65 Short Stories by W. Somerset Maugham
He would have sworn that he had not been asleep five minutes when he was dragged back to wakefulness by a knocking at the door. He listened for a moment.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s the maid. Open. I have something to say to you.’
Cursing, Ashenden turned on his light, ran a hand through his thinning and rumpled hair (for like Julius Caesar he disliked exposing an unbecoming baldness) and unlocked and opened the door. Outside it stood a tousled Swiss maid. She wore no apron and looked as though she had thrown on her clothes in a hurry.
‘The old English lady, the governess of the Egyptian princesses, is dying and she wants to see you.’
‘Me?’ said Ashenden. ‘It’s impossible. I don’t know her. She was all right this evening.’
He was confused and spoke his thoughts as they came to him.
‘She asks for you. The doctor says, will you come. She cannot last much longer.’
‘It must be a mistake. She can’t want me.’
‘She said your name and the number of your room. She says quick, quick.’ Ashenden shrugged his shoulders. He went back into his room to put on slippers and a dressing-gown, and as an afterthought dropped a small revolver into his pocket. Ashenden believed much more in his acuteness than in a firearm, which is apt to go off at the wrong time and make a noise, but there are moments when it gives you confidence to feel your fingers round its butt, and this sudden summons seemed to him exceedingly mysterious. It was ridiculous to suppose that those two cordial stout Egyptian gentlemen were laying some sort of trap for him, but in the work upon which Ashenden was engaged the dullness of routine was apt now and again to slip quite shamelessly into the melodrama of the sixties. Just as passion will make use brazenly of the hackneyed phrase, so will chance show itself insensitive to the triteness of the literary convention.
Miss King’s room was two floors higher than Ashenden’s, and as he accompanied the chamber-maid along the corridor and up the stairs he asked her what was the matter with the old governess. She was flurried and stupid.
‘I think she has had a stroke. I don’t know. The night-porter woke me and said Monsieur Bridet wanted me to get up at once.’
Monsieur Bridet was the assistant-manager.
‘What is the time?’ asked Ashenden.
‘It must be three o’clock.’
They arrived at Miss King’s door and the maid knocked. It was opened by Monsieur Bridet. He had evidently been roused from his sleep; he wore slippers on his bare feet, grey trousers and a frock-coat over his pyjamas. He looked absurd. His hair as a rule plastered neatly on his head stood on end. He was extremely apologetic.
‘A thousand excuses for disturbing you, Monsieur Ashenden, but she kept asking for you and the doctor said you should be sent for.’
‘It doesn’t matter at all.’
Ashenden walked in. It was a small back room and all the lights were on. The windows were closed and the curtains drawn. It was intensely hot. The doctor, a bearded, grizzled Swiss, was standing at the bedside. Monsieur Bridet, notwithstanding his costume and his evident harassment, found in himself the presence of mind to remain the attentive manager, and with ceremony effected the proper introduction.
‘This is Mr Ashenden, for whom Miss King has been asking. Dr Arbos of the Faculty of Medicine of Geneva.’
Without a word the doctor pointed to the bed. On it lay Miss King. It gave Ashenden a shock to look at her. She wore a large white cotton nightcap (on entering Ashenden had noticed the brown wig on a stand on the dressing-table) tied under the chin, and a white, voluminous nightdress that came high up in the neck. Nightcap and nightdress belonged to a past age and reminded you of Cruikshank’s illustrations to the novels of Charles Dickens. Her face was greasy still with the cream she had used before going to bed to remove her make-up, but she had removed it summarily and there were streaks of black on her eyebrows and of red on her cheeks. She looked very small, lying in the bed, no larger than a child, and immensely old.
‘She must be well over eighty,’ thought Ashenden.
She did not look human, but like a doll, the caricature of an old, old witch that an ironic toymaker had amused himself with modelling. She lay perfectly still on her back, the tiny little body hardly marked under the flatness of the blanket, her face even smaller than usual because she had removed her teeth; and you would have thought she was dead but for the black eyes, strangely large in the shrunken mask, that stared unblinkingly. Ashenden thought their expression changed when she saw him.
‘Well, Miss King, I’m sorry to see you like this,’ he said with forced cheerfulness.
‘She cannot speak,’ said the doctor. ‘She had another little stroke when the maid went to fetch you. I have just given her an injection. She may partly recover the use of her tongue in a little while. She has something to say to you.’
‘I will gladly wait,’ said Ashenden.
He fancied that in those dark eyes he saw a look of relief For a moment or two the four of them stood round the bed and stared at the dying woman. ‘Well, if there is nothing I can do I may just as well go back to bed,’ said Monsieur Bridet then.
‘Allez, mon ami,’ said the doctor. ‘You can do nothing.’
Monsieur Bridet turned to Ashenden.
‘May I have a word with you?’ he asked.
‘Certainly’
The doctor noticed a sudden fear in Miss King’s eyes.
‘Do not be alarmed,’ he said kindly. ‘Monsieur Ashenden is not going. He will stay as long as you wish.’
The assistant-manager took Ashenden to the door and partly closed it so that those within should not hear his undertones.
‘I can count on your discretion, Monsieur Ashenden, can I not? It is a very disagreeable thing to have anyone die in a hotel. The other guests do not like it and we must do all we can to prevent their knowing. I shall have the body removed the first possible moment and I shall be extremely obliged if you will not say that there has been a death.’
‘You can have every confidence in me,’ said Ashenden.
‘It is very unfortunate that the manager should be away for the night. I am afraid he will be exceedingly displeased. Of course if it had been possible I would have sent for an ambulance and had her taken to the hospital, but the doctor said she might die before we got her downstairs and absolutely refused to let me. It is not my fault if she dies in the hotel.’
‘Death so often chooses its moments without consideration,’ murmured Ashenden.
‘After all she is an old woman, she should have died years ago. What did this Egyptian prince want to have a governess of that age for? He ought to have sent her back to her own country. These Orientals, they are always giving trouble.’
‘Where is the prince now?’ asked Ashenden. ‘She has been in his service for many years. Ought you not to wake him?’
‘He is not in the hotel. He went out with his secretary. He may be playing baccarat. I do not know. Anyhow I cannot send all over Geneva to find him.’
‘And the princesses?’
‘They have not come in. They seldom return to the hotel till dawn. They are mad about dancing. I do not know where they are; in any case they would not thank me for dragging them away from their diversions because their governess has had a stroke. I know what they are. The night-porter will tell them when they arrive and then they can please themselves. She does not want them. When the night-porter fetched me and I went into her room I asked where His Highness was and she cried with all her strength: no, no.’
‘She could talk then?’
‘Yes, after a fashion, but the thing that surprised me was that she spoke in English. She always insisted on talking French. You know, she hated the English.’
‘What did she want with me?’
‘That I cannot tell you. She said she had something that she must say to you at once. It is funny, she knew the number of your room. At first when she asked for you I would not let them send. I cannot have my clients disturbe
Ashenden looked at the assistant-manager. He seemed to find nothing at all touching in the scene he related.
‘The doctor asked who you were and when I told him he said that perhaps she wished to see you because you were a compatriot’
‘Perhaps,’ said Ashenden dryly.
‘Well, I shall try to get a little sleep. I shall give the night-porter orders to wake me when everything is over. Fortunately the nights are long now and if everything goes well we may be able to get the body away before it is light’
Ashenden went back into the room and immediately the dark eyes of the dying woman fixed upon him. He felt that it was incumbent upon him to say something, but as he spoke he reflected on the foolish way in which one speaks to the sick.
‘I’m afraid you’re feeling very ill, Miss King.’
It seemed to him that a flash of anger crossed her eyes and Ashenden could not but imagine that she was exasperated by his futile words.
‘You do not mind waiting?’ asked the doctor.
‘Of course not’
It appeared that the night-porter had been roused by the ringing of the telephone from Miss King’s room, but on listening could get no one to speak. The bell continued to ring, so he went upstairs and knocked at the door. He entered with his pass-key and found Miss King lying on the floor. The telephone had fallen too. It looked as though, feeling ill, she had taken off the receiver to call for help and then collapsed. The night-porter hurried to fetch the assistant-manager and together they had lifted her back into bed. Then the maid was wakened and the doctor sent for. It gave Ashenden a queer feeling to listen to the doctor giving him these facts in Miss King’s hearing. He spoke as though she could not understand his French. He spoke as though she were already dead.
Then the doctor said:
Well, there is really nothing more that I can do. It is useless for me to stay. I can be rung up if there is any change.’
Ashenden, knowing that Miss King might remain in that condition for hours, shrugged his shoulders.
‘Very well.’
The doctor patted her raddled cheek as though she were a child. ‘You must try to sleep. I will come back in the morning.’
He packed up the dispatch-case in which he had his medical appliances, washed his hands, and shuffled himself into a heavy coat. Ashenden accompanied him to the door and as he shook hands the doctor gave his prognosis in a pout of his bearded mouth. Ashenden, coming back, looked at the maid. She sat on the edge of a chair, uneasily, as though in the presence of death she feared to presume. Her broad, ugly face was bloated with fatigue.
‘There’s no use in your staying up,’ Ashenden said to her. ‘Why don’t you go to bed?’
‘Monsieur wouldn’t like to remain here alone. Somebody must stay with him.’
‘But good heavens, why? You have your day’s work to do tomorrow’
‘In any case I have to get up at five.’
‘Then try to get a little sleep now You can give me a look in when you get up. Allez:
She rose heavily to her feet.
‘As the gentleman wishes. But I will stay very willingly.’
Ashenden smiled and shook his head.
Tonsoir, ma pauvre mademoiselle,’ said the maid.
She went out and Ashenden was left alone. He sat by the bedside and again his eyes met Miss King’s. It was embarrassing to encounter that unshrinking stare.
‘Don’t worry yourself, Miss King. You’ve had a slight stroke. I’m sure your speech will come back to you in a minute.’
He felt certain then that he saw in those dark eyes a desperate effort to speak. He could not be mistaken. The mind was shaken by desire, but the paralysed body was incapable of obedience. For her disappointment expressed itself quite plainly, tears came to her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Ashenden took out his handkerchief and dried them.
‘Don’t distress yourself, Miss King. Have a little patience and I’m sure you’ll be able to say anything you want.’
He did not know if it was his fancy that he read in her eyes now the despairing thought that she had not the time to wait. Perhaps it was only that he ascribed to her the notions that came to himself On the dressing-table were the governess’s poor little toilet things, silver-backed embossed brushes and a silver mirror, in a corner stood a shabby black trunk, and on the top of the wardrobe a large hat-box in shiny leather. It all looked poor and mean in that trim hotel room, with its suite in highly varnished rosewood. The glare was intolerable.
‘Wouldn’t you be more comfortable if I turned out some of the lights?’ asked Ashenden.
He put out all the lamps but the one by the bedside and then sat down again. He had a longing to smoke. Once more his eyes were held by those other eyes in which was all that remained alive of that old, old woman. He felt certain that she had something that she wanted urgently to say to him. But what was it? What was it? Perhaps she had asked him only because feeling death near, she had had a sudden yearning, she the exile of so many years, to die with someone of her own people, so long forgotten, by her side. That was what the doctor thought. But why should she have sent for him? There were other English people in the hotel. There was an old pair, a retired Indian Civilian and his wife, to whom it seemed more natural that she should turn. No one could be more of a stranger to her than Ashenden.
‘Have you got something to say to me, Miss King?’
He tried to read an answer in her eyes. They continued to stare at him meaningly, but what the meaning was he had no notion.
‘Don’t be afraid I shall go. I will stay as long as you want me.’
Nothing, nothing. The black eyes, and as he looked at them they seemed to glow mysteriously as though there were fire behind them, the eyes continued to hold him with that insistent stare. Then Ashenden asked himself if she had sent for him because she knew that he was a British agent. Was it possible that at that last moment she had had some unexpected revulsion of feeling from everything that had signified to her for so many years? Perhaps at the moment of death a love for her country, a love that had been dead for half a century, awakened again in her-(‘I’m silly to fancy these idiotic things,’ thought Ashenden, ‘it’s cheap and tawdry fiction’)-and she had been seized with a desire to do something for what was after all her own. No one was quite himself just then and patriotism (in peace-time an attitude best left to politicians, publicists, and fools, but in the dark days of war an emotion that can wring the heart-strings), patriotism made one do odd things. It was curious that she had been unwilling to see the prince and his daughters. Did she on a sudden hate them? Did she feel herself a traitor on their account and now at the last hour wish to make amends? (‘It’s all very improbable, she’s just a silly old maid who ought to have died years ago.’) But you couldn’t ignore the improbable. Ashenden, his common sense protesting, became strangely convinced that she had some secret that she wished to impart to him. She had sent for him knowing who he was because he could make use of it. She was dying and feared nothing. But was it really important? Ashenden leaned forward trying more eagerly to read what her eyes had to say. Perhaps it was only some trivial thing that was important only in her addled old brain. Ashenden was sick of the people who saw spies in every inoffensive passer-by and plots in the most innocent combination of circumstances. It was a hundred to one that if Miss King recovered her speech she would tell him something that could be of no use to anybody.
But how much must that old woman know! With her sharp eyes and sharp ears she must have had the chance to discover matters that were closely hidden from persons that seemed less insignificant. Ashenden thought again how he had the impression that something of real consequence was being prepared round about him. It was curious that Holzminden should have come to the hotel that day; and w
‘Has it got anything to do with the war, Miss King?’ he said on a sudden, loudly.
Something passed through her eyes and a tremor shot across her little old face. It was a distinct movement. Something strange and horrible was happening and Ashenden held his breath. The tiny frail body was suddenly convulsed and that old woman, as though by a final desperate effort of will, raised herself up in the bed. Ashenden sprang forward to support her.
‘England,’ she said, just that one word, in a harsh cracked voice, and fell back in his arms.
When he laid her down on the pillow, he saw that she was dead.
THE HAIRLESS MEXICAN
♦
‘Do you like macaroni?’ said R
‘What do you mean by macaroni?’ answered Ashenden. ‘It is like asking me if I like poetry. I like Keats and Wordsworth and Verlaine and Goethe. When you say macaroni, do you mean spaghetti, tagliatelli, vermicelli, fettuccini, tufali, fatfalli, or just macaroni?’
‘Macaroni,’ replied R, a man of few words.
‘I like all simple things, boiled eggs, oysters and caviare, truite au bleu, grilled salmon, roast lamb (the saddle by preference), cold grouse, treacle tart, and rice pudding. But of all simple things the only one I can eat day in and day out, not only without disgust but with the eagerness of an appetite unimpaired by excess, is macaroni.’
‘I am glad of that because I want you to go down to Italy.’
Ashenden had come from Geneva to meet R at Lyons and having got there before him had spent the afternoon wandering about the dull, busy and prosaic streets of that thriving city. They were sitting now in a restaurant on the place to which Ashenden had taken R on his arrival because it was reputed to give you the best food in that part of France. But since in so crowded a resort (for the Lyonese like a good dinner) you never knew what inquisitive ears were pricked up to catch any useful piece of information that might fall from your lips, they had contented themselves with talking of indifferent things. They had reached the end of an admirable repast.