John.
Yes, I remember.
Mrs. Wharton.
If you’ve lost your faith, we know it can’t be as so many lose it, on purpose, because they’ve given themselves over to sensuality, and dare not believe in a God whom every action of their lives insults. If you’ll only tell us everything, perhaps we can help you.
John.
My dear, you’d much better let the matter rest. I should only have to say things that would hurt you all.
Mrs. Wharton.
We’re willing to take the risk of that. We know you wouldn’t hurt us intentionally. Perhaps they’re only difficulties that we might be able to explain. And if we’re not clever enough perhaps the Vicar can.
[John shakes his head without speaking.
Sylvia.
Don’t you want to believe in God, John?
John.
No.
[There is a moment’s pause. Kate comes in to announce Dr. Macfarlane. This is a rather eccentric old man, with long white hair, small, with rosy cheeks. He is an old-fashioned country doctor, and wears rather shabby black clothes and carries a rusty silk hat in his hand. There is in him something of the gentleman farmer and something of the apothecary of a former day.
Kate.
Dr. Macfarlane.
[Exit.
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh! I’d forgotten for the moment. [With a smile of welcome.] We’ve been expecting you.
Dr. Macfarlane.
[Shaking hands with the two ladies.] I’ve been busy this morning. [To John.] And how are you, John?
John.
Sitting up and taking nourishment, thank you.
Dr. Macfarlane.
You look none the worse for all your adventures. A little older, perhaps.
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh, of course, you’ve not seen John before.
Dr. Macfarlane.
No. My wife saw him yesterday in church, but unfortunately I couldn’t go. I had to see a patient.
John.
The same patient?
Dr. Macfarlane.
I beg your pardon.
John.
You’ve had to see a patient at about eleven every Sunday morning for the last twenty-five years. I was wondering if it was the same one.
Dr. Macfarlane.
If it is, I certainly deserve praise for keeping the undertakers at bay so long. [Going up to the Colonel] And how are you feeling to-day, Colonel?
Colonel Wharton.
Oh, I’m feeling pretty well, thank you. Have you had a letter from that fellow in Canterbury?
Dr. Macfarlane.
Yes.
Colonel Wharton.
Well, what does he say?
Dr. Macfarlane.
You military gentlemen, you want to go so fast.
Mrs. Wharton.
Have you brought the letter with you?
Dr. Macfarlane.
It’s very technical. Saving your presence, I don’t think any of you would make head or tail of it. Now, Mrs. Wharton, my dear, shall you and I go for a little stroll in your beautiful garden, and we’ll have a talk about this old tyrant.
Colonel Wharton.
What’s the object of that? Evelyn will only tell me everything you’ve said the moment you’re gone. She’s never been able to keep anything from me in her life.
Dr. Macfarlane.
You must have patience with me. I’m an old man, and I like to do things in my own way.
Colonel Wharton.
Well, I’m no chicken, and I’m not going to stand any of your nonsense. Tell us straight out what the doctor says and be damned to you. I beg your pardon, my dear, but I have to talk to the old fool in the only way he understands.
Dr. Macfarlane.
Very rough, isn’t he?
John.
The gentlest pirate who ever cut a throat.
Colonel Wharton.
You know, you’re a transparent old fraud, Doctor. The moment you came in I saw you had some bad news for me. You were expecting to find Evelyn alone.
Dr. Macfarlane.
This is the hour at which all self-respecting retired colonels are reading the Times in their study.
Mrs. Wharton.
What does Dr. Keller say?
Colonel Wharton.
I suppose he wants an operation. It’s a nuisance but, with God’s help, I can go through with it.
Dr. Macfarlane.
Well, I suppose you’d have to know sooner or later. Let these young people clear out and we’ll talk it all over quietly.
Colonel Wharton.
Nonsense. John is my son and Sylvia is almost my daughter. What concerns me concerns them, I fancy. Why, you couldn’t make more fuss if I’d only got a month to live.
Dr. Macfarlane.
[Hesitating.] Do you want me to tell you the whole thing now — just like this?
Colonel Wharton.
Yes. You don’t think I’m afraid to hear the worst. Whatever it is, I hope I have the pluck to bear it like a Christian and a gentleman.
[There is a pause.
Dr. Macfarlane.
You’re quite right. I have bad news for you. Dr. Keller confirms my diagnosis. I was pretty sure of it, but I didn’t want to believe it. I thought I might be mistaken.... I’m afraid you’re very ill indeed. You must be extremely careful.
Mrs. Wharton.
George!
Colonel Wharton.
Come, come, my dear, don’t get in a state. And does he recommend an operation?
Dr. Macfarlane.
No.
Colonel Wharton.
[Startled.] Do you mean to say that.... But I don’t feel so bad as all that. Now and then I have attacks of pain, but then ... you don’t mean to say you think I’m going to die? For God’s sake tell me the truth.
Dr. Macfarlane.
My dear old friend!
Colonel Wharton.
You mean I’ve got a fatal disease. Can — can nothing be done?
Dr. Macfarlane.
I don’t know about that. There’s always something that can be done.
Colonel Wharton.
But a cure, I mean. Can’t I be cured?
Dr. Macfarlane.
If you want the truth really, then I’m afraid I can hold out no hope of that.
Colonel Wharton.
How long d’you give me? [Trying to laugh.] I suppose you’re not going to grudge me a year or two?
Dr. Macfarlane.
[Pretending to take it lightly.] Oh, you can be quite sure we’ll keep you alive as long as we can.
John.
You’ve got a wonderful physique, father. My own impression is that you’ll make fools of the doctors and live for another twenty years.
Dr. Macfarlane.
Medicine isn’t an exact science like surgery. It’s a doctor’s duty to tell a patient the truth when he asks for it, but if I were a patient I would always take it with a grain of salt.
[The Colonel looks at him suspiciously.
Colonel Wharton.
You’re keeping something from me. If it was only that, why did you want to see Evelyn alone?
Dr. Macfarlane.
Well, some people are very nervous about themselves. I wasn’t quite sure if you’d better know or not. I thought I’d talk it over with her.
Colonel Wharton.
Am I in immediate danger of death? For God’s sake, tell me. It would be cruel to leave me in ignorance.
Mrs. Wharton.
Please answer quite frankly, doctor.
Dr. Macfarlane.
[After a pause.] I think if you have any arrangements to make, it would be wise if you made them soon.
Colonel Wharton.
Then it’s not a question of a year or two even? Is it months or weeks?
Dr. Macfarlane.
I don’t know. No one can tell.
Colonel Wharton.
You’re treating me like a child. [With sudden rage.] Confound you
, sir, I order you to tell me.
Dr. Macfarlane.
It may be at any time.
Colonel Wharton.
[With a sudden cry of terror.] Evelyn! Evelyn!
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh, my dear! My dear husband!
[She takes him in her arms as though to protect him.
Dr. Macfarlane.
Why did you force me to tell you?
Colonel Wharton.
[In a terrified whisper.] Oh, Evelyn! Evelyn!
Mrs. Wharton.
[To the others.] Please go.
John.
[To Sylvia.] Come. They want to be alone. Dr. Macfarlane, will you come into the garden for a few minutes?
Dr. Macfarlane.
Of course I will. Of course.
[They go out. Colonel and Mrs. Wharton are left alone. For a moment they are silent.
Mrs. Wharton.
Perhaps it isn’t true, my dear.
Colonel Wharton.
It’s true. I know it’s true now.
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh, it’s so hard. I wish it were I instead. I’d be so glad to take your place, darling.
Colonel Wharton.
We’ve been so happy together, Evelyn.
Mrs. Wharton.
We have very much to be grateful for.
Colonel Wharton.
Oh, Evelyn, what shall I do?
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry for you. I’m so dreadfully sorry.... I think you’re very brave. If I’d been told like that I — I should have broken down.
Colonel Wharton.
It was so unexpected.
Mrs. Wharton.
[Trying to comfort him.] I’m thankful that your faith has always been so bright and clear. What a comfort that is now, darling, what an immense consolation! [She draws him more closely to her.]
You’re throwing aside these poor rags of mortality to put on a heavenly raiment. It is what we’ve always kept in our minds, isn’t it? that this brief life is only a place of passage to the mansions of our dear Father. [She feels the dismay in his heart and she strives to give him courage.] You’ve never hesitated at the call of an earthly leader. You’re a good soldier; it’s a Heavenly Leader that’s calling you now. Christ is holding out His loving arms to you.
Colonel Wharton.
Evelyn — I don’t want to die.
THE END OF THE FIRST ACT.
ACT II
The Scene is the same as in the preceding Act.
Two days have passed. It is Wednesday afternoon.
Mrs. Wharton is sitting by a little table, looking reflectively in front of her. On the table is a work-basket, and by the side of this a baby’s shirt that she is making. A fire is alight in the grate. After a minute, John comes in. She looks up at him with a pleasant smile. He goes to her and puts his hand on her shoulder. She gently pats his hand.
John.
Are you idling, mother? It’s not often I catch you giving the devil an opportunity.
Mrs. Wharton.
Isn’t it wicked of me?
John.
What is this you’re up to? What in heaven’s name are you making a baby’s shirt for? Hang it all, I’m not married yet.
Mrs. Wharton.
[Pretending to be a little shocked.] Don’t be naughty, John. It’s for poor Annie Black’s baby.
John.
Who’s she?
Mrs. Wharton.
She was engaged to Edward Driffield, the carpenter’s second man, and they were going to be married next time he came home on leave. He’s been killed, and she’s expecting a baby.
John.
Poor thing.
Mrs. Wharton.
The Pooles are looking after her. You see, she had nowhere to go, and they didn’t want her to have to go to the Workhouse, so Mrs. Poole has taken her in at the Vicarage. And I said I’d make all the baby’s things.
John.
[Affectionately.] You’re a nice old mother.
Mrs. Wharton.
Don’t you think it was good of the Pooles?
John.
Yes, charming.
Mrs. Wharton.
They’re coming here this afternoon, John. I wanted the Vicar to see your father.... I haven’t told your father they’re coming.
John.
Haven’t you?
Mrs. Wharton.
He’s rather sensitive just now. It’s quite natural, isn’t it? And I didn’t know exactly how he’d take it. I thought if Mrs. Poole came too it would look as though it were just a friendly visit. And perhaps the Vicar will have an opportunity to say a few words to your father.
John.
[Smiling.] I take it that you want me to help you to leave them alone together.
Mrs. Wharton.
I hate doing anything underhand, John, but I think it would help your father so much if he could have a little private talk with the Vicar.
John.
Why didn’t you suggest it to him?
Mrs. Wharton.
I didn’t like to. I was afraid he’d be vexed. I thought he’d suggest it himself.
John.
[Very tenderly.] Don’t distress yourself, mother.
Mrs. Wharton.
I’m trying not to think of it, John. My only hope is that the end may come without suffering.
John.
I wasn’t thinking of that.
Mrs. Wharton.
[After a moment’s pause.] I don’t know what you mean, John.
John.
Yes, you do. You only have to look in father’s face.
Mrs. Wharton.
I really don’t understand. [Almost vehemently.] You’re wrong, John. He suffers much more pain than you think. That’s what gives him that look.
John.
[Gravely.] It’s fear that’s in his face, mother, the fear of death. You know it just as well as I do.
Mrs. Wharton.
[With dismay.] I was so hoping that no one would know but me. It tears my heart. And I can do nothing. And he’s so strange. Sometimes he looks at me almost as though I were his enemy.
John.
He doesn’t want to die, does he? At the bottom of his heart is envy because you can go on living.
Mrs. Wharton.
Have you noticed that? I tried not to see it.
John.
Don’t be angry with him or disappointed. You know, it’s a hard thing to die for all of us. Generally one’s vitality is lowered so that life seems rather a burden, and it’s not very hard then to make a seemly end. But poor father’s got something much more difficult to face.
Mrs. Wharton.
He’s been supported all his life by his confidence in the great truths of our religion. Oh, John, it’s so dreadful that just at this moment, when he must put them all to the test, he should falter. It’s almost a betrayal of the God who loves him.
John.
My dear, you can’t imagine that God won’t understand? What do these last weeks matter beside a life that has been cheerful and innocent, devout, unselfish, and dutiful? We were talking about it the other day, don’t you remember? And I claimed that a man should be judged by what he believed and did in the heyday of his strength, and not by what was wrung from him in a moment of anguish. Pray that God may give my father courage and resignation.
Mrs. Wharton.
How can you ask me to pray, John, when you don’t believe in God?
John.
Pray all the same, my dear, and for me too.
Mrs. Wharton.
I don’t suppose I shall survive your father very long, dear. Husbands and wives who’ve been so much to one another as we have don’t often make a very good job of separation. I’m so glad to think that you’ll have Sylvia.
John.
Sylvia’s a good girl, isn’t she?
Mrs. Wharton.
When you were away I was dreadfully anxious on my own account, of course, but I was anxious on hers too. She�
�s had a very hard time with her mother, and there’s been dreadfully little money, only their pensions; if anything had happened to you, when her mother died she would have had practically nothing. You’ve been engaged so long and she’s not very young any more. It’s not likely that anyone else would have wanted to marry her.
John.
Mother darling, you’re being terribly sentimental now.
Mrs. Wharton.
[With comic indignation.] I’m not, John. You don’t know what it is for a penniless woman to be quite alone in the world when she’s lost her youth.
John.
Yes, I do. But the tears needn’t come into your eyes, because Sylvia and I are going to be married and her future is quite adequately provided for.
Mrs. Wharton.
She’s the only girl I’ve ever known that I could bear to think of your marrying.
John.
Well, as she’s the only girl I ever knew that I could bear to marry, we’re both quite satisfied.
[Kate enters, followed by Mrs. Littlewood.
Kate.
Mrs. Littlewood.
[Exit Kate.
Mrs. Littlewood.
[Kissing Mrs. Wharton.] How do you do?
Mrs. Wharton.
How are you, my dear?
Mrs. Littlewood.
[To John.] I brought you a wedding present, John.
[She hands him a small case in which is a pearl pin.
John.
Oh, I say, that is splendid of you. Just look, mother. Isn’t it a ripper?
Mrs. Littlewood.
It was Archie’s, you know. He always used to be so proud of it.
John.
It’s awfully good of you to give me something that belonged to him.
Mrs. Wharton.
That is nice of you, Charlotte.
Mrs. Littlewood.
Nonsense. It wasn’t any use to me any more. I thought it much better that John should have it than that it should lie in a safe. They tell me pearls go yellow if they’re not worn.
Mrs. Wharton.
John, dear, go and smoke a cigarette in the garden. I want to have a chat with Mrs. Littlewood.
John.
All right, mother.
[He goes out.
Mrs. Littlewood.
Do you know that I’m thinking of letting my house? I only kept it so that the boys should have a home to come to when they had a holiday, and now that they’re both dead, I think I shall find it more amusing to live in London. I shall join a bridge club.
Mrs. Wharton.
Charlotte, what does it mean? Why do you talk like that?
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 395
