The Narrow Corner by W. Somerset Maugham
“I’ve always been strong,” smiled Erik.
“Put your hand up.”
Fred placed his elbow on the table and Erik did the same. They put palm to palm and Fred tried to force Erik’s arm down. He put all his strength into the effort. He could not move it. Then with a little smile the Dane pressed back and gradually Fred’s arm was forced to the table.
“I’m like a kid beside you,” he laughed. “Gosh, a fellow wouldn’t stand much chance if you hit him. Ever been in a fight?”
“No. Why should I?”
He finished eating and lit a cheroot.
“I must go to my office,” he said. “Frith says, will you all go up there this afternoon. He wants us to have supper with him.”
“Suits me all right,” said the doctor.
“And the captain, too. I’ll come for you about four.”
Fred watched him go.
“Perfect loon,” he said, turning to the doctor, with a smile. “My belief is he isn’t all there.”
“Oh, why?”
“The way he talked.”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Crazy. He asked me about Shakespeare. A fat lot I know about Shakespeare. I told him I’d read ‘Henry V’ when I was at school (we took it one term), and he began spouting one of the speeches. Then he started talking about ‘Hamlet’ and ‘Othello’ and heaven knows what. He knows yards of them by heart. I can’t tell you all he said about them. I never heard anyone talk in that way before. And the funny thing was that, although it was all a lot of bunk, you didn’t want to tell him to shut up.”
A smile lingered in his candid blue eyes, but his face was serious.
“You’ve never been in Sydney, have you?”
“No.”
“We have quite a literary and artistic set there. Not much in my line, but sometimes I couldn’t help myself. Women chiefly, you know. They’d talk a lot of tosh about books and then, before you knew where you were, they’d be wanting to pop into bed with you.”
“The Philistine dots his i’s and crosses his t’s with a definiteness that is unbecoming,” reflected the doctor, “and when he sees a nail he hits it on the head.”
“You get rather leery of them. But, I don’t know how to explain it exactly, when Erik talked about all that it was different. He wasn’t showing off and he wasn’t trying to impress me. He just talked like that because he couldn’t help it. He didn’t mind if I was bored or not. He was so keen on it all it never struck him, perhaps, I didn’t care a damn about it. I didn’t understand the half of what he said, you know, but somehow, I don’t know, it was as good as a play, if you understand what I mean.”
Fred threw out his observations like stones that you dig up in a garden to prepare the ground for planting and cast in a heap one after the other. In his perplexity he vigorously scratched his head. Dr. Saunders watched him with cool, shrewd eyes. The boy was tongue-tied, and it was diverting in his confused remarks to discover the emotion he was trying to put in words. Critics divide writers into those who have something to say and do not know how to say it, and those who know how to say it and have nothing to say. Often it is the same with men, with Anglo-Saxons at all events, to whom words come difficultly. When a man is fluent it is sometimes because he has said a thing so often that it has lost its meaning, and his speech is most significant when he has to fashion it laboriously from thoughts to which he can see no clear outline.
Fred gave the doctor a puckish glance that made him look like a mischievous boy.
“D’you know, he’s lending me ‘Othello.’ I don’t exactly know why, but I said I wouldn’t mind reading it. You’ve read it, I suppose.”
“Thirty years ago.”
“Of course I may be mistaken, but when Erik was spouting great chunks of it, it sounded quite exciting. I don’t know what it is, but when you’re with a chap like that everything seems different. I daresay he’s crazy, but I wish there were a few more like him.”
“You’ve taken quite a fancy to him, haven’t you?”
“Well, you can hardly help it,” answered Fred, with a sudden attack of shyness. “You’d be a perfect damn fool not to see he’s as straight as a die. I’d trust him with every penny I had in the world. He couldn’t do anyone down. And you know, the funny thing is, though he’s such a big hulking fellow and as strong as an ox, you have a sort of feeling you want to take care of him. I know it sounds silly, but you can’t help feeling he oughtn’t to be allowed about by himself; someone ought to be there to see that he doesn’t get into trouble.”
The doctor, with his cynical detachment, translated in his own mind the young Australian’s awkward phrases into sense. He was surprised and a trifle touched by the emotion that with this shy clumsiness fought for expression. For what emerged from those hackneyed words was the shock of admiration the lad had received when he was confronted with the realisation of something quite startling. Through the oddness of the huge, ungainly Dane, lighting up his complete sincerity, giving body to his idealism and charm to his extravagant enthusiasm, shone, with a warm, all-embracing glow, pure goodness. Fred Blake’s youth made him mystically able to see it, and he was amazed by it and baffled. It touched him and made him feel very shy. It shook his self-confidence and humbled him. At that moment the rather ordinary, handsome boy was conscious of something he had never imagined, spiritual beauty.
“Who would have thought it possible?” reflected the doctor.
His own feelings towards Erik Christessen, naturally enough, were more detached. He was interested in him because he was a little unusual. It was amusing, to begin with, in an island of the Malay Archipelago, to come across a trader who knew Shakespeare well enough to say long passages by heart. The doctor could not but look on it as a somewhat tiresome accomplishment. He wondered idly if Erik was a good business man. He was not very fond of idealists. It was difficult for them in this workaday world to reconcile their professions with the exigencies of life, and it was disconcerting how often they managed to combine exalted notions with a keen eye to the main chance. The doctor had often found here cause for amusement. They were apt to look down upon those who were occupied with practical matters but not averse from profiting by their industry. Like the lilies of the field they neither toiled nor spun, but took it as a right that others should perform for them these menial offices.
“Who is this fellow Frith that we’re going up to this afternoon?” asked the doctor.
“He’s got a plantation. He grows nutmeg and cloves. He’s a widower. He lives there with his daughter.”
xx
IT WAS about three miles to Frith’s house, and they drove out in an old Ford. On each side of the road grew densely huge trees, and there was a heavy undergrowth of ferns and creepers. The jungle began at the outskirts of the town. Here and there were miserable huts. Ragged Malays lay about the verandahs and listless children played among the pigs under the piles. It was humid and sultry. The estate had once belonged to a perkenier, and it had a stucco gateway, massive but crumbling, of pleasing design. Over the archway on a tablet were the old burgher’s name and the date of erection. They turned down an earth road and bumped along over ruts, hillocks and holes till they came to the bungalow. It was a large, square building not on piles, but on a foundation of masonry, covered with an attap roof and surrounded by a neglected garden. They drove up, the Malay driver sounding his horn with energy, and a man came out of the house and waved to them. It was Frith. He waited for them at the top of the steps that led down from the verandah, and as they came up and Erik mentioned their names, shook hands with them one by one.
“Delighted to see you. I haven’t seen any Britishers for a year. Come in and have a drink.”
He was quite a big man, but fat, with grey hair and a small grey moustache. He was growing bald and his forehead was imposing. His red face, shining with sweat, was unlined and round, so that at the first glance he looked almost boyish. He had a long yellow tooth in the middle of his
When they entered, a tiny little old man got up from a chair and without taking a step towards them stood and looked at them. He was wrinkled, battered and bowed. He seemed very old.
“This is Swan,” said Frith, with a casual nod of his head. “He’s by way of being my father-in-law.”
The little old man had very pale blue eyes with red-rimmed, hairless lids, but they were full of cunning, and his glance was darting and mischievous like a monkey’s. He shook hands with the three strangers without speaking and then, opening a toothless mouth, addressed Erik in a language the others did not understand.
“Mr. Swan is a Swede,” said Erik in explanation.
The old man eyed them one after the other, and in his gaze was a certain suspicion and at the same time, hardly concealed, something of mockery.
“I came out fifty years ago. I was mate of a sailing vessel. I never been back. Maybe I go next year.”
“I’m a seafarin’ man meself, sir,” said Captain Nichols.
But Mr. Swan was not in the least interested in him.
“I been pretty well most things in my day,” he went on. “I been captain of a schooner in the slave trade.”
“Blackbirding,” interrupted Captain Nichols. “There was a nice little bit of money to be picked up that way in the old days.”
“I been a blacksmith, I been a trader. I been a planter. I don’t know what I haven’t been. They tried to kill me over and over again. I got a hernia on my chest, I have. That come from a wound I got in a scrap with the natives in the Solomons. Left me for dead, they did. I’ve had a lot of money in my time. Haven’t I, George?”
“So I’ve always heard.”
“Ruined by the great hurricane, I was. Destroyed my store. Lost everything. I didn’t care. Got nothing left now but this plantation. Never mind, it gives us enough to live on and that’s all that matters. I’ve had four wives and more children than you can count.”
He talked in a high cracked voice with a strong Swedish accent, so that you had to listen intently to understand what he said. He spoke very quickly, almost as though he were reciting a lesson, and he finished with a little cackle of senile laughter. It seemed to say that he had been through everything and it was all stuff and nonsense. He surveyed human kind and its activities from a great distance, but from no Olympian height, from behind a tree, slyly, and hopping from one foot to another with amusement.
A Malay brought in a bottle of whisky and a syphon, and Frith poured out the drinks.
“A drop of Scotch for you, Swan?” he suggested to the old man.
“Why do you ask me that, George?” he quavered. “You know very well I can’t abide it. Give me some rum and water. Scotch has been the ruin of the Pacific. When I first come from Sweden nobody drunk Scotch. Rum. If they’d stuck to rum and stuck to sail things wouldn’t be what they are now, not by a long way.”
“We ran into some pretty rough weather on the way ’ere,” Captain Nichols remarked, by way of making conversation with a fellow seaman.
“Rough weather? You don’t have rough weather nowadays. You should have seen the weather you had when I was a boy. I remember on one of the schooners I had, I was taking a parcel of labour to Samoa, from the New Hebrides, and we got caught in a hurricane. I told them savages to pop over the side pretty damn quick, and I put out to sea, and for three days I never closed my eyes. Lost our sails, lost our mainmast, lost our boats. Rough weather. Don’t talk to me about rough weather, young fellow.”
“No offence meant,” said Captain Nichols, with a grin that showed his broken, decayed little teeth.
“And no offence taken,” cackled old Swan. “Give him a tot of rum, George. If he’s a sailor-man he don’t want that stinking whisky of yours.”
Presently Erik suggested that the strangers would like to walk round the plantation.
“They’ve never seen a nutmeg estate.”
“Take ’em over, George. Twenty-seven acres. Best land on the island,” said the old man. “Bought it thirty years ago for a parcel of pearls.”
They got up, leaving him, like a little strange bald bird, hunched up over his rum and water, and walked out into the garden. It ended casually and the plantation began. In the cool of the evening the air was limpid. The kanari trees, in the shade of which grew the portly and profitable nutmeg trees, were enormously tall. They towered like the columns of a mosque in the Arabian Nights. Underfoot was no tangle of undergrowth but a carpet of decaying leaves. You heard the boom of great pigeons and saw them flying about with a heavy whirr of wings. Little green parrots in flocks flitted swiftly over the nutmeg trees, screeching, and they were like living jewels darting through the softly sparkling air. Dr. Saunders had a sense of extreme well-being. He felt like a disembodied spirit and his imagination was pleasantly, but not exhaustingly, occupied with image after image. He walked with Frith and the skipper. Frith was explaining the details of the nutmeg trade. He did not listen. There was an idle sensuousness in the air that was almost material, so that it reminded you of the feel of a soft, rich fabric. Erik and Fred were walking a step behind. The declining sun had found a way under the branches of the lofty kanaris and shone on the foliage of the nutmeg trees so that their dense, opulent green glistened like burnished copper.
They strolled along a winding path, made by the accident of people having long followed it, and all at once saw a girl coming towards them. She was walking with eyes cast down, as though absorbed in thought, and it was not till she heard voices that she looked up. She stopped.
“There is my daughter,” said Frith.
You might have fancied she had stopped in a momentary embarrassment at the sight of strangers; but she did not move on, she stayed still, watching with a singular calm the men who advanced towards her; and then you received an impression, not exactly of self-assurance, but of tranquil unconcern. She wore nothing but a sarong of Javanese batik, with a little white pattern on a brown ground; it was attached tightly just over her breasts and came down to her knees. She was barefoot. Besides the little smile that hovered on her lips, the only signs she gave that she noticed the approach of strangers were a little shake of the head, almost involuntary, to loosen her hair and an instinctive gesture of the hand through it, for it was long and hung down her back. It spread in a cloud over her neck and shoulders, very thick, and of a fairness so ashy pale that, but for its radiance, it would have looked white. She waited with composure. The sarong tightly wrapped round her concealed nothing of her form; she was very slim, with the narrow hips of a boy, long-legged, and at first sight tall. She was burned by the sun to a rich honey colour. The doctor was not as a rule captivated by feminine beauty; he could not but think the manner in which a woman’s frame was made for obvious physiological purposes much detracted from its aesthetic appeal. Just as a table should be solid, of a convenient height and roomy, so a woman should be large-breasted and broad in the beam; but in both cases beauty could only be an adjunct to utility. You might say that a table which was solid, roomy and of a convenient height was beautiful, but the doctor preferred to say that it was solid, roomy and of a convenient height. The girl standing there in an attitude of indolent beauty reminded him of some statue he had seen in a museum of a goddess attaching her peplum; he could not remember it very exactly. Greco-Roman, he thought. She had the same ambiguous slenderness as the little Chinese girls in the flower-boats at Canton, in whose company in his younger days he had on occasion passed moments of somewhat detached amusement. She had the same flower-like grace, and her fairness in that tropic scene gave the exotic sensation that made them so charming. She recalle
“These are Christessen’s friends,” said her father as they came up to her.
She did not hold out her hand, but slightly and graciously inclined her head as first the doctor and then Captain Nichols were introduced to her. She gave them both a cool survey in which was inquiry and then swift appraisement. Dr. Saunders noticed that her brown hands were long and slender. Her eyes were blue. Her features were fine and very regular. She was an extremely pretty young woman.
“I’ve just been having a bathe in the pool,” she said.
Her glance travelled to Erik, and she gave him a very sweet and friendly smile.
“This is Fred Blake,” he said.
She turned her head a little to look at him, and for an appreciable time her eyes rested on him. The smile died away on her lips.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Fred, holding out his hand.
She continued to look at him, not with pertness or brazenly, but as though she were a little surprised. You might have thought she had seen him before and was trying to remember where. But the incident lasted no more than a minute, and no one would have been conscious of a pause before she took the proffered hand.
“I was just going back to the house to dress,” she said.
“I’ll come with you,” said Erik.
Now that he stood beside her you saw that she was not really very tall; it was only her straightness of limb, her slenderness and her carriage, that gave the impression of more than common height.
They sauntered back towards the house.
“Who is that boy?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” answered Erik. “He’s in partnership with the thin, grey one. They’re looking for pearl-shell. They’re trying to find some new beds.”
“He’s good-looking.”
“I thought you’d like him. He’s got a nice nature.”