Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)
Page 399
Sylvia.
Oh, I wish I could. I pray for him night and day.
Mrs. Wharton.
I wished afterwards that I’d asked him to be present when his father and I received the Communion. I think at that last solemn moment he might have been moved to receive it with us.
Sylvia.
D’you think.... Perhaps a miracle would have taken place in him, too. Perhaps he would have believed.
Mrs. Wharton.
I must go upstairs.
[An idea seizes Sylvia, and she gives a strange little gasp. As Mrs. Wharton is about to leave the room she stops her with a sudden question.
Sylvia.
Mrs. Wharton ... Mrs. Wharton, do you think the end can ever justify the means?
Mrs. Wharton.
My dear, what an extraordinary question! It can never be right to do evil that good may come.
Sylvia.
Are you quite sure that that’s so always? After all, no one would hesitate to tell a lie to save another’s life.
Mrs. Wharton.
Perhaps not. [With a faint smile.] We must thank God that we’re not likely to be put in such a position. Why did you ask me that?
Sylvia.
I was wondering what one should do if one could only rescue somebody from terrible danger by committing a great sin. Do you think one ought to do it or not?
Mrs. Wharton.
My dear, you haven’t the right to offend God for the sake of anyone in the world.
Sylvia.
Not even for the sake of anyone you loved?
Mrs. Wharton.
Surely not, my dear. And no one who loved you would wish you for a moment to do a wicked thing for his sake.
Sylvia.
But take your own case, Mrs. Wharton; if you saw the Colonel or John in deadly peril wouldn’t you risk your life to save them?
Mrs. Wharton.
[With a smile.] Of course I should. I should be happy and thankful to have the opportunity. But that’s not the same. I should only be risking my life, not my soul.
Sylvia.
[Almost beside herself.] But if their souls were in peril, wouldn’t you risk your soul?
Mrs. Wharton.
My dear, what do you mean? You seem so excited.
Sylvia.
[Controlling herself with a great effort.] I? You mustn’t pay any attention to me. I haven’t been sleeping very well the last three or four nights. I daresay I’m a little hysterical.
Mrs. Wharton.
Wouldn’t you prefer to go home, darling?
Sylvia.
No, I’d like to stay here if you don’t mind. I’d like to see John.
Mrs. Wharton.
Very well. I shan’t be very long.
[She goes out. The church bell gives a hurried tinkle and then stops. Sylvia walks up and down the room and stands still in front of a photograph of John in his uniform. She takes it up and looks at it. Then putting it down she clasps her hands and raises her eyes. She is seen to be praying. She hears a sound in the garden, inclines her head to listen, and goes to the window. She hesitates a moment and then braces herself to a decision. She calls.
Sylvia.
John!
[He comes, stops for a moment on the threshold, and then walks forward casually.
John.
Good morning! You’re very early.
Sylvia.
I looked in to ask how your father was.
John.
When I left him last night he was fairly comfortable. I’ll go and find out from mother how he is.
Sylvia.
No, don’t — don’t disturb him.
John.
I’m going to take mother’s place in a few minutes. I awoke early, so I went for a walk.... You’ve been very good and kind to all of us during these wretched days, Sylvia. I don’t know what we should have done without you.
Sylvia.
I’ve been so dreadfully sorry. And you all had so much to bear. It wasn’t only the thought that the poor dear couldn’t — can’t recover, but ... it was so much worse than that.
John.
[With a quick glance at her.] I suppose it was inevitable that you should see it too. Somehow I hoped that only I and mother knew.
Sylvia.
Oh, John, you can’t mind about me. I’ve loved your father as though he were my own. Nothing he did could make me love him less.
John.
He’s afraid to die. It’s dreadful to see his terror and to be able to do nothing to help him.
Sylvia.
Would you do anything to help him if you could?
John.
Of course.
Sylvia.
It’s unfortunate that you found it necessary to say what you did about religion. He’s always been a very simple man. He always accepted without question the faith in which he was brought up. Perhaps he’s not quite so sure now.
John.
Nonsense, Sylvia. Father’s faith is very much too steady for it to be unsettled by any opinions of mine.
Sylvia.
Ordinarily, I dare say. But he’s ill, he’s in terrible pain, he’s not himself. I think perhaps it’s a pity you didn’t hold your tongue. It’s so easy to create doubts and so hard to allay them.
John.
[Much disturbed.] That’s an awful thought to have put into my head, Sylvia. I should never forgive myself if....
Sylvia.
If you’d believed as we believe, he would have been supported, as it were, by all our faith. It would have made that terrible passage from this life to the life to come a little less terrible. You’ve failed him just when he needed you.
John.
[Indignantly.] Oh, Sylvia, how can you say anything so heartless?
Sylvia.
[Coldly.] It’s true.
John.
Heaven knows, I know that death isn’t easy. You can’t think I’d be so inhuman as to do anything to make it more difficult?
Sylvia.
Except mortify your pride.
John.
[Impatiently.] What has pride got to do with it?
Sylvia.
There was pride in every word you said. Are you sure it’s not pride of intellect that’s responsible for your change of heart?
John.
[Icily.] Perhaps. How do you suggest I should mortify it?
Sylvia.
Well, you see, you can confess your error.
John.
I don’t think it’s an error.
Sylvia.
At least you can undo some of the harm you’ve done. Do you know what is chiefly tormenting your father? Your refusal to receive the Holy Communion. He keeps talking about it to your mother. He keeps harping on it. He’s dreadfully distressed about it. If you received the Communion, John, it would give your father peace.
John.
Sylvia, how can I?
Sylvia.
All your life your father has done everything in the world for you. Nothing’s been too good for you. You owe him all your happiness, everything you are and hope to be. Can’t you do this one little thing for him?
John.
No, it’s out of the question. I really can’t. I’m awfully sorry.
Sylvia.
How can you be so hard? It’s the last wish he’ll ever have in the world. It’s your last chance of showing your love for him. Oh, John, show a little mercy to his weakness!
John.
But, Sylvia, it would be blasphemous.
Sylvia.
What are you talking about? You don’t believe. To you it’s merely an idle ceremony. What can it matter to you if you go through a meaningless form?
John.
I’ve been a Christian too long. I have a hundred generations of Christianity behind me.
Sylvia.
You never hesitated at coming to church when we were going to be married.
John.
That was different.
Sylvi
a.
How? That was a sacrament, too. Are you afraid of a little bread and wine that a priest has said a few words over?
John.
Sylvia, don’t torment me. I tell you I can’t.
Sylvia.
[Scornfully.] I never imagined you would be superstitious. You’re frightened. You feel just like people about sitting thirteen at table. Of course it’s all nonsense, but there may be something in it.
John.
I don’t know what I feel. I only know that I, an unbeliever, can’t take part in a ceremony that was sacred to me when I believed.
Sylvia.
[Bitterly.] It’s very natural. It only means that you love yourself better than anyone else. Why should one expect you to have pity for your father, or gratitude?
John.
Oh, Sylvia, where did you learn to say such cruel things? I can’t, I tell you, I can’t. If father were in his normal mind, neither he nor mother would wish me to do such a thing.
Sylvia.
But your mother does wish it. Oh, John, don’t be stubborn. For God’s sake give yourself the opportunity. Your father’s dying, John; you have no time to lose.... John, the Communion Service has only just begun. If you get on your bicycle you’ll be there in time. The other day the Vicar said if you presented yourself at the Communion table he would not hesitate to administer it.
[John looks steadily in front of him for a moment, then makes up his mind; he stands up suddenly and without a word goes out of the room.
Sylvia.
[In a whisper.] O God, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me!
[The Curtain is lowered for one minute to denote the lapse of half an hour. When it rises Sylvia is standing at the window, looking out into the garden.
[Mrs. Littlewood enters.
Mrs. Littlewood.
May I come in?
Sylvia.
Oh, Mrs. Littlewood, do!
Mrs. Littlewood.
I met Dr. Macfarlane just outside my house, and he told me the Colonel was dead. I came with him to see if I could be of any use.
Sylvia.
It’s very kind of you. Is Dr. Macfarlane here?
Mrs. Littlewood.
Yes. He went upstairs. Where is John?
Sylvia.
He’ll be here directly.
[Mrs. Wharton comes in, followed by Dr. Macfarlane. Mrs. Littlewood goes up to her and the two old ladies kiss one another. For a moment they stand clasped in one another’s arms.
Mrs. Littlewood.
My dear old friend!
Mrs. Wharton.
It was dear of you to come, Charlotte. I knew you’d feel for me.
Dr. Macfarlane.
Now sit down, my dear Mrs. Wharton, sit down and rest yourself.
[He puts her into a chair and places a cushion behind her.
Mrs. Wharton.
Hasn’t John come in yet?
Sylvia.
I’m sure he won’t be long now. He should be here almost at once.
Dr. Macfarlane.
Sylvia, my dear child, won’t you go and get Mrs. Wharton a cup of tea? I think it would do her good.
Sylvia.
Certainly.
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh, my dear, don’t trouble.
Sylvia.
But it’s no trouble. You know I love doing things for you.
[She goes out.
Mrs. Wharton.
Everybody’s so very kind in this world. It makes one feel humble.... George and I have been married for five and thirty years. He never said a cross word to me. He was always gentle and considerate. I daresay I was very troublesome now and then, but he was never impatient with me.
Mrs. Littlewood.
Is it true that John and Sylvia are not going to be married after all?
Mrs. Wharton.
I’m afraid so.
Mrs. Littlewood.
Isn’t it strange how people in this world seem to go out of their way to make themselves unhappy!
Mrs. Wharton.
I’ve talked it over with Sylvia. Religion means so much to her. She wouldn’t have minded if John had come back blind and crippled, she’d have devoted her life to him without a murmur.
Dr. Macfarlane.
People always think they could put up with the faults we haven’t got. Somehow or other it’s always those we have that stick in their throats.
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh, Doctor, don’t say sarcastic things. You don’t know how deeply Sylvia is suffering. But it’s a matter of conscience. And I do see that one can’t ask anyone to compromise with his soul.
Dr. Macfarlane.
I have an idea our souls are like our manners, all the better when we don’t think too much about them.
Mrs. Wharton.
Sylvia’s giving up a great deal. I don’t know what’s to become of her if she doesn’t marry John. When her mother dies she’ll only have thirty pounds a year.
[Sylvia comes back with a cup of tea on a small tray and puts it on a table by Mrs. Wharton’s side.
Sylvia.
Here is the tea, Mrs. Wharton.
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh, thank you, my dear, so much. You do spoil me.... I can’t imagine why John is so long. He’s generally so very punctual.
Sylvia.
[In a low voice.] John came in, Mrs. Wharton.
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh, then, you saw him?
Sylvia.
Yes.
Mrs. Wharton.
Did you speak to him?
Sylvia.
Yes.
Mrs. Wharton.
Why did he go out again? Where has he gone?
Sylvia.
He’ll be back immediately.
Dr. Macfarlane.
Drink your tea, dear lady, drink your tea.
[Sylvia takes her place again at the window and looks into the garden. She takes no notice of the people in the room.
Mrs. Wharton.
I’m glad to have you two old friends with me now. The only thing that really seems to belong to me any more is the past, and you were both so much part of it.
Dr. Macfarlane.
You came here immediately after your honeymoon. Is that really thirty-five years ago?
Mrs. Littlewood.
My mother and I were the first people who called on you. I remember how stylish we thought you in your green velvet, Evelyn.
Mrs. Wharton.
I remember it well. I had it dyed black its third year. I think the fashions were very much more ladylike in those days. A bustle did set off a woman’s figure, there’s no denying that.
Dr. Macfarlane.
What waists you had and how tight you used to lace!
Mrs. Wharton.
I often wonder if the young people ever enjoy themselves as much as we used to. Do you remember the picnics we used to have?
Mrs. Littlewood.
And now it’s all as if it had never been, all our love and pain and joy and sorrow. We’re just two funny old women, and it really wouldn’t have mattered a row of pins if we’d never been born.
Dr. Macfarlane.
I wonder, I wonder.
Mrs. Wharton.
You’ve had the privilege of giving two sons to a noble cause. Wasn’t it worth while to be born for that?
Mrs. Littlewood.
Sometimes I’ve asked myself if this world in which we’re living now isn’t hell. Perhaps all the unhappiness my husband caused me and the death of those two boys of mine is a punishment for sins that I committed in some other life in some other part of the universe.
Mrs. Wharton.
Charlotte, sometimes you say things that frighten me. I’m haunted by the fear that you may destroy yourself.
Mrs. Littlewood.
I? No, why should I? I don’t feel that life is important enough for me to give it a deliberate end. I don’t trouble to kill the fly that walks over my ceiling.
Dr. Macfarlane.
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bsp; I’ve been curing or killing people for hard on fifty years, and it seems to me that I’ve seen innumerable generations enter upon the shifting scene, act their little part, and pass away. Alas, who can deny that in this world virtue is very often unrewarded and vice unpunished? Happiness too rarely comes to the good, and the prizes of this life go too frequently to the undeserving. The rain falls on the just and on the unjust alike, but the unjust generally have a stout umbrella. It looks as though there were little justice in the world, and chance seems to rule man and all his circumstances.
Mrs. Wharton.
But we know that all that is mere idle seeming.
Dr. Macfarlane.
Seeming perhaps, but why idle? Seeming is all we know. The other day when you were talking I held my tongue, because I thought you’d say I was a silly old fool if I put my word in, but I’ve puzzled over suffering and pain too. You see, in my trade we see so much of them. It made me unhappy, and for long I doubted the goodness of God, as you doubt it, dear friend.
Mrs. Littlewood.
[With a smile.] I think you’re preaching at me, Doctor.
Dr. Macfarlane.
Then it’s the first time in my life.
Mrs. Littlewood.
Go on.
Dr. Macfarlane.
I want to tell you how I found peace. My explanation is as old as the hills, and I believe many perfectly virtuous persons have been frizzled alive for accepting it. Our good Vicar would say I was a heretic. I can’t help it. I can’t see any other way of reconciling the goodness of God with the existence of evil.
Mrs. Littlewood.
Well, what is it?
Dr. Macfarlane.
I don’t believe that God is all-powerful and all-knowing. But I think He struggles against evil as we do. I don’t believe He means to chasten us by suffering or to purify us by pain. I believe pain and suffering are evil, and that He hates them, and would crush them if He could. And I believe that in this age-long struggle between God and evil we can help, all of us, even the meanest; for in some way, I don’t know how, I believe that all our goodness adds to the strength of God, and perhaps — who can tell? — will give Him such power that at last He will be able utterly to destroy evil — utterly, with its pain and suffering. [With a smile.] When we’re good, we’re buying silver bullets for the King of Heaven, and when we’re bad, well, we’re trading with the enemy.
Sylvia.
[Without looking round.] John has just ridden back on his bicycle.
Dr. Macfarlane.
Come, Mrs. Littlewood, they don’t want us here just now.
Mrs. Littlewood.
[Getting up.] No, I’m sure you will prefer to be alone with John.