Christmas Holiday

by W. Somerset Maugham

  “One needs more money and more time to get into the first rank than I could dispose of,” he said.

  Lydia had a notion that he was in love with her, but she would not allow herself to be certain of it, for she could not but fear that her own feelings made her no safe judge of his. He occupied her thoughts more and more. He was the first friend of her own age that she had ever had. She owed him happy hours at the concerts he took her to on Sunday afternoons, and happy evenings at the cinema. He gave her life an interest and excitement it had never had before. For him she took pains to dress more prettily. She had never been in the habit of making up, but on the fourth or fifth time she met him she rouged her cheeks a little and made up her eyes.

  “What have you done to yourself?” he said, when they got into the light. “Why have you been putting all that stuff on your face?”

  She laughed and blushed under her rouge.

  “I wanted to be a little more of a credit to you. I couldn’t bear that people should think you were with a little kitchen-maid who’d just come up to Paris from her native province.”

  “But almost the first thing I liked in you was that you were so natural. One gets so tired of all these painted faces. I don’t know why, I found it touching that you had nothing on your pale cheeks, nothing on your lips, nothing on your eyebrows. It was refreshing, like a little wood that you come into after you’ve been walking in the glare of the road. Having no make-up on gives you a look of candour and one feels it is a true expression of the uprightness of your soul.”

  Her heart began to beat almost painfully, but it was that curious sort of pain which is more blissful than pleasure.

  “Well, if you don’t like it, I’ll not do it again. After all, I only did it for your sake.”

  She looked with an inattentive mind at the picture he had brought her to see. She had mistrusted the tenderness in his musical voice, the smiling softness of his eyes, but after this it was almost impossible not to believe that he loved her. She had been exercising all the self-control she possessed to prevent herself from falling in love with him. She had kept on saying to herself that it was only a passing fancy on his part and that it would be madness if she let her feelings run away with her. She was determined not to become his mistress. She had seen too much of that sort of thing among the Russians, the daughters of refugees who had so much difficulty in making any sort of a living; often enough, because they were bored, because they were sick of grinding poverty, they entered upon an affair, but it never lasted; they seemed to have no capacity for holding a man, at least not the Frenchmen whom they generally fell for; their lovers grew tired of them, or impatient, and chucked them; then they were even worse off than they had been before, and often nothing remained but the brothel. But what else was there that she could hope for? She knew very well he had no thought of marriage. The possibility of such a thing would never have crossed his head. She knew French ideas. His mother would not consent to his marrying a Russian sewing-woman, which was all she was really, without a penny to bless herself with. Marriage in France was a serious thing; the position of the respective families must be on a par and the bride had to bring a dowry conformable with the bridegroom’s situation. It was true that her father had been a professor of some small distinction at the university, but in Russia, before the revolution, and since then Paris swarmed with princes and counts and guardsmen who were driving taxis or doing manual labour. Everyone looked upon the Russians as shiftless and undependable. People were sick of them. Lydia’s mother, whose grandfather had been a serf, was herself hardly more than a peasant, and the professor had married her in accordance with his liberal principles; but she was a pious woman and Lydia had been brought up with strict principles. It was in vain that she reasoned with herself; it was true that the world was different now and one must move with the times: she could not help it, she had an instinctive horror of becoming a man’s mistress. And yet. And yet. What else was there to look forward to? Wasn’t she a fool to miss the opportunity that presented itself? She knew that her prettiness was only the prettiness of youth, in a few years she would be drab and plain; perhaps she would never have another chance. Why shouldn’t she let herself go? Only a little relaxation of her self-control and she would love him madly, it would be a relief not to keep that constant rein on her feelings, and he loved her, yes, he loved her, she knew it, the fire of his passion was so hot it made her gasp, in the eagerness of his mobile face she read his fierce desire to possess her; it would be heavenly to be loved by someone she loved to desperation, and if it didn’t last, and of course it couldn’t, she would have had the ecstasy of it, she would have the recollection, and wouldn’t that be worth all the anguish, the bitter anguish she must suffer when he left her? When all was said and done, if it was intolerable there was always the Seine or the gas oven.

  But the curious, the inexplicable, thing was that he didn’t seem to want her to be his mistress. He used her with a consideration that was full of respect. He could not have behaved differently if she had been a young girl in the circle of his family acquaintance whose situation and fortune made it reasonable to suppose that their friendship would eventuate in a marriage satisfactory to all parties. She could not understand it. She knew that the notion was absurd, but in her bones she had a queer inkling that he wished to marry her. She was touched and flattered. If it was true he was one in a thousand, but she almost hoped it wasn’t, for she couldn’t bear that he should suffer the pain that such a wish must necessarily bring him; whatever crazy ideas he harboured, there was his mother in the background, the sensible, practical, middle-class Frenchwoman, who would never let him jeopardize his future and to whom he was devoted as only a Frenchman can be to his mother.

  But one evening, after the cinema, when they were walking to the Metro station he said to her:

  “There’s no concert next Sunday. Will you come and have tea at home? I’ve talked about you so much to my mother that she’d like to make your acquaintance.”

  Lydia’s heart stood still. She realized the situation at once. Madame Berger was getting anxious about this friendship that her son had formed, and she wanted to see her, the better to put an end to it.

  “My poor Robert, I don’t think your mother would like me at all. I think it’s much wiser we shouldn’t meet.”

  “You’re quite wrong. She has a great sympathy for you. The poor woman loves me, you know, I’m all she has in the world, and it makes her happy to think that I’ve made friends with a young girl who is well brought up and respectable.”

  Lydia smiled. How little he knew women if he imagined that a loving mother could feel kindly towards a girl that her son had casually picked up at a concert! But he pressed her so strongly to accept the invitation, which he said he issued on his mother’s behalf, that at last she did. She thought indeed that it would only make Madame Berger look upon her with increased suspicion if she refused to meet her. They arranged that he should pick her up at the Porte St. Denis at four on the following Sunday and take her to his mother’s. He drove up in a car.

  “What luxury!” said Lydia, as she stepped in.

  “It’s not mine, you know. I borrowed it from a friend.”

  Lydia was nervous of the ordeal before her and not even Robert’s affectionate friendliness sufficed to give her confidence.

  They drove to Neuilly.

  “We’ll leave the car here,” said Robert, drawing up to the kerb in a quiet street. “I don’t want to leave it outside our house. It wouldn’t do for the neighbours to think I had a car and of course I can’t explain that it’s only lent.”

  They walked a little.

  “Here we are.”

  It was a tiny detached villa, rather shabby from want of paint and smaller than, from the way Robert had talked, she expected. He took her into the drawing-room. It was a small room crowded with furniture and ornaments, with oil pictures in gold frames on the walls, and opened by an archway on to the dining-room in which the table was set for t
ea. Madame Berger put down the novel she was reading and came forward to greet her guest. Lydia had pictured her as a rather stout, short woman in widow’s weeds, with a mild face and the homely, respectable air of a person who has given up all thought of earthly vanity; she was not at all like that; she was thin, and in her high-heeled shoes as tall as Robert; she was smartly dressed in black flowered silk and she wore a string of false pearls round her neck; her hair, permanently waved, was very dark brown and though she must have been hard on fifty there was not a white streak in it. Her sallow skin was somewhat heavily powdered. She had fine eyes, Robert’s delicate, straight nose, and the same thin lips, but in her, age had given them a certain hardness. She was in her way and for her time of life a good-looking woman, and she evidently took pains over her appearance, but there was in her expression nothing of the charm that made Robert so attractive. Her eyes, so bright and dark, were cool and watchful. Lydia felt the sharp, scrutinizing look with which Madame Berger took her in from head to foot as she entered the room, but it was immediately superseded by a cordial and welcoming smile. She thanked Lydia effusively for coming so long a distance to see her.

  “You must understand how much I wanted to see a young girl of whom my son has talked to me so much. I was prepared for a disagreeable surprise. I have, to tell you the truth, no great confidence in my son’s judgement. It is a relief to me to see that you are as nice as he told me you were.”

  All this she said with a good deal of facial expression, with smiles and little nods of the head, flatteringly, in the manner of a hostess accustomed to society trying to set a stranger at her ease. Lydia, watchful too, answered with becoming diffidence. Madame Berger gave an emphatic, slightly forced laugh and made an enthusiastic little gesture.

  “But you are charming. I’m not surprised that this son of mine should neglect his old mother for your sake.”

  Tea was brought in by a stolid-looking young maid whom Madame Berger, while continuing her gesticulative, complimentary remarks, watched with sharp, anxious eyes, so that Lydia guessed that a tea-party was an unusual event in the house and the hostess was not quite sure that the servant knew how to set about things. They went into the dining-room and sat down. There was a small grand piano in it.

  “It takes up room,” said Madame Berger, “but my son is passionately devoted to music. He plays for hours at a time. He tells me that you are a musician of the first class.”

  “He exaggerates. I’m very fond of it, but very ignorant.”

  “You are too modest, mademoiselle.”

  There was a dish of little cakes from the confectioner’s and a dish of sandwiches. Under each plate was a doyley and on each a tiny napkin. Madame Berger had evidently taken pains to do things in a modish way. With a smile in her cold eyes she asked Lydia how she would like her tea.

  “You Russians always take lemon, I know, and I got a lemon for you specially. Will you begin with a sandwich?”

  The tea tasted of straw.

  “I know you Russians smoke all through your meals. Please do not stand on any ceremony with me. Robert, where are the cigarettes?”

  Madame Berger pressed sandwiches on Lydia, she pressed cakes; she was one of those hostesses who look upon it as a mark of hospitality to make their guests eat however unwilling they may be. She talked without ceasing, well, in a high-pitched, metallic voice, smiling a great deal, and her politeness was effusive. She asked Lydia a great many questions, which had a casual air so that on the face of it they looked like the civil inquiries a woman of the world would put out of sympathy for a friendless girl, but Lydia realized that they were cleverly designed to find out everything she could about her. Lydia’s heart sank; this was not the sort of woman who for love of her son would allow him to do an imprudent thing; but the certainty of this gave her back her own assurance. It was obvious that she had nothing to lose; she certainly had nothing to hide; and she answered the questions with frankness. She told Madame Berger, as she had already told Robert, about her father and mother, and what her life had been in London and how she had lived since her mother’s death. It even amused her to see behind Madame Berger’s warm sympathy, through her shocked commiserating answers, the shrewdness that weighed every word she heard and drew conclusions upon it. After two or three unavailing attempts to go, which Madame Berger would not hear of, Lydia managed to tear herself away from so much friendliness. Robert was to see her home. Madame Berger seized both her hands when she said good-bye to her and her fine dark eyes glittered with cordiality.

  “You are delicious,” she said. “You know your way now, you must come and see me often, often; you will be always sure of a hearty welcome.”

  When they were walking along to the car Robert took her arm with an affectionate gesture which seemed to ask for protection rather than to offer it and which charmed her.

  “Well, my dear one, it went off very well. My mother liked you. You made a conquest of her at once. She’ll adore you.”

  Lydia laughed.

  “Don’t be so silly. She detested me.”

  “No, no, you’re wrong. I promise you. I know her, I saw at once that she took to you.”

  Lydia shrugged her shoulders, but did not answer. When they parted they arranged to go to the cinema on the following Tuesday. She agreed to his plan, but she was pretty sure that his mother would put a stop to it. He knew her address now.

  “If anything should happen to prevent you, you’ll send me a petit bleu?”

  “Nothing will happen to prevent me,” he said fondly.

  She was very sad that evening. If she could have got by herself she would have cried. But perhaps it was just as well that she couldn’t; it was no good making oneself bad blood. It had been a foolish dream. She would get over her unhappiness; after all, she was used to it. It would have been much worse if he had been her lover and thrown her over.

  Monday passed, Tuesday came; but no petit bleu. She was certain that it would be there when she got back from work. Nothing. She had an hour before she need think of getting ready, and she passed it waiting with sickening anxiety for the bell to ring; she dressed with the feeling that she was foolish to take the trouble, for the message would arrive before she was finished. She wondered if it were possible that he would let her go to the cinema and not turn up. It would be heartless, it would be cruel, but she knew that he was under his mother’s thumb, she suspected he was weak, and it might be that to let her go to a meeting-place and not come himself would seem to him the best way, brutal though it was, to show her that he was done with her. No sooner had this notion occurred to her than she was sure of it and she nearly decided not to go. Nevertheless she went. After all, if he could be so beastly it would prove that she was well rid of him.

  But he was there all right and when he saw her walking along he came towards her with the springy gait which marked his eager vitality. On his face shone his sweet smile. His spirits seemed even higher than usual.

  “I’m not in the mood for the pictures this evening,” he said. “Let us have a drink at Fouquet’s and then go for a drive. I’ve got a car just round the corner.”

  “If you like.”

  It was fine and dry, though cold, and the stars in the frosty night seemed to laugh with a good-natured malice at the gaudy lights of the Champs-Élysées. They had a glass of beer, Robert meanwhile talking nineteen to the dozen, and then they walked up the Avenue George V to where he had parked his car. Lydia was puzzled. He talked quite naturally, but she had no notion what were his powers of dissimulation, and she could not help asking herself whether he proposed the drive in order to break unhappy news to her. He was an emotional creature, sometimes, she had discovered, even a trifle theatrical, (but that amused rather than offended her), and she wondered whether he were setting the stage for an affecting scene of renunciation.

  “This isn’t the same car that you had on Sunday,” she said, when they came to it.

  “No. It belongs to a friend who wants to sell. I said I wanted to s
how it to a possible purchaser.”

  They drove to the Arc de Triomphe and then along the Avenue Foch till they came to the Bois. It was dark there except when they met the head-lights of a car coming towards them, and deserted except for a car parked here and there in which one surmised a couple was engaged in amorous conversation. Presently Robert drew up at the kerb.

  “Shall we stop here and smoke a cigarette?” he said. “You’re not cold?”

  “No.”

  It was a solitary spot and in other circumstances Lydia might have felt a trifle nervous. But she thought she knew Robert well enough to know that he was incapable of taking advantage of the situation. He had too nice a nature. Moreover she had an intuition that he had something on his mind, and was curious to know what it was. He lit her cigarette and his and for a moment kept silent. She realized that he was embarrassed and did not know how to begin. Her heart began to beat anxiously.

  “I’ve got something to say to you, my dear,” he said at last.

  “Yes?”

  “Mon Dieu, I hardly know how to put it. I’m not often nervous, but at the moment I have a curious sensation that is quite new to me.”

  Lydia’s heart sank, but she had no intention of showing that she was suffering.

  “If one has something awkward to say,” she answered lightly, “it’s better to say it quite plainly, you know. One doesn’t do much good by beating about the bush.”

  “I’ll take you at your word. Will you marry me?”

  “Me?”

  It was the last thing she had expected him to say.

  “I love you passionately. I think I fell in love with you at first sight, when we stood side by side at that concert, and the tears poured down your pale cheeks.”

  “But your mother?”