The Complete Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham - II - The World Over by W. Somerset Maugham
“What d’you want?” Then she recognized him. She backed to the wall, clutching the knife in her hands. “It’s you. Cochon’
“Don’t get excited. I’m not going to hurt you. Look. I’ve brought you some silk stockings.”
“Take them away and take yourself off with them.”
“Don’t be silly. Drop that knife. You’ll only get hurt if you try to be nasty. You needn’t be afraid of me.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” she said.
She let the knife fall to the floor. He took off his helmet and sat down. He reached out with his foot and drew the knife towards him.
“Shall I peel some of your potatoes for you?” She did not answer. He bent down for the knife and then took a potato out of the bowl and went to work on it. Her face hard, her eyes hostile, she stood against the wall and watched him. He smiled at her disarmingly. “Why do you look so cross? I didn’t do you much harm, you know. I was excited, we all were, they’d talked of the invincible French army and the Maginot line …” he finished the sentence with a chuckle. “And the wine went to my head. You might have fared worse. Women have told me that I’m not a bad-looking fellow.”
She looked him up and down scornfully.
“Get out of here.”
“Not until I choose.”
“If you don’t go my father will go to Soissons and complain to the general.”
“Much he’ll care. Our orders are to make friends with the population. What’s your name?”
“That’s not your business.”
There was a flush in her cheeks now and her angry eyes were blazing. She was prettier than he remembered her. He hadn’t done so badly. She had a refinement that suggested the city-dweller rather than the peasant. He remembered her mother saying she was a teacher. Because she was almost a lady it amused him to torment her. He felt strong and healthy. He passed his hand through his curly blond hair, and giggled when he thought that many girls would have jumped at the chance she had had. His face was so deeply tanned by the summer that his eyes were startlingly blue.
“Where are your father and mother?”
“Working in the fields.”
“I’m hungry. Give me a bit of bread and cheese and a glass of wine. I’ll pay.”
She gave a harsh laugh.
“We haven’t seen cheese for three months. We haven’t enough bread to stay our hunger. The French took our horses a year ago and now the Boches have taken our cows, our pigs, our chickens, everything.”
“Well, they paid you for them.”
“Can we eat the worthless paper they gave us?”
She began to cry.
“Are you hungry?”
“Oh, no,” she answered bitterly, “we can eat like kings on potatoes and bread and turnips and lettuce. Tomorrow my father’s going to Soissons to see if he can buy some horse meat.”
“Listen, Miss. I’m not a bad fellow. I’ll bring you a cheese, and I think I can get hold of a bit of ham.”
“I don’t want your presents. I’ll starve before I touch the food you swine have stolen from us.”
“We’ll see,” he said good-humouredly.
He put on his hat, got up, and with an Au revoir, mademoiselle, walked out.
He wasn’t supposed to go joy-riding round the country and he had to wait to be sent on an errand before he was able to get to the farm again. It was ten days later. He walked in as unceremoniously as before and this time he found the farmer and his wife in the kitchen. It was round about noon and the woman was stirring a pot on the stove. The man was seated at table. They gave him a glance when he came in, but there was no surprise in it. Their daughter had evidently told them of his visit. They did not speak. The woman went on with her cooking, and the man, a surly look on his face, stared at the oil-cloth on the table. But it required more than this to disconcert the good-humoured Hans.
“Bonjour, la compagnie,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve brought you a present.”
He undid the package he had with him and set out a sizeable piece of Gruyere cheese, a piece of pork, and a couple of tins of sardines. The woman turned round and he smiled when he saw the light of greed in her eyes. The man looked at the foodstuff sullenly. Hans gave him his sunny grin.
“I’m sorry we had a misunderstanding the first time I came here. But you shouldn’t have interfered.”
At that moment the girl came in.
“What are you doing here?” she cried harshly. Then her eyes fell on the things he had brought. She swept them together and flung them at him. “Take them away. Take them.”
But her mother sprang forward.
“Annette, you’re crazy.”
“I won’t take his presents.”
“It’s our own food that they’ve stolen from us. Look at the sardines. They’re Bordeaux sardines.”
She picked the things up. Hans looked at the girl with a mocking smile in his light blue eyes.
“Annette’s your name, is it? A pretty name. Do you grudge your parents a little food? You said you hadn’t had cheese for three months. I couldn’t get any ham; I did the best I could.”
The farmer’s wife took the lump of meat in her hands and pressed it to her bosom. You felt that she could have kissed it. Tears ran down Annette’s cheeks.
“The shame of it,” she groaned.
“Oh, come now, there’s no shame in a bit of Gruyere and a piece of pork.”
Hans sat down and lit a cigarette. Then he passed the packet over to the old man. The farmer hesitated for a moment, but the temptation was too strong for him; he took one and handed back the packet.
“Keep it,” said Hans. “I can get plenty more.” He inhaled the smoke and blew a cloud of it from his nostrils. “Why can’t we be friends? What’s done can’t be undone. War is war, and, well, you know what I mean. I know Annette’s an educated girl and I want her to think well of me. I expect we shall be in Soissons for quite a while and I can bring you something now and then to help out. You know, we do all we can to make friends with the townspeople, but they won’t let us. They won’t even look at us when we pass them in the street. After all, it was an accident, what happened that time I came here with Willi. You needn’t be afraid of me. I’ll respect Annette as if she was my own sister.”
“Why do you want to come here? Why can’t you leave us alone?” asked Annette.
He really didn’t know. He didn’t like to say that he wanted a little human friendship. The silent hostility that surrounded them all at Soissons got on his nerves so that sometimes he wanted to go up to a Frenchman who looked at him as if he wasn’t there and knock him down, and sometimes it affected him so that he was almost inclined to cry. It would be nice if he had some place to go where he was welcome. He spoke the truth when he said he had no desire for Annette. She wasn’t the sort of woman he fancied. He liked women to be tall and full-breasted, blue-eyed, and fair-haired like himself; he liked them to be strong and hefty and well-covered. That refinement which he couldn’t account for, that thin fine nose and those dark eyes, the long pale face-there was something intimidating about the girl, so that if he hadn’t been excited by the great victories of the German armies, if he hadn’t been so tired and yet so elated, if he hadn’t drunk all that wine on an empty stomach, it would never have crossed his mind that he could have anything to do with her.
For a fortnight after that Hans couldn’t get away. He’d left the food at the farm and he had no doubt that the old people had wolfed it. He wondered if Annette had eaten it too; he wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that the moment his back was turned she had set to with the others. These French people, they couldn’t resist getting something for nothing. They were weak and decadent. She hated him, yes, God, how she hated him, but pork was pork, and cheese was cheese. He thought of her quite a lot. It tantalized him that she should have such a loathing for him. He was used to being liked by women. It would be funny if one of these days she fell in love with him. He’d been her first lover and he’d heard
At last he got his chance to go to the farm. He got hold of cheese and butter, sugar, a tin of sausages, and some coffee, and set off on his motor-cycle. But that time he didn’t see Annette. She and her father were at work in the fields. The old woman was in the yard and her face lit up when she saw the parcel he was bringing. She led him into the kitchen. Her hands trembled a little as she untied the string and when she saw what he had brought her eyes filled with tears.
“You’re very good,” she said.
“May I sit down?” he asked politely.
“Of course.” She looked out of the window and Hans guessed that she wanted to make sure that Annette was not coming. “Can I offer you a glass of wine.”
“I’d be glad of it.”
He was sharp enough to see that her greed for food had made her, if not friendly to him, at least willing to come to terms with him. That look out of the window made them almost fellow conspirators.
“Did you like the pork?” he asked.
“It was a treat.”
“I’ll try to bring you some more next time I come. Did Annette like it?”
“She wouldn’t touch a thing you’d left. She said she’d rather starve.”
“Silly.”
“That’s what I said to her. As long as the food is there, I said, there’s nothing to be gained by not eating it.”
They chatted quite amicably while Hans sipped his wine. He discovered that she was called Madame Périer. He asked her whether there were any other members of the family. She sighed. No, they’d had a son, but he’d been mobilized at the beginning of the war and he’d died. He hadn’t been killed, he’d got pneumonia and died in the hospital at Nancy.
“I’m sorry,” said Hans.
“Perhaps he’s better off than if he’d lived. He was like Annette in many ways. He could never have borne the shame of defeat.” She sighed again. “Oh, my poor friend, we’ve been betrayed.”
“Why did you want to fight for the Poles? What were they to you?”
“You’re right. If we had let your Hitler take Poland he would have left us alone.”
When Hans got up to go he said he would come again soon.
“I shan’t forget the pork.”
Then Hans had a lucky break; he was given a job that took him twice a week to a town in the vicinity so that he was able to get to the farm much oftener. He took care never to come without bringing something. But he made no headway with Annette. Seeking to ingratiate himself with her, he used the simple wiles that he had discovered went down with women; but they only excited her derision. Thin-lipped and hard, she looked at him as though he were dirt. On more than one occasion she made him so angry that he would have liked to take her by the shoulders and shake the life out of her. Once he found her alone, and when she got up to go he barred her passage.
“Stop where you are. I want to talk to you.”
“Talk. I am a woman and defenceless.”
“What I want to say is this: for all I know I may be here for a long time. Things aren’t going to get easier for you French, they’re going to get harder. I can be useful to you. Why don’t you be reasonable like your father and mother?”
It was true that old Périer had come round. You couldn’t say that he was cordial, he was indeed cold and gruff, but he was civil. He had even asked Hans to bring him some tobacco, and when he wouldn’t accept payment for it had thanked him. He was pleased to hear the news of Soissons and grabbed the paper that Hans brought him. Hans, a farmer’s son, could talk about the farm as one who knew. It was a good farm, not too big and not too small, well watered, for a sizeable brook ran through it, and well wooded, with arable land and pasture. Hans listened with understanding sympathy when the old man bewailed himself because without labour, without fertilizers, his stock taken from him, it was all going to rack and ruin.
“You ask me why I can’t be reasonable like my father and mother,” said Annette.
She pulled her dress tight and showed herself to him. He couldn’t believe his eyes. What he saw caused such a convulsion in his soul as he had never known. The blood rushed to his cheeks.
“You’ re pregnant.”
She sank back on her chair and leaning her head on her hands began to weep as though her heart would break.
“The shame of it. The shame.”
He sprang towards her to take her in his arms.
“My sweet,” he cried.
But she sprang to her feet and pushed him away.
“Don’t touch me. Go away. Go away. Haven’t you done me enough harm already?”
She flung out of the room. He waited by himself for a few minutes. He was bewildered. His thoughts in a whirl, he rode slowly back to Soissons, and when he went to bed he couldn’t get to sleep for hours. He could think of nothing but Annette and her swollen body. She had been unbearably pathetic as she sat there at the table crying her eyes out. It was his child she bore in her womb. He began to feel drowsy, and then with a start he was once more wide awake, for suddenly it came to him, it came to him with the shattering suddenness of gun-fire: he was in love with her. It was such a surprise, such a shock that he couldn’t cope with it. Of course he’d thought of her a lot, but never in that way, he’d thought it would be a great joke if he made her fall in love with him, it would be a triumph if the time came when she offered what he had taken by force; but not for a moment had it occurred to him that she was anything to him but a woman like another. She wasn’t his type. She wasn’t very pretty. There was nothing to her. Why should he have all of a sudden this funny feeling for her? It wasn’t a pleasant feeling either, it was a pain. But he knew what it was all right; it was love, and it made him feel happier than he had ever felt in his life. He wanted to take her in his arms, he wanted to pet her, he wanted to kiss those tear-stained eyes of hers. He didn’t desire her, he thought, as a man desires a woman, he wanted to comfort her, wanted her to smile at him-strange, he had never seen her smile, he wanted to see her eyes-fine eyes they were, beautiful eyes-soft with tenderness.
For three days he could not leave Soissons and for three days, three days and three nights, he thought of Annette and the child she would bear. Then he was able to go to the farm. He wanted to see Madame Périer by herself, and luck was with him, for he met her on the road some way from the house. She had been gathering sticks in the wood and was going home with a great bundle on her back. He stopped his motor-cycle. He knew that the friendliness she showed him was due only to the provisions he brought with him, but he didn’t care; it was enough that she was mannerly, and that she was prepared to be so as long as she could get something out of him. He told her he wanted to talk to her and asked her to put her bundle down. She did as he bade. It was a grey, cloudy day, but not cold.
“I know about Annette,” he said.
She started.
“How did you find out? She was set on your not knowing.”
“She told me.”
“That was a pretty job of work you did that evening.”
“I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
She began to talk, not bitterly, not blaming him even, but as though it were a misfortune of nature, like a cow dying in giving birth to a calf or a sharp spring frost nipping the fruit trees and ruining the crop, a misfortune that human kind must accept with resignation and humility. After that dreadful night Annette had been in bed for days with a high fever. They thought she was going out of her mind. She would scream for hours on end. There were no doctors to be got. The village doctor had been called to the colours. Even in Soissons there were only two doctors left, old men both of them, and how could they get to the farm even if it had been possible to send for them? They weren’t allowed to leave the town. Even when the fever went down Annette was too ill to leav
They had an old Citroen in which before the war Madame Périer had taken the farm produce into the market at Soissons two mornings a week, but since the German occupation they had had nothing to sell that made the journey worth while. Petrol was almost unobtainable. But now they got it out and drove into town. The only cars to be seen were the military cars of the Germans. German soldiers lounged about. There were German signs in the streets, and on public buildings proclamations in French signed by the Officer Commanding. Many shops were closed. They went to the old doctor they knew, and he confirmed their suspicions. But he was a devout Catholic and would not help them. When they wept he shrugged his shoulders.