The Complete Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham - II - The World Over by W. Somerset Maugham
“And I remember, when I was home on leave once and went to the garage, old Thompson told me you’d enlisted in the A.S.C. You weren’t going to take any more risks than you could help, were you? You’ve been drawing the long bow a bit, haven’t you, with all those stories I hear of your gallantry in the trenches? I suppose you did get a commission, or is that a fake too?”
“Of course I got a commission.”
“Well, a lot of funny people did in those days, but you know, old boy. if it was in the A.S.C. I wouldn’t wear a Guards tie if I were you.”
Captain Forestier instinctively put his hand up to his tie, and Fred Hardy, watching him with his mocking eyes, was pretty sure that notwithstanding his tan he went white.
“It’s no business of yours what tie I wear.”
“Don’t get snotty, old boy. There’s no reason to get up on your hind legs. I’ve got the goods on you, but I’m not going to give you away, so why don’t you come clean?”
“I’ve got nothing to come clean about. I tell you it’s all an absurd mistake. And I should tell you that if I find that you’ve been spreading these lying stories about me, I shall immediately start proceedings for slander.”
“Stow it, Bob. I’m not going to spread any stories. You don’t think I care? I think the whole thing’s rather a lark. I’ve got no ill-feeling towards you. I’ve been a bit of an adventurer myself; I admire you for carrying off such a stupendous bluff. Starting as a page-boy and then being a trooper, a valet and a car-washer; and there you arc, a fine gentleman, with a grand house, entertaining all the big bugs of the Riviera, winning golf tournaments, vice-president of the Sailing Club, and I don’t know what all. You’re It in Cannes and no mistake. It’s stupendous. I’ve done some pretty rum things in my day, but the nerve you must have; old boy, I take off my hat to you.”
“I wish I deserved your compliments. I don’t. My father was in the Indian cavalry and I was at least born a gentleman. I may not have had a very distinguished career, but I certainly have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Oh, come off it, Bob. I shan’t split, you know, not even to my old lady. I never tell women anything that they don’t know already. Believe me, I’d have got into even worse scrapes than I have if I hadn’t made a rule of that. I should have thought you’d be glad to have someone around that you could be yourself with. Isn’t it a strain never to let up? Silly of you to keep me at. arm’s length. I haven’t got anything on you, old boy. It’s true I’m a bart and a landed proprietor now, but I’ve been in some pretty tight places in my time, and it’s a wonder to me that I’ve kept out of gaol.”
“It’s a wonder to a good many other people.”
Fred Hardy broke into a guffaw.
“That’s one on me, old boy. All the same, if you don’t mind my saying so, I think it was a bit thick your telling your wife I wasn’t a proper person for her to associate with.”
“I never said anything of the sort.”
“Oh yes, you did. She’s a grand old girl, but a bit garrulous, or am I mistaken?”
“I’m not prepared to discuss my wife with a man like you,” said Captain Forestier, coldly.
“Oh, don’t be so damned gentlemanly with me, Bob. We’re a couple of bums and that’s all there is to it. We could have some grand times together if you’d only have, a little sense. You’re a liar, a humbug and a cheat, but you seem to be very decent to your wife, and that’s something in your favour. She just dotes upon you, doesn’t she? Funny, women are. She’s a very nice woman, Bob.”
Robert’s face grew red, he clenched his fist and half rose from his chair.
“Damn you, stop talking about my wife. If you mention her name again I swear I’ll knock you down.”
“Oh no, you won’t. You’re too great a gentleman to hit a feller smaller than yourself.”
Hardy had said these words mockingly, watching Robert, and quite ready to dodge if that great fist struck out; he was astounded at their effect. Robert sank back into his chair and unclenched his fist.
“You’re right. But only a mean hound would trade on it.” The reply was so theatrical that Fred Hardy began to chuckle, but then he saw that the man meant it. He was deadly serious. Fred Hardy was no fool; he could hardly have lived for twenty-five years on his wits in tolerable comfort unless he had had them all about him. And now, in amazement, staring at that heavy, powerful man, who looked so like the typical English sportsman, sunk back in the chair, he had a sudden flash of comprehension. He was no common swindler who had got hold of a silly woman to keep him in luxury and idleness. She was only a means to a greater end. He had been captivated by an ideal and in pursuit of it had stuck at nothing. Perhaps the notion had come to him when he was a page-boy in a smart club; the members, with their lounging ease, their casual manner, may have seemed very wonderful to him; and afterwards as a trooper, as a valet, as a car-washer, the many men he ran across, belonging to a different world and seen through a haze of hero-worship, had filled him perhaps with admiration and envy. He wanted to be like them. He wanted to be one of them. That was the ideal that haunted his dreams. He wanted—it was grotesque, it was pathetic—he wanted to be a gentleman. The war, with the commission it brought him, gave him his chance. Eleanor’s money provided the means. That wretched fellow had spent twenty years pretending to be something the only value of which was that it wasn’t a pretence. That was grotesque too; that was pathetic. Without meaning to, Fred Hardy uttered the thought that passed through his head.
“Poor old chap,” he said.
Forestier looked at him quickly. He could not understand what those words meant nor the tone in which they were said. He flushed.
“What d’you mean by that?”
“Nothing. Nothing.”
“I don’t think we need continue this conversation. Apparently there’s nothing I can say to persuade you that you’re mistaken. I can only repeat that there’s not a word of truth in it. I am not the fellow you think I am.”
“All right, old boy, have it your own way.”
Forestier called the waiter.
“D’ you want me to pay for your drink?” he asked icily.
“Yes, old boy.”
Forestier somewhat grandly gave the waiter a note and told him to keep the change, then without a word, without giving Fred Hardy another look, stalked out of the bar.
They did not meet again till the night on which Robert Forestier lost his life.
The winter passed into spring, and the gardens on the Riviera were ablaze with colour. The hillsides were primly gay with wild flowers. The spring passed into summer. In the towns along the Riviera the streets were hot with a bright, eager heat that made the blood run faster; and women walked abo.it in great straw hats and pyjamas. The beaches were crowded. Men in trunks and women almost naked lay in the sun. In the evening the bars on the Croisette were thronged by a restless, chattering crowd as many-coloured as the flowers of spring. It had not rained for weeks. There had been several forest fires along the coast, and Robert Forestier in his hearty, joking way had several times said that they would stand a pretty thin chance if they had a fire in their woods. One or two people had advised him to cut down some of the trees at the back of his house; but he couldn’t bear to: they had been in poor condition when the Forestiers bought the place, but now that the dead wood had been cut away year by year, that they had been given air and kept clean of pests, they were magnificent.
“Why, it would be like having my leg chopped off to cut one of ’em down. They must be the best part of a hundred years old.”
On the fourteenth of July the Forestiers went over to a gala dinner at Monte Carlo, and they gave their staff leave to go to Cannes. It was the national holiday, and in Cannes they danced in the open air under the plane trees, there were fireworks, and from far and near the people came in to have a good time. The Hardys had sent their servants out too, but they were sitting at home, and their two little boys were in bed. Fred was playing patience and Lady Hardv was
“Who the devil’s that?”
Hardy went to the door and found a boy who told him that fire had broken out in the Forestiers’ woods. Some men had gone up from the village and were fighting it, but they needed all the help they could get, and would he come.
“Of course I’ll come.” He hurried back to his wife and told her. “Wake the kids and let them come up and see the fun. By George, after all this drought it’ll be a blaze.”
He bolted out. The boy told him they had telephoned to the police station and they were going to send along the soldiers. Someone was trying to get through to Monte Carlo and let Captain Forestier know.
“It’ll take him an hour to get here,” said Hardy.
As they ran they saw the glow in the sky, and when they came to the top of the hill, the leaping flames. There was no water and the only thing was to try to beat them out. Already a number of men were at work. Hardy joined them. But you had no sooner beat out the flames in one bush than another began to crackle and before you could look had turned into a fiery torch. The heat was terrific, and the workers, unable to support it, were slowly driven back. A breeze was blowing, and the sparks were carried from tree to bush. After weeks of drought everything was as dry as tinder, and the moment a spark fell the tree, the bush, went up in flames. If it had not been terrifying, it would have been awe-inspiring to see a great fir-tree, sixty feet high, blazing like matchwood. The fire roared like the fire in a factory furnace. The best way to put a stop to it was by cutting down trees and brushwood, but the men were few, and but two or three had axes. The only hope was in the troops, who were used to dealing with the forest fires, and the troops did not come.
“Unless they get here soon we shall never save the house,” said Hardy.
He caught sight of his wife, who had come up with the two boys, and waved to them. Already he was black with grime, and the sweat was pouring down his face. Lady Hardy ran up.
“Oh, Fred, the dogs and the chickens.”
“By George, yes.”
The kennels and the chicken-run were at the back of the house, in a clearing that had been cut in the woods, and the wretched animals were already frantic with terror. Hardy let them out and they rushed to safety. They could only be left to shift for themselves. They must be rounded up later. The blaze could be seen now from far away. But the troops did not. come, and the small body of helpers were powerless against the advancing flames.
“If those damned soldiers don’t get here soon the house is for it,” said Hardy. “I think we’d better get what we can out of it.”
It was a stone house, but there were wooden verandahs all round it, and they would burn like kindling. The Forestiers’ servants had come by now. He got them together, his wife gave a hand, and the two boys; they carried out on to the lawn in front such things as were portable, linen and silver, clothes, ornaments, pictures, pieces of furniture. At last the troops came, two lorry-loads of them, and set about systematically digging trenches and felling trees. There was an officer in charge and Hardy, pointing out the danger to the house, begged him first of all to cut down the trees that surrounded it.
“The house must look after itself,” he said. “I’ve got to prevent the fire spreading beyond the hill.”
The lights of a car were seen speeding along the winding road, and a few minutes later Forestier and his wife sprang out of it.
“Where are the dogs?” he cried.
“I’ve let them out,” said Hardy.
“Oh, it’s you.”
At first in that filthy fellow, his face begrimed with soot and sweat, he had not recognized Fred Hardy. he frowned angrily.
“I thought the house might catch. I’ve got everything out I could.”
Forestier looked at the blazing forest.
“Well, that’s the end of my trees,” he said.
“The soldiers are working on the side of the hill. They’re trying to save the next property. We’d better go along and see if we can save anything.”
“I’ll go. You needn’t,” Forestier cried irritably.
On a sudden Eleanor gave an anguished cry “Oh, look. The house.”
From where they stood they could see a verandah at the back suddenly burst into flames.
“That’s all right, Eleanor. The house can’t burn. It’ll only get the woodwork. Take my coat; I’m going along to help the soldiers.”
He took off his dinner jacket and handed it to his wife.
“I’ll come with you,” said Hardy. “Mrs. Forestier, you’d better go along to where your things are. I think we’ve got everything out that’s valuable.”
“Thank heaven, I was wearing most of my jewellery.”
Lady Hardy was a woman of sense.
“Mrs. Forestier, let’s get the servants together and carry what we can down to our house.”
The two men walked towards where the soldiers were at work.
“It’s very decent of you to have got that stuff out of my house,” said Robert, stiffly.
“Not at all,” answered Fred Hardy.
They had not gone far when they heard somebody calling. They looked round anti vaguely saw a woman running after them.
“Monsieur, Monsieur.”
They stopped and the woman, her arms outstretched, rushed up. It was Eleanor’s maid. She was distraught.
“La petite Judy. Judy. I shut her up when we went out. She’s on heat. I put her in the servants’ bathroom.”
“My God!” cried Forestier.
“What is it?”
“Eleanor’s dog. I must save her at any cost.”
He turned round and started to run back to the house. Hardy caught hold of his arm to hold him.
“Don’t be a damned fool, Hob. The house is burning. You can’t go into it.”
Forestier struggled to release himself.
“Let me go, damn you. D’you think I’m going to let a dog be burned alive?”
“Oh, shut up. This is no time for play-acting!”
Forestier shook Hardy off, but Hardy sprang on him and seized him round the middle. Forestier with his clenched fist hit Hardy in the face as hard as he could. Hardy staggered, releasing his hold, and Forestier hit him again; Hardy fell to the ground.
“You rotten bounder. I’ll show you how a gentleman behaves.”
Fred Hardy picked himself up slowly and felt his face. It hurt him.
“God, the black eye I’m going to have to-morrow.” He was shaken and a trifle dazed. The maid suddenly broke into a storm of hysterical tears. “Shut up, you slut,” he cried crossly. “And don’t say a word to your mistress.”
Forestier was nowhere to be seen. It was more than an hour before they were able to get at him. They found him lying on the landing outside the bathroom, dead, with the dead Sealy-ham in his arms. Hardy looked at him for a long time before speaking.
“You fool,” he muttered between his teeth, angrily. “You damned fool!”
That imposture of his had paid him out at last. Like a man who cherishes a vice till it gets a stranglehold on him so that he is its helpless slave, he had lied so long that he had come to believe his own lies. Hob Forestier had pretended for so many years to be a gentleman that in the end, forgetting that it was all a fake, he had found himself driven to act as in that stupid, conventional brain of his he thought a gentleman must act. No longer knowing the difference between sham and real, he had sacrificed his life to a spurious heroism. Hut Fred Hardy had to break the news to Mrs. Forestier. She was with his wife, in their villa at the bottom of the hill, and she still thought that Robert was with the soldiers cutting down trees and clearing the brushwood. He told her as gently as he could, but he had to tell her, and he had to tell her everything. At first it seemed as though she could not grasp the sense of what he said.
“Dead?” she cried. “Dead? My Robert?”
Then Fred Hardy, the rip, th
“Mrs. Forestier, he was a very gallant gentleman.”
THE THREE FAT WOMEN OF ANTIBES
ONE was called Mrs Richman and she was a widow. The second was called Mrs Sutcliffe; she was American and she had divorced two husbands. The third was called Miss Hickson and she was a spinster. They were all in the comfortable forties and they were all well off. Mrs Sutcliffe had the odd first name of Arrow. When she was young and slender she had liked it well enough. It suited her and the jests it occasioned though too often repeated were very flattering; she was not disinclined to believe that it suited her character too: it suggested directness, speed, and purpose. She liked it less now that her delicate features had grown muzzy with fat, that her arms and shoulders were so substantial and her hips so massive. It was increasingly difficult to find dresses to make her look as she liked to look. The jests her name gave rise to now were made behind her back and she very well knew that they were far from obliging. But she was by no means resigned to middle age. She still wore blue to bring out the colour of her eyes and, with the help of art, her fair hair had kept its lustre. What she liked about Beatrice Richman and Frances Hickson was that they were both so much fatter than she, it made her look quite slim; they were both of them older and much inclined to treat her as a little young thing. It was not disagreeable. They were good-natured women and they chaffed her pleasantly about her beaux; they had both given up the thought of that kind of nonsense, indeed Miss Hickson had never given it a moment’s consideration, but they were sympathetic to her flirtations. It was understood that one of these days Arrow would make a third man happy.
“Only you mustn’t get any heavier, darling,” said Mrs Richman.
“And for goodness’ sake make certain of his bridge,” said Miss Hickson.
They saw for her a man of about fifty, but well-preserved and of distinguished carriage, an admiral on the retired list and a good golfer, or a widower without encumbrances, but in any case with a substantial income. Arrow listened to them amiably, and kept to herself the fact that this was not at all her idea. It was true that she would have liked to marry again, but her fancy turned to a dark slim Italian with flashing eyes and a sonorous title or to a Spanish don of noble lineage; and not a day more than thirty. There were times when, looking at herself in her mirror, she was certain she did not look any more than that herself.