendly grasp. It was not till then that Edward mentioned the other’s name. ‘Mr Arnold Jackson.’

  Bateman turned white and he felt his hands grow cold. This was the forger, the convict, this was Isabel’s uncle. He did not know what to say. He tried to conceal his confusion. Arnold Jackson looked at him with twinkling eyes.

  ‘I daresay my name is familiar to you.’

  Bateman did not know whether to say yes or no, and what made it more awkward was that both Jackson and Edward seemed to be amused. It was bad enough to have forced on him the acquaintance of the one man on the island he would rather have avoided, but worse to discern that he was being made a fool of. Perhaps, however, he had reached this conclusion too quickly, for Jackson, without a pause, added:

  ‘I understand you’re very friendly with the Longstaffes. Mary Longstaffe is my sister.’

  Now Bateman asked himself if Arnold Jackson could think him ignorant of the most terrible scandal that Chicago had ever known. But Jackson put his hand on Edward’s shoulder.

  ‘I can’t sit down, Teddie,’ he said. ‘I’m busy. But you two boys had better come up and dine tonight.’

  ‘That’ll be fine,’ said Edward.

  ‘It’s very kind of you, Mr Jackson,’ said Bateman, frigidly, ‘but I’m here for so short a time; my boat sails tomorrow, you know; I think if you’ll forgive me, I won’t come.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense. I’ll give you a native dinner. My wife’s a wonderful cook. Teddie will show you the way. Come early so as to see the sunset. I can give you both a shake–down if you like.’

  ‘Of course we’ll come,’ said Edward. ‘There’s always the devil of a row in the hotel on the night a boat arrives and we can have a good yarn up at the bungalow.’

  ‘I can’t let you off, Mr Hunter,’ Jackson continued with the utmost cordiality. ‘I want to hear all about Chicago and Mary.’

  He nodded and walked away before Bateman could say another word.

  ‘We don’t take refusals in Tahiti,’ laughed Edward. ‘Besides, you’ll get the best dinner on the island.’

  ‘What did he mean by saying his wife was a good cook? I happen to know his wife’s in Geneva.’

  ‘That’s a long way off for a wife, isn’t it?’ said Edward. ‘And it’s a long time since he saw her. I guess it’s another wife he’s talking about.’

  For some time Bateman was silent. His face was set in grave lines. But looking up he caught the amused look in Edward’s eyes, and he flushed darkly.

  ‘Arnold Jackson is a despicable rogue,’ he said.

  ‘I greatly fear he is,’ answered Edward, smiling.

  ‘I don’t see how any decent man can have anything to do with him.’

  ‘Perhaps I’m not a decent man.’

  ‘Do you see much of him, Edward?’

  ‘Yes, quite a lot. He’s adopted me as his nephew.’

  Bateman leaned forward and fixed Edward with his searching eyes.

  ‘Do you like him?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘But don’t you know, doesn’t everyone here know, that he’s a forger and that he’s been a convict? He ought to be hounded out of civilized society.’

  Edward watched a ring of smoke that floated from his cigar into the still, scented air.

  ‘I suppose he is a pretty unmitigated rascal,’ he said at last. ‘And I can’t flatter myself that any repentance for his misdeeds offers one an excuse for condoning them. He was a swindler and a hypocrite. You can’t get away from it. I never met a more agreeable companion. He’s taught me everything I know.’

  ‘What has he taught you?’ cried Bateman in amazement.

  ‘How to live.’

  Bateman broke into ironical laughter.

  ‘A fine master. Is it owing to his lessons that you lost the chance of making a fortune and earn your living now by serving behind a counter in a ten–cent store?’

  ‘He has a wonderful personality,’ said Edward, smiling good–naturedly. ‘Perhaps you’ll see what I mean tonight.’

  ‘I’m not going to dine with him if that’s what you mean. Nothing would induce me to set foot within that man’s house.’

  ‘Come to oblige me, Bateman. We’ve been friends for so many years, you won’t refuse me a favour when I ask it.’

  Edward’s tone had in it a quality new to Bateman. Its gentleness was singularly persuasive.

  ‘If you put it like that, Edward, I’m bound to come,’ he smiled.

  Bateman reflected, moreover, that it would be as well to learn what he could about Arnold Jackson. It was plain that he had a great ascendancy over Edward, and if it was to be combated it was necessary to discover in what exactly it consisted. The more he talked with Edward the more conscious he became that a change had taken place in him. He had an instinct that it behoved him to walk warily, and he made up his mind not to broach the real purport of his visit till he saw his way more clearly. He began to talk of one thing and another, of his journey and what he had achieved by it, of politics in Chicago, of this common friend and that, of their days together at college.

  At last Edward said he must get back to his work and proposed that he should fetch Bateman at five so that they could drive out together to Arnold Jackson’s house.

  ‘By the way, I rather thought you’d be living at this hotel,’ said Bateman, as he strolled out of the garden with Edward. ‘I understand it’s the only decent one here.’

  ‘Not I,’ laughed Edward. ‘It’s a deal too grand for me. I rent a room just outside the town. It’s cheap and clean.’

  ‘If I remember right those weren’t the points that seemed most important to you when you lived in Chicago.’

  ‘Chicago!’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean by that, Edward. It’s the greatest city in the world.’

  ‘I know,’ said Edward.

  Bateman glanced at him quickly, but his face was inscrutable. ‘When are you coming back to it?’

  ‘I often wonder,’ smiled Edward.

  This answer, and the manner of it, staggered Bateman, but before he could ask for an explanation Edward waved to a half–caste who was driving a passing motor.

  ‘Give us a ride down, Charlie,’ he said.

  He nodded to Bateman, and ran after the machine that had pulled up a few yards in front. Bateman was left to piece together a mass of perplexing impressions.

  Edward called for him in a rickety trap drawn by an old mare, and they drove along a road that ran by the sea. On each side of it were plantations, coconut and vanilla; and now and then they saw a great mango, its fruit yellow and red and purple among the massy green of the leaves, now and then they had a glimpse of the lagoon, smooth and blue, with here and there a tiny islet graceful with tall palms. Arnold Jackson’s house stood on a little hill and only a path led to it, so they unharnessed the mare and tied her to a tree, leaving the trap by the side of the road. To Bateman it seemed a happy–go–lucky way of doing things. But when they went up to the house they were met by a tall, handsome native woman, no longer young, with whom Edward cordially shook hands. He introduced Bateman to her.

  ‘This is my friend Mr Hunter. We’re going to dine with you, Lavina.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, with a quick smile. ‘Arnold ain’t back yet.’

  ‘We’ll go down and bathe. Let us have a couple of pareos.’

  The woman nodded and went into the house.

  ‘Who is that?’ asked Bateman.

&nb
sp; ‘Oh, that’s Lavina. She’s Arnold’s wife.’

  Bateman tightened his lips, but said nothing. In a moment the woman returned with a bundle, which she gave to Edward; and the two men, scrambling down a steep path, made their way to a grove of coconut trees on the beach. They undressed and Edward showed his friend how to make the strip of red trade cotton which is called a pareo into a very neat pair of bathing–drawers. Soon they were splashing in the warm, shallow water. Edward was in great spirits. He laughed and shouted and sang. He might have been fifteen. Bateman had never seen him so gay, and afterwards when they lay on the beach, smoking cigarettes, in the limpid air, there was such an irresistible light–heartedness in him that Bateman was taken aback.

  ‘You seem to find life mighty pleasant,’ said he.

  ‘I do.’

  They heard a soft movement and looking round saw that Arnold Jackson was coming towards them.

  ‘I thought I’d come down and fetch you two boys back,’ he said. ‘Did you enjoy your bathe, Mr Hunter?’

  ‘Very much,’ said Bateman.

  Arnold Jackson, no longer in spruce ducks, wore nothing but a pareo round his loins and walked barefoot. His body was deeply browned by the sun. With his long, curling white hair and his ascetic face he made a fantastic figure in the native dress, but he bore himself without a trace of self–consciousness.

  ‘If you’re ready we’ll go right up,’ said Jackson.

  ‘I’ll just put on my clothes,’ said Bateman.

  ‘Why, Teddie, didn’t you bring a pareo for your friend?’

  ‘I guess he’d rather wear clothes,’ smiled Edward.

  ‘I certainly would,’ answered Bateman, grimly, as he saw Edward gird himself in the loincloth and stand ready to start before he himself had got his shirt on.

  ‘Won’t you find it rough walking without your shoes?’ he asked Edward. ‘It struck me the path was a trifle rocky.’

  ‘Oh, I’m used to it.’

  ‘It’s a comfort to get into a pareo when one gets back from town,’ said Jackson. ‘If you were going to stay here I should strongly recommend you to adopt it. It’s one of the most sensible costumes I have ever come across. It’s cool, convenient, and inexpensive.’

  They walked up to the house, and Jackson took them into a large room with white–washed walls and an open ceiling in which a table was laid for dinner. Bateman noticed that it was set for five.

  ‘Eva, come and show yourself to Teddie’s friend, and then shake us a cocktail,’ called Jackson.

  Then he led Bateman to a long low window.

  ‘Look at that,’ he said, with a dramatic gesture. ‘Look well.’

  Below them coconut trees tumbled down steeply to the lagoon, and the lagoon in the evening light had the colour, tender and varied, of a dove’s breast. On a creek, at a little distance, were the clustered huts of a native village, and towards the reef was a canoe, sharply silhouetted, in which were a couple of natives fishing. Then, beyond, you saw the vast calmness of the Pacific and twenty miles away, airy and unsubstantial like the fabric of a poet’s fancy, the unimaginable beauty of the island which is called Murea. It was all so lovely that Bateman stood abashed.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ he said at last.

  Arnold Jackson stood staring in front of him, and in his eyes was a dreamy softness. His thin, thoughtful face was very grave. Bateman, glancing at it, was once more conscious of its intense spirituality.

  ‘Beauty,’ murmured Arnold Jackson. ‘You seldom see beauty face to face. Look at it well, Mr Hunter, for what you see now you will never see again, since the moment is transitory, but it will be an imperishable memory in your heart. You touch eternity.’

  His voice was deep and resonant. He seemed to breathe forth the purest idealism, and Bateman had to urge himself to remember that the man who spoke was a criminal and a cruel cheat. But Edward, as though he heard a sound, turned round quickly.

  ‘Here is my daughter, Mr Hunter.’

  Bateman shook hands with her. She had dark, splendid eyes and a red mouth tremulous with laughter; but her skin was brown, and her curling hair, rippling down her shoulders, was coal–black. She wore but one garment, a Mother Hubbard of pink cotton, her feet were bare, and she was crowned with a wreath of white scented flowers. She was a lovely creature. She was like a goddess of the Polynesian spring.

  She was a little shy, but not more shy than Bateman, to whom the whole situation was highly embarrassing, and it did not put him at ease to see this sylph–like thing take a shaker and with a practised hand mix three cocktails.

  ‘Let us have a kick in them, child,’ said Jackson.

  She poured them out and smiling delightfully handed one to each of the men. Bateman flattered himself on his skill in the subtle art of shaking cocktails and he was not a little astonished, on tasting this one, to find that it was excellent. Jackson laughed proudly when he saw his guest’s involuntary look of appreciation.

  ‘Not bad, is it? I taught the child myself, and in the old days in Chicago I considered that there wasn’t a bar–tender in the city that could hold a candle to me. When I had nothing better to do in the penitentiary I used to amuse myself by thinking out new cocktails, but when you come down to brass tacks there’s nothing to beat a dry Martini.’

  Bateman felt as though someone had given him a violent blow on the funny–bone and he was conscious that he turned red and then white. But before he could think of anything to say a native boy brought in a great bowl of soup and the whole party sat down to dinner. Arnold Jackson’s remark seemed to have aroused in him a train of recollections, for he began to talk of his prison days. He talked quite naturally, without malice, as though he were relating his experiences at a foreign university. He addressed himself to Bateman and Bateman was confused and then confounded. He saw Edward’s eyes fixed on him and there was in them a flicker of amusement. He blushed scarlet, for it struck him that Jackson was making a fool of him, and then because he felt absurd–and knew there was no reason why he should–he grew angry. Arnold Jackson was impudent–there was no other word for it–and his callousness, whether assumed or not, was outrageous. The dinner proceeded. Bateman was asked to eat sundry messes, raw fish and he knew not what, which only his civility induced him to swallow, but which he was amazed to find very good eating. Then an incident happened which to Bateman was the most mortifying experience of the evening. There was a little circlet of flowers in front of him, and for the sake of conversation he hazarded a remark about it.

  ‘It’s a wreath that Eva made for you,’ said Jackson, ‘but I guess she was too shy to give it to you.’

  Bateman took it up in his hand and made a polite little speech of thanks to the girl.

  ‘You must put it on,’ she said, with a smile and a blush.

  ‘I? I don’t think I’ll do that.’

  ‘It’s the charming custom of the country,’ said Arnold Jackson.

  There was one in front of him and he placed it on his hair. Edward did the same.

  ‘I guess I’m not dressed for the part,’ said Bateman, uneasily.

  ‘Would you like a pareo?’ said Eva quickly. ‘I’ll get you one in a minute.’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m quite comfortable as I am.’

  ‘Show him how to put it on, Eva,’ said Edward.

  At that moment Bateman hated his greatest friend. Eva got up from the table and with much laughter placed the wreath on his black hair.

  ‘It suits you very well,’ said Mrs Jackson. ‘Don’t it suit him, Arnold?’

  ‘Of course it does.’

  Bateman sweated at every pore.

  ‘Isn’t it a pity it’s dark?’ said Eva. ‘We could photograph you all three together.’

  Bateman thanked his stars it was. He felt that he must look prodigiously foolish in his blue serge suit and high collar–very neat and gentlemanly– with that ridiculous wreath of flowers on his head. He was seething with indignation, and he had never in his life exercised m
ore self–control than now when he presented an affable exterior. He was furious with that old man, sitting at the head of the table, half–naked, with his saintly face and the flowers on his handsome white locks. The whole position was monstrous.

  Then dinner came to an end, and Eva and her mother remained to clear away while the three men sat on the veranda. It was very warm and the air was scented with the white flowers of the night. The full moon, sailing across an unclouded sky, made a pathway on the broad sea that led to the boundless realms of Forever. Arnold Jackson began to talk. His voice was rich and musical. He talked now of the natives and of the old legends of the country. He told strange stories of the past, stories of hazardous expeditions into the unknown, of love and death, of hatred and revenge. He told of the adventurers who had discovered those distant islands, of the sailors who, settling in them, had married the daughters of great chieftains, and of the beach–combers who had led their varied lives on those silvery shores. Bateman, mortified and exasperated, at first listened sullenly, but presently some magic in the words possessed him and he sat entranced. The mirage of romance obscured the light of common day. Had he forgotten that Arnold Jackson had a tongue of silver, a tongue by which he had charmed vast sums out of the credulous public, a tongue which very nearly enabled him to escape the penalty of his crimes? No one had a sweeter eloquence, and no one had a more acute sense of climax. Suddenly he rose.

  ‘Well, you two boys haven’t seen one another for a long time. I shall leave you to have a yarn. Teddie will show you your quarters when you want to go to bed.’

  ‘Oh, but I wasn’t thinking of spending the night, Mr Jackson,’ said Bateman.

  ‘You’ll find it more comfortable. We’ll see that you’re called in good time.’

  Then with a courteous shake of the hand, stately as though he were a bishop in canonicals, Arnold Jackson took leave of his guest.

  ‘Of course I’ll drive you back to Papeete if you like,’ said Edward, ‘but I advise you to stay. It’s bully driving in the early morning.’