Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  [Norah looks at her reflectively, but does not answer. Dorothy beams and smiles at her.]

  Wickham.

  Come on, Dorothy, we really haven’t got any time to lose. Good-bye, Miss Marsh.

  Norah.

  Good-bye.

  [They bustle out and in a moment the sound is heard of wheels on the drive as the cab carries them away. Norah is left alone. She stands staring in front of her. She does not hear Miss Pringle come in from the garden.]

  Miss Pringle.

  I thought they were never going. Well?

  [Norah turns and looks at her without a word.

  [Miss Pringle is startled.] Norah! What’s the matter? Isn’t it as much as you thought?

  Norah.

  Miss Wickham’s left me nothing.

  Miss Pringle.

  Oh!

  Norah.

  Not a penny! Oh, it’s cruel. After all, there was no need for her to leave me anything. She gave me board and lodging and thirty pounds a year. If I stayed it was because I chose. She needn’t have promised me anything. She needn’t have prevented me from marrying.

  Miss Pringle.

  My dear, you could never have married the little assistant. He wasn’t a gentleman.

  Norah.

  Ten years! The ten best years of a woman’s life, when other girls are enjoying themselves. And what did I get for it? Board and lodging and thirty pounds a year. A cook does better than that.

  Miss Pringle.

  We can’t expect to make so much money as a good cook. One has to pay something for living like a lady among people of one’s own class.

  Norah.

  Oh, it’s cruel.

  Miss Pringle.

  [Trying to console her.] My dear, don’t give way. I’m sure you’ll have no difficulty in finding another situation. You wash lace beautifully, and no one can arrange flowers like you.

  Norah.

  I was dreaming of France and Italy.... I shall spend ten years more with an old lady, and then she’ll die, and I shall look out for another situation. It won’t be so easy then because I shan’t be so young. And so it’ll go on till I can’t find a situation because I’m too old, and some charitable people will get me into a home. You like the life, don’t you?

  Miss Pringle.

  My dear, there are so few things a gentlewoman can do.

  Norah.

  When I think of these ten years! Having to put up with every unreasonableness! Never being allowed to feel ill or tired! No servant would have stood what I have. The humiliation I’ve endured!

  Miss Pringle.

  You’re tired and out of sorts. Everyone isn’t so trying as Miss Wickham. I’m sure Mrs. Hubbard has been kindness itself to me.

  Norah.

  Considering.

  Miss Pringle.

  I don’t know what you mean by considering.

  Norah.

  Considering that she’s rich and you’re poor. She gives you her old clothes. She often doesn’t ask you to have dinner by yourself when she’s giving a party. She doesn’t remind you that you’re dependent unless she’s very much put out. But you — you’ve had thirty years of it. You’ve eaten the bitter bread of slavery till — till it tastes like plum cake.

  Miss Pringle.

  [Rather hurt.] I don’t know why you say such things to me, Norah.

  [Before Norah has time to answer Kate comes in.]

  Kate.

  Mr. Hornby would like to see you for a minute, Miss.

  Norah.

  [Surprised.] Now?

  Kate.

  I told him I didn’t think it would be convenient, Miss, but he says it’s very important, and he won’t detain you more than five minutes.

  Norah.

  What a nuisance.... Ask him to come in.

  Kate.

  Very good, Miss. [Exit.]

  Norah.

  I wonder what on earth he wants.

  Miss Pringle.

  Who is he, Norah?

  Norah.

  Oh, he’s the son of Colonel Hornby. Don’t you know, he lives at the top of Molyneux Park. His mother was a great friend of Miss Wickham’s. He comes down here now and then for week-ends. He’s got something to do with motor-cars.

  [Kate shows the visitor in.]

  Kate.

  Mr. Hornby.

  [She goes out. Reginald Hornby is a good-looking young man, with a neat head on a long, elegant body. His dark, sleek hair is carefully brushed, his small moustache is trim and curled. His beautiful clothes suggest the fashionable tailors of Savile Row. His tie, his handkerchief protruding from the breast pocket, his boots, are the very latest thing. He is a nut.]

  Hornby.

  I say, I’m awfully sorry to blow in like this. But I didn’t know if you’d be staying on here, and I wanted to catch you. And I’m off in a day or two, myself.

  Norah.

  Won’t you sit down? Mr. Hornby — Miss Pringle.

  Hornby.

  How d’you do? Everything go off O.K.?

  Norah.

  I beg your pardon?

  Hornby.

  Funeral, I mean. Mother went. Regular beano for her.

  [Miss Pringle, rather shocked, draws herself up primly, but Norah’s eyes twinkle with amusement at his airy manner.]

  Norah.

  Really?

  Hornby.

  You see, she’s getting on. I’m the child of her old age — Benjamin, don’t you know. [He turns to Miss Pringle.] Benjamin and Sarah, you know.

  Miss Pringle.

  I understand perfectly, but it wasn’t Sarah.

  Hornby.

  Wasn’t it? When one of her old friends dies, mother goes to the funeral and says to herself: “Well, I’ve seen her out, anyhow.” Then she comes back and eats muffins for tea. She always eats muffins after she’s been to a funeral.

  Norah.

  The maid said you wanted to see about something.

  Hornby.

  That’s right, I was forgetting. [To Miss Pringle.] If Sarah wasn’t Benjamin’s mother, whose mother was she?

  Miss Pringle.

  If you want to know, I recommend you to read your Bible.

  Hornby.

  [With much satisfaction.] I thought it was a stumper. [To Norah.] The fact is, I’m going to Canada, and mother told me you’d got a brother or something out there.

  Norah.

  A brother, not a something.

  Hornby.

  And she said, perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me a letter to him.

  Norah.

  I will with pleasure. But I’m afraid he won’t be much use to you. He’s a farmer and he lives miles away from anywhere.

  Hornby.

  But I’m going in for farming.

  Norah.

  Are you? What on earth for?

  Hornby.

  I’ve jolly well got to do something, and I think farming’s about the best thing I can do. One gets a lot of shooting and riding, you know. And then there are tennis parties and dances. And you make a pot of money, there’s no doubt about that.

  Norah.

  I thought you were in some motor business in London.

  Hornby.

  Well, I was in a way. But ... I thought you’d have heard about it. Mother’s been telling everybody. Governor won’t speak to me. Altogether things are rotten. I want to get out of this beastly country as quick as I can.

  Norah.

  Would you like me to give you the letter at once?

  Hornby.

  I wish you would.

  [Norah sits down at an escritoire and begins to write a letter.]

  Fact is, I’m broke. I was all right as long as I stuck to bridge. I used to make money on that. Over a thousand a year.

  Miss Pringle.

  [Horrified.] What!

  Hornby.

  Playing regularly, you know. If I hadn’t been a fool I’d have stuck to that. But I got bitten with chemi.

  Norah.

  [Turning round.] W
ith what?

  Hornby.

  Chemin de fer. Never heard of it? I got in the habit of going to Thornton’s. I suppose you never heard of him either. He keeps a gambling hell. Gives you a slap-up supper for nothing, as much pop as you can drink, and changes your cheques like a bird. The result is I’ve lost every bob I had, and then Thornton sued me on a cheque I’d given him. The Governor forked out, but he says I’ve got to go to Canada. I’m never going to gamble again, I can tell you that.

  Norah.

  Oh, well, that’s something.

  Hornby.

  You can’t make money at chemi. The cagnotte’s bound to clear you out in the end. When I come back I’m going to stick to bridge. There are always plenty of mugs about, and if you’ve got a good head for cards you can’t help making an income out of it.

  Norah.

  Here is your letter.

  Hornby.

  Thanks awfully. I daresay I shan’t want it, you know. I expect I shall get offered a job the moment I land, but there’s no harm having it. I’ll be getting along.

  Norah.

  Good-bye, then, and good luck.

  Hornby.

  Good-bye.

  [He shakes hands with Norah and Miss Pringle and goes out.]

  Miss Pringle.

  Norah, why don’t you go to Canada? Now your brother has a farm of his own I should have thought....

  Norah.

  [Interrupting.] My brother’s married. He married four years ago.

  Miss Pringle.

  You never told me.

  Norah.

  I couldn’t.

  Miss Pringle.

  Why? Isn’t his wife ... isn’t his wife nice?

  Norah.

  She was a waitress at a scrubby little hotel in Winnipeg.

  Miss Pringle.

  What are you going to do, then?

  Norah.

  It’s no good crying over spilt milk. I’ll look out for another situation.

  END OF FIRST ACT

  ACT II

  Scene: The living-room and kitchen on Edward Marsh’s farm at Dyer, Manitoba. It is a room lined with brown planks, and on the walls in cheap gilt frames are coloured supplements from the Christmas numbers of illustrated papers. Over one door is the head of a moose, and over the other a large kitchen clock. The floor is covered with shiny oil-cloth. In the window are geraniums growing in maple-syrup tins. On one side is a large American stove. There is a dresser of unvarnished deal on which are plates and cups and saucers. They are of the plainest earthenware, and few of them match. There are two American rockers and a number of kitchen chairs. There is a plain kitchen table. On the stove is an enormous kettle and a couple of saucepans. There is a small bookshelf on which are a few tattered novels and some old magazines. The table is set for dinner with a cheap white cloth, none too clean. Ed Marsh is sitting at one end, with the remains of a joint of cold beef in front of him, and at the other end is his wife, with a teapot, milk-jug, and sugar-basin. There is a loaf of bread on the table, a large tin containing maple-syrup, and the remains of a milk pudding. Norah is sitting next to her sister-in-law and beside her is Reginald Hornby. Opposite are Frank Taylor and Benjamin Trotter. Dinner is just finished. Gertie Marsh is a dark little person, with a hard look and a dried-up skin. She is thin and nervous, an active, hard-working woman with a sharp tongue and, outwardly at least, little tenderness. She is dressed in a shirt-waist, a serge skirt, and brown, rather smart high-heeled shoes. She wears a small apron. Norah wears a white blouse and a green skirt. Ed Marsh is a good-natured, easy-going man, with a small moustache and untidy hair. He wears a black flannel shirt, with white lines on it, a black waistcoat, and dark grubby trousers. The others are hired men. Frank Taylor is a tall fellow, strong, with clean-cut features and frank, humorous eyes. He is clean shaven. His movements are slow and he speaks with a marked accent. He is very sure of himself. He wears a dark flannel shirt and a pair of overalls, which have been blue, but are now black and grimy with age. The braces which hold them up announce that they come from Eaton’s, Winnipeg. Ben Trotter is an English labourer, with broken, discoloured teeth, and hair cut very short, with something like a love-lock plastered on his forehead. He is dressed in the same way as Frank Taylor. Reggie Hornby’s head is still neat and trim, his hair is carefully brushed. His overalls are much newer than the others’. He wears a flannel shirt which was obviously made in Piccadilly.

  Marsh.

  Have some more syrup, Reg?

  Hornby.

  No, thank you.

  Marsh.

  Has everyone finished?

  Gertie.

  It looks like it.

  [Marsh pushes back his chair, takes a pouch and pipe from his pocket and lights up. Taylor does the same.]

  Gertie.

  We’ll be able to start on the ironing this afternoon.

  Norah.

  Very well.

  Trotter.

  It was a rare big wash you done this morning by the look of it on the line.

  Norah.

  My arms are just aching.

  Gertie.

  When you’ve been out in this country a bit longer you’ll learn not to wear more things than you can help.

  Norah.

  Was there more than my fair share?

  Gertie.

  You use double the number of stockings than what I do. And everything else is the same.

  Norah.

  [With a smile.] Clean but incompetent.

  Gertie.

  There’s many a true word spoken in jest.

  Taylor.

  Say, Reg, is it true that when you first come out you asked Ed where the bath-room was?

  Trotter.

  [With a chuckle.] That’s right. Ed told ’im there was a river a mile and a ‘alf from ’ere, an’ that was the only bath-room ’e knew.

  Marsh.

  One soon gets used to that sort of thing, eh, Reg?

  Hornby.

  Rather. If I saw a bath-room now it would only make me nervous.

  Taylor.

  Out in B.C. I knew a couple of Englishmen who were baching and the only other people around were Indians. The first two years they was there they wouldn’t have anything to do with the Indians because they was so dirty, and after that the Indians wouldn’t have anything to do with them. [He puts his fingers to his nose to indicate a nasty smell.]

  Norah.

  What a disgusting story!

  Taylor.

  D’you think so? I rather like it.

  Norah.

  You would.

  [He looks at her with a little smile, but does not answer.]

  Gertie.

  [Getting up.] Are you going to sit there all day, Norah?

  Marsh.

  Why don’t you keep quiet for five minutes? I guess Norah’s not sorry to have a rest after that wash.

  Gertie.

  The amount of work Norah did isn’t going to tire her much, I reckon.

  Norah.

  I’m not used to that sort of work yet. It takes it out of me a bit.

  Gertie.

  I’ve not found out what sort of work you are used to.

  [Norah gets up and the two women start clearing away the table. Marsh moves into one of the rocking-chairs and smokes.]

  Marsh.

  Give her time to get used to the life, Gertie. You can’t expect everything all at once.

  Gertie.

  It’s always the same with English people. You have to teach them everything.

  Marsh.

  Well, you didn’t have to teach me to propose, Gertie.

  [Norah takes away things from before Taylor and he gets up.]

  Taylor.

  I guess I’m in your way.

  Norah.

  Not more than usual, thank you.

  Taylor.

  [Smiling.] I guess you’ll not be sorry to see the last of me.

  Norah.

  I can’t honestly say that it makes the least difference to
me whether you go or stay.

  Marsh.

  Now don’t start quarrelling, you two.

  Hornby.

  When does your train go, Frank?

  Taylor.

  Half-past three. I’ll be starting from here in about an hour.

  Marsh.

  Reg can go over with you and he’ll drive the rig back again.

  Taylor.

  All right. I’ll go and dress myself in a bit.

  Gertie.

  I guess you’ll be glad to get back to your own place.

  Taylor.

  I guess I shan’t be sorry.

  [The clearing away is finished. Gertie gets a large metal basin and puts it on the table. Norah fetches the kettle and pours hot water into the basin. They begin washing up.]

  Gertie.

  I’ll do the washing, Norah, and you can dry.

  Norah.

  All right.

  Gertie.

  I’ve noticed the things aren’t half clean when I leave them to you to do.

  Norah.

  I’m sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?

  Gertie.

  I suppose you never did the washing up in England. Too grand?

  Norah.

  I don’t suppose anyone would wash up if they could help it. It’s not very amusing.

  Gertie.

  You always want to be amused.

  Norah.

  No. But I want to be happy.

  Gertie.

  Well, you’ve got a room over your head and a comfortable bed to sleep in, three good meals a day, and plenty to do; that’s all anybody wants to make them happy, I guess.

  Hornby.

  Oh, lord!

  Gertie.

  [Turning sharply on him.] Well, if you don’t like Canada, why did you come out?

  Hornby.

  [Rising slowly to his feet.] You don’t suppose I’d have let them send me if I’d known what I was in for? Not much. Up at five in the morning and working in the fields like a navvy till your back feels as if it ‘ud break, and then back again in the afternoon. And the same thing day after day. What was the good of sending me to Harrow and Oxford if that’s what I’ve got to do all my life?

  Marsh.

  You’ll get used to it soon enough, Reg. It’s a bit hard at first, but when you get your foot in you wouldn’t change it for any other life.

  Gertie.

  This isn’t a country for a man to go to sleep with and wait for something to turn up.

  Trotter.

  I wouldn’t go back to England now, not for nothing. England! Eighteen bob a week, that’s what I earned, and no prospects. Out of work five months in the year.