Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

“Yes, I do.”

  “Well, come then.”

  She smiled provokingly, but he hesitated. He looked over his shoulder at his mother, whom he divined, rather than saw, in the darkness. Rosalia caught the glance and its meaning.

  “Are you afraid?”

  “What should I be afraid of?” he asked with a shrug of the shoulders.

  He stepped into the ring. The guitarists strummed away and the onlookers rhythmically clapped their hands, punctuating the time with an occasional cry of Olé. A girl gave Currito a pair of castanets and the pair began to dance. They heard a little hiss, as of a serpent in the darkness, and Rosalia, quite reckless now, looked with a laugh at the face, ghastly white, that gleamed from the shadows. La Cachirra did not move. She watched the movements of the dance, the swaying of the bodies, the intricate steps; she saw Rosalia lean back with a graceful gesture and smile in Currito’s face as he wound about her, clapping his castanets. Her eyes glowed like coals of fire and she felt them burning in the sockets; but no one noticed her, and she gave a groan of rage. The dance came to an end, and Rosalia, smiling with pleasure at the applause, told Currito she did not know he could dance so well.

  La Cachirra flung herself into her room and bolted the door. She gave no answer when Currito came and bade her open.

  “Well, I shall go home,” he said.

  Her heart bled with pain, but she would not speak. He was all she had, all she loved in the world; and yet she hated him. She could not sleep that night, but lay thinking, half-madly, that they were robbing her of her son. In the morning she did not go to work, but lay in wait for Rosalia. The girl came out at last, rather bedraggled after the night’s festivities, and she started when La Cachirra suddenly faced her.

  “What do you want with my son?”

  “What do you mean?” replied Rosalia, assuming an expression of surprise.

  La Cachirra quivered with passion and she bit her hand to keep herself quiet.

  “Oh, you know what I mean. You’re stealing him from me.”

  “Do you think I want your son? Keep him away from me. I can’t he p it if he runs after me wherever I go.”

  “That’s a lie!”

  “Ask him!” And now Rosalia’s voice was so scornful that La Cachirra could hard y contain herself. “He waits an hour in the street to see me. Why don’t you keep him to yourself?”

  “You lie, you lie! You throw yourself in his way.”

  “If I wanted lovers I could get them without asking. I don’t want the son of a murderess.”

  Then everything grew confused to La Cachirra; the blood leaped to her head and choked her eyes. She sprang at Rosalia and tore her hair. The girl gave a shrill cry and sought to defend herself, but immediately a passer-by wrenched them apart.

  “If you don’t leave Currito alone, I’ll kill you!” cried La Cachirra.

  “Do you think I’m frightened? Keep him from me if you can. You fool, don’t you see that he loves me better than his eyes?”

  “Now then, go away,” said the man. “Don’t answer her, Rosalia.”

  La Cachirra gave a little roar of passion, like a wild beast baulked of its prey, and pushed past into the street.

  But the dance had left Currito madly in love with Rosalia, and all next day he thought of her red lips; the light of her eyes shone in his heart and filled him with enchantment. He passionately desired her. At nightfall he wandered towards the Macarena and presently found himself at her house. He waited in the darkness of the porch till he saw her in the patio. At the other end burned his mother’s lonely light.

  “Rosalia,” he called in a low voice.

  She turned, stifling a cry of surprise.

  “Why are you here to-day?” she whispered, going towards him.

  “I couldn’t keep away from you.”

  “Why?” she smiled.

  “Because I love you.”

  “Do you know your mother nearly killed me this morning?”

  And with the embellishments necessary to the Andalusian temperament, she related the occurrence, omitting, however, the final taunt which had enraged La Cachirra beyond endurance.

  “She’s got the temper of the devil,” said Currito; and then, with bravado: “I shall tell her that you’re my sweetheart.”

  “She will be pleased,” said Rosalia ironically.

  “Will you come to the reja to-morrow?”

  “Perhaps,” she answered.

  He gave a little chuckle, for he knew by her tone that she would. He swaggered even more than usual when he walked through the Sierpes on his way home. She was waiting for him when he came next day and, as is the way with lovers in Seville, they talked for hours under their breath, with the iron gate between them, and it never even occurred to Currito that it was a needless impediment. When he asked Rosalia if she loved him she answered with a little amorous sigh. They tried to see the passion that burnt hotly in one another’s eyes. Then he went every night.

  But fearing that his mother knew of his visits, Currito did not go to see her on the following Sunday. The wretched woman waited for him with an aching heart. She was ready to fall on her knees and beg him to forgive her, but then, when he did not come, she hated him; she would have liked to see him dead at her feet. Her heart sank when she thought that another week must pass before she could even hope to see him.

  The week passed and still he did not come. She could not bear it. Anguish, anguish! She loved him as no sweetheart could ever love him. She told herself that this was Rosalia’s doing and when she thought of her, rage filled her heart. At last Currito plucked up his courage and went to see his mother; but she had waited too long. It seemed as though her love was dead. She pushed him away when he wanted to kiss her.

  “Why haven’t you come before?”

  “You locked the door on me. I thought you didn’t want me!”

  “Was it only that? Had you no other reason?”

  “I’ve been busy,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

  “Busy? An idle loafer like you. What have you been doing? You wouldn’t have been too busy to come and Rosalia.”

  “Why did you hit her?”

  “How do you know I hit her? Have you seen her?” La Cachirra - strode up to her son; her eyes flashed. “She called me a murderess.”

  “Well, what of it?”

  “What of it?” she screamed, so that they heard her in the patio. “And if I am a murderess — it was for you. Yes, I killed Pepe Santi; but it was because he was beating you. It was for your sake that I lay in prison for seven years — for seven years. Oh, you fool, you think she cares for you, and every night she spends hours at the gate.”

  “I know,” Currito answered with a grin.

  La Cachirra started violently. She shot a puzzled look at him and then she understood. She gasped with pain and wrath; she clutched at her heart as though the agony were too intense to bear.

  “You’ve been coming every night to the reja and you never came near me? Oh, how cruel! I’ve done everything in the world for you. Do you think I loved Pepe Santi? I endured his blows so that I could give you bread; and I killed him when he beat you. Oh, God, I only lived for you. But for the thought of you I would have died rather than suffer those years of prison.”

  “Come, woman, be reasonable. I’m twenty. What d’you expect? If it wasn’t Rosalia it would be another.”

  “You beast. I hate you. Get out.”

  She pushed him violently to the door. Currito shrugged his shoulders.

  “You needn’t think I want to stay.”

  He walked jauntily through the patio and slammed the iron gate behind him. La Cachirra stalked to and fro in her tiny room. The hours passed slowly. For a long while she remained at the window, watching with the horrible steadfastness of a savage beast ready to spring. She stood motionless, repressing the convulsive restlessness that tore at her heart-strings. There was a clapping of hands at the reja as a signal that someone was without, and she peered forward with panting mouth, her
fiery eyes almost starting from her head. But it was only the mason. She waited longer, and Pilar, Rosalia’s mother, came in and walked slowly up the stairs to her room. La Cachirra clutched at her throat to relieve the intolerable oppression of her breath. Still she waited. Now and then an extraordinary quiver travelled through all her limbs.

  At last! There was a clap of light hands at the gate, and a voice above called out: “Who is it?”

  “Peace!”

  La Cachirra recognised Rosalia’s voice. She gave a gasp of triumph. The door was opened from above, and Rosalia, entering, crossed the courtyard with a buoyant and easy step. The joy of life was in her every motion. She was about to put her foot on the stair when La Cachirra sprang forward and stopped her. She caught hold of her arm and the girl could not shake herself free. “What do you want?” said Rosalia. “Let me pass.”

  “What have you been doing with my son?”

  “Let me pass, or I shall call out.”

  “Is it true that you meet at the reja every night?”

  “Mother, help! Antonio!” Rosalia cried out shrilly.

  “Answer me.”

  “Well, if you want the truth, you can have it. He’s going to marry me. He loves me, and I — I love him with all my heart.” She turned on La Cachirra, trying to free herself from the vicious grip. “D’you think you can prevent us? D’you think he’s frightened of you? He hates you, he told me so. He wishes you’d never come out of prison.”

  “He told you that?”

  La Cachirra shrank back. Rosalia pursued the advantage.

  “Yes, he told me that; and he told me much more. He told me that you murdered Pepe Santi; and that you were in prison for seven years; and he wished you were dead.”

  Rosalia hissed the words venomously, laughing with shrill voice when she saw the wretched woman shrink as though struck by palpable blows.

  “And you ought to be proud that I don’t refuse to marry the son of a murderess.”

  Then, giving La Cachirra a push, she leapt to the stairs; but the movement revived the woman, stunned by the horrible taunts, and with a cry of brutal rage she sprang upon Rosalia and caught her by the shoulders and dragged her down. Rosalia turned and hit her in the face. La Cachirra drew a knife from her bosom, and with an oath buried it in the girl’s neck. Rosalia shrieked. “Mother, she’s killed me.”

  She fell to the bottom of the stairs and lay huddled up on the stones. Blood made a little pool on the ground.

  Half a dozen doors were flung open at the despairing cry, and people rushed to seize La Cachirra; but she backed against the wall and faced them, with an expression of such ferocity on her face that no one dared approach her. The hesitation was momentary, but Pilar ran from the balcony shrieking, and the common attention for an instant was distracted. La Cachirra saw the opportunity and ran forward. She reached her room and locked and bolted the door behind her.

  Suddenly the court was filled with people. Pilar with loud dreadful cries flung herself down on her daughter and would not let herself be dragged away. Someone rushed for a doctor and someone else went for the police. The crowd surged in from the street and collected round the door. The doctor hurried in with a black bag in his hand. When the police came a dozen people at once excitedly explained what had happened. They pointed to the door of La Cachirra’s room, and the police broke in. There was a scuffle and they came out with La Cachirra handcuffed. The mob rushed forward, but the police surrounded her and with their scabbards beat the people off; but they shook their fists and hurled curses at her. She looked at them scornfully. She deigned to make no answer. Her eyes shone with triumph. The policemen led her through the patio and they passed by the body of Rosalia.

  “Is she dead?” asked La Cachirra.

  “Yes,” the doctor answered gravely.

  “Thanks be to God!” she said.

  A MAN FROM GLASGOW

  It is not often that anyone entering a great city for the first time has the luck to witness such an incident as engaged Shelley’s attention when he drove into Naples. A youth ran out of a shop pursued by a man armed with a knife. The man overtook him and with one blow in the neck laid him dead on the road. Shelley had a tender heart. He didn’t look upon it as a bit of local colour; he was seized with horror and indignation. But when he expressed his emotions to a Calabrian priest who was travelling with him, a fellow of gigantic strength and stature, the priest laughed heartily and attempted to quiz him. Shelley says he never felt such an inclination to beat anyone.

  I have never seen anything so exciting as that, but the first time I went to Algeciras I had an experience that seemed to me far from ordinary. Algeciras was then an untidy, neglected town. I arrived somewhat late at night and went to an inn on the quay. It was rather shabby, but it had a fine view of Gibraltar, solid and matter–of–fact, across the bay. The moon was full. The office was on the first floor, and a slatternly maid, when I asked for a room, took me upstairs. The landlord was playing cards. He seemed little pleased to see me. He looked me up and down, curtly gave me a number, and then, taking no further notice of me, went on with his game.

  When the maid had shown me to my room I asked her what I could have to eat.

  ‘What you like,’ she answered.

  I knew well enough the unreality of the seeming profusion.

  ‘What have you got in the house?’

  ‘You can have eggs and ham.’

  The look of the hotel had led me to guess that I should get little else. The maid led me to a narrow room with white–washed walls and a low ceiling in which was a long table laid already for the next day’s luncheon. With his back to the door sat a tall man, huddled over a brasero, the round brass dish of hot ashes which is erroneously supposed to give sufficient warmth for the temperate winter of Andalusia. I sat down at table and waited for my scanty meal. I gave the stranger an idle glance. He was looking at me, but meeting my eyes he quickly turned away. I waited for my eggs. When at last the maid brought them he looked up again.

  ‘I want you to wake me in time for the first boat,’ he said.

  ‘Si, señor.’

  His accent told me that English was his native tongue, and the breadth of his build, his strongly marked features, led me to suppose him a northerner. The hardy Scot is far more often found in Spain than the Englishman. Whether you go to the rich mines of Rio Tinto, or to the bodegas of Jerez, to Seville or to Cadiz, it is the leisurely speech of beyond the Tweed that you hear. You will meet Scotsmen in the olive groves of Carmona, on the railway between Algeciras and Bobadilla, and even in the remote cork woods of Merida.

  I finished eating and went over to the dish of burning ashes. It was midwinter and the windy passage across the bay had chilled my blood. The man pushed his chair away as I drew mine forwards.

  ‘Don’t move,’ I said. ‘There’s heaps of room for two.’

  I lit a cigar and offered one to him. In Spain the Havana from Gib is never unwelcome.

  ‘I don’t mind if I do,’ he said, stretching out his hand.

  I recognized the singing speech of Glasgow. But the stranger was not talkative, and my efforts at conversation broke down before his monosyllables. We smoked in silence. He was even bigger than I had thought, with great broad shoulders and ungainly limbs; his face was sunburned, his hair short and grizzled. His features were hard; mouth, ears and nose were large and heavy and his skin much wrinkled. His blue eyes were pale. He was constantly pulling his ragged, grey moustache. It was a nervous gesture that I found faintly irritating. Presently I felt that he was looking at me, and the intensity of his stare grew so irksome that I glanced up expecting him, as before, to drop his eyes. He did, indeed, for a moment, but then raised them again. He inspected me from under his long, bushy eyebrows.

  ‘Just come from Gib?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m going tomorrow–on my way home. Thank God.’

  He said the last two words so fiercely that I smiled.

  ‘Don�
��t you like Spain?’

  ‘Oh, Spain’s all right.’

  ‘Have you been here long?’

  ‘Too long. Too long.’

  He spoke with a kind of gasp. I was surprised at the emotion my casual inquiry seemed to excite in him. He sprang to his feet and walked backwards and forwards. He stamped to and fro like a caged beast pushing aside a chair that stood in his way, and now and again repeated the words in a groan. ‘Too long. Too long.’ I sat still. I was embarrassed. To give myself countenance I stirred the brasero to bring the hotter ashes to the top, and he stood suddenly still, towering over me, as though my movement had brought back my existence to his notice. Then he sat down heavily in his chair.

  ‘D’you think I’m queer?’ he asked.

  ‘Not more than most people,’ I smiled.

  ‘You don’t see anything strange in me?’

  He leant forward as he spoke so that I might see him well.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’d say so if you did, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I would.’

  I couldn’t quite understand what all this meant. I wondered if he was drunk. For two or three minutes he didn’t say anything and I had no wish to interrupt the silence.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked suddenly. I told him.

  ‘Mine’s Robert Morrison.’

  ‘Scotch?’

  ‘Glasgow. I’ve been in this blasted country for years. Got any baccy?’

  I gave him my pouch and he filled his pipe. He lit it from a piece of burning charcoal.

  ‘I can’t stay any longer. I’ve stayed too long. Too long.’

  He had an impulse to jump up again and walk up and down, but he resisted it, clinging to his chair. I saw on his face the effort he was making. I judged that his restlessness was due to chronic alcoholism. I find drunks very boring, and I made up my mind to take an early opportunity of slipping off to bed.

  ‘I’ve been managing some olive groves,’ he went on. ‘I’m here working for the Glasgow and South of Spain Olive Oil Company Limited.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘We’ve got a new process for refining oil, you know. Properly treated, Spanish oil is every bit as good as Lucca. And we can sell it cheaper.’