The Favorite Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham by W. Somerset Maugham
“Why, Ginger, you look as if you’d been spending a month at a health resort instead of nursing a pack of natives dying of cholera. And look at your clothes. Have you just stepped out of a band-box?”
Ginger Ted smiled rather sheepishly. The head boy brought two bottles of beer and poured them out.
“Help yourself, Ginger,” said the Controleur as he took his glass.
“I don’t think I’ll have any, thank you.”
The Controleur put down his glass and looked at Ginger Ted with amazement.
“Why, what’s the matter? Aren’t you thirsty?”
“I don’t mind having a cup of tea.”
“A cup of what?”
“I’m on the wagon. Martha and I are going to be married.”
“Ginger!”
The Controleur’s eyes popped out of his head. He scratched his shaven pate.
“You can’t marry Miss Jones,” he said. “No one could marry Miss Jones.”
“Well, I’m going to. That’s what I’ve come to see you about. Owen’s going to marry us in chapel, but we want to be married by Dutch law as well.”
“A joke’s a joke, Ginger. What’s the idea?”
“She wanted it. She fell for me that night we spent on the island when the propeller broke. She’s not a bad old girl when you get to know her. It’s her last chance, if you understand what I mean, and I’d like to do something to oblige her. And she wants someone to take care of her, there’s no doubt about that.”
“Ginger, Ginger, before you can say knife she’ll make you into a damned missionary.”
“I don’t know that I’d mind that so much if we had a little mission of our own. She says I’m a bloody marvel with the natives. She says I can do more with a native in five minutes than Owen can do in a year. She says she’s never known anyone with the magnetism I have. It seems a pity to waste a gift like that.”
The Controleur looked at him without speaking and slowly nodded his head three or four times. She’d nobbled him all right.
“I’ve converted seventeen already,” said Ginger Ted.
“You? I didn’t know you believed in Christianity.”
“Well, I don’t know that I did exactly, but when I talked to “em and they just came into the fold like a lot of blasted sheep, well, it gave me quite a turn. Blimey, I said, I daresay there’s something in it after all.”
“You should have raped her, Ginger. I wouldn’t have been hard on you. I wouldn’t have given you more than three years and three years is soon over.”
“Look here, Controleur, don’t you ever let on that the thought never entered my head. Women are touchy, you know, and she’d be as sore as hell if she knew that.”
“I guessed she’d got her eye on you, but I never thought it would come to this.” The Controleur in an agitated manner walked up and down the veranda. “Listen to me, old boy,” he said after an interval of reflection, “we’ve had some grand times together and a friend’s a friend. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll lend you the launch and you can go and hide on one of the islands till the next ship comes along and then I’ll get “em to slow down and take you on board. You’ve only got one chance now and that’s to cut and run.” Ginger Ted shook his head.
“It’s no good, Controleur, I know you mean well, but I’m going to marry the blasted woman, and that’s that. You don’t know the joy of bringing all them bleeding sinners to repentance, and Christ! that girl can make a treacle pudding. I haven’t eaten a better one since I was a kid.”
The Controleur was very much disturbed. The drunken scamp was his only companion on the islands and he did not want to lose him. He discovered that he had even a certain affection for him. Next day he went to see the missionary.
“What’s this I hear about your sister marrying Ginger Ted?” he asked him. “It’s the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”
“It’s true nevertheless.”
“You must do something about it. It’s madness.”
“My sister is of full age and entitled to do as she pleases.”
“But you don’t mean to tell me you approve of it. You know Ginger Ted. He’s a bum and there are no two ways about it. Have you told her the risk she’s running? I mean, bringing sinners to repentance and all that sort of thing’s all right, but there are limits. And does the leopard ever change his spots?”
Then for the first time in his life the Controleur saw a twinkle in the missionary’s eye.
“My sister is a very determined woman, Mr Gruyter,” he replied. “From that night they spent on the island he never had a chance.”
The Controleur gasped. He was as surprised as the prophet when the Lord opened the mouth of the ass, and she said unto Balaam, What have I done unto thee, that thou hast smitten me these three times? Perhaps Mr Jones was human after all.
“Allejezus!” muttered the Controleur.
Before anything more could be said Miss Jones swept into the room. She was radiant. She looked ten years younger. Her cheeks were flushed and her nose was hardly red at all.
“Have you come to congratulate me, Mr Gruyter?” she cried, and her manner was sprightly and girlish. “You see, I was right after all. Everyone has some good in them. You don’t know how splendid Edward has been all through this terrible time. He’s a hero. He’s a saint. Even I was surprised.”
“I hope you’ll be very happy, Miss Jones.”
“I know I shall. Oh, it would be wicked of me to doubt it. For it is the Lord who has brought us together.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know it. Don’t you see? Except for the cholera Edward would never have found himself. Except for the cholera we should never have learnt to know one another. I have never seen the hand of God more plainly manifest.”
The Controleur could not but think that it was rather a clumsy device to bring those two together that necessitated the death of six hundred innocent persons, but not being well versed in the ways of omnipotence he made no remark.
“You’ll never guess where we’re going for our honeymoon,” said Miss Jones, perhaps a trifle archly. “Java.”
“No, if you’ll lend us the launch, we’re going to that island where we were marooned. It has very tender recollections for both of us. It was there that I first guessed how fine and good Edward was. It’s there I want him to have his reward.”
The Controleur caught his breath. He left quickly, for he thought that unless he had a bottle of beer at once he would have a fit. He was never so shocked in his life.
THE DOOR OF OPPORTUNITY
THEY got a first-class carriage to themselves. It was lucky, because they were taking a good deal in with them, Alban’s suit-case and a hold-all, Anne’s dressing-case and her hat-box. They had two trunks in the van, containing what they wanted immediately, but all the rest of their luggage Alban had put in the care of an agent who was to take it up to London and store it till they had made up their minds what to do. They had a lot, pictures and books, curios that Alban had collected in the East, his guns and saddles. They had left Sondurah for ever. Alban, as was his way, tipped the porter generously and then went to the bookstall and bought papers. He bought the New Statesman and the Nation, and the Tatler and the Sketch, and the last number of the London Mercury. He came back to the carriage and threw them on the seat.
“It’s only an hour’s journey,” said Anne.
“I know, but I wanted to buy them. I’ve been starved so long. Isn’t it grand to think that tomorrow morning we shall have tomorrow’s Times, and the Express and the Mail?”
She did not answer and he turned away, for he saw coming towards them two persons, a man and his wife, who had been fellow-passengers from Singapore.
“Get through the Customs all right?” he cried to them cheerily.
The man seemed not to hear, for he walked straight on, but the woman answered.
“Yes, they never found the cigarettes.”
She saw Anne, gave her a friendly
“I was afraid they’d want to come in here,” said Alban. “Let’s have the carriage to ourselves if we can.”
She looked at him curiously.
“I don’t think you need worry,” she answered. “I don’t think anyone will come in.”
He lit a cigarette and lingered at the carriage door. On his face was a happy smile. When they had passed through the Red Sea and found a sharp wind in the Canal, Anne had been surprised to see how much the men who had looked presentable enough in the white ducks in which she had been accustomed to see them, were changed when they left them off for warmer clothes. They looked like nothing on earth then. Their ties were awful and their shirts all wrong. They wore grubby flannel trousers and shabby old golf-coats that had too obviously been bought off the nail, or blue serge suits that betrayed the provincial tailor. Most of the passengers had got off at Marseilles, but a dozen or so, either because after a long period in the East they thought the trip through the Bay would do them good, or, like themselves, for economy’s sake, had gone all the way to Tilbury, and now several of them walked along the platform. They wore solar topees or double-brimmed terais, and heavy greatcoats, or else shapeless soft hats or bowlers, not too well brushed, that looked too small for them. It was a shock to see them. They looked suburban and a trifle second-rate. But Alban had already a London look. There was not a speck of dust on his smart greatcoat, and his black Homburg hat looked brand-new. You would never have guessed that he had not been home for three years. His collar fitted closely round his neck and his foulard tie was neatly tied. As Anne looked at him she could not but think how good-looking he was. He was just under six feet tall, and slim, and he wore his clothes well, and his clothes were well cut. He had fair hair, still thick, and blue eyes and the faintly yellow skin common to men of that complexion after they have lost the pink-and-white freshness of early youth. There was no colour in his cheeks. It was a fine head, well-set on rather a long neck, with a somewhat prominent Adam’s apple; but you were more impressed with the distinction than with the beauty of his face. It was because his features were so regular, his nose so straight, his brow so broad that he photographed so well. Indeed, from his photographs you would have thought him extremely handsome. He was not that, perhaps because his eyebrows and his eyelashes were pale, and his lips thin, but he looked very intellectual. There was refinement in his face and a spirituality that was oddly moving. That was how you thought a poet should look; and when Anne became engaged to him she told her girl friends who asked her about him that he looked like Shelley. He turned to her now with a little smile in his blue eyes. His smile was very attractive.
“What a perfect day to land in England!”
It was October. They had steamed up the Channel on a grey sea under a grey sky. There was not a breath of wind. The fishing boats seemed to rest on the placid water as though the elements had for ever forgotten their old hostility: The coast was incredibly green, but with a bright cosy greenness quite unlike the luxuriant, vehement verdure of Eastern jungles. The red towns they passed here and there were comfortable and homelike. They seemed to welcome the exiles with a smiling friendliness. And when they drew into the estuary of the Thames they saw the rich levels of Essex and in a little while Chalk Church on the Kentish shore, lonely in the midst of weather-beaten trees, and beyond it the woods of Cobham. The sun, red in a faint mist, set on the marshes, and night fell. In the station the arc-lamps shed a light that spotted the darkness with cold hard patches. It was good to see the porters lumbering about in their grubby uniforms and the station-master fat and important in his bowler hat. The station-master blew a whistle and waved his arm. Alban stepped into the carriage and seated himself in the corner opposite to Anne. The train started.
“We’re due in London at six-ten,” said Alban. “We ought to get to Jermyn Street by seven. That’ll give us an hour to bath and change and we can get to the Savoy for dinner by eight-thirty. A bottle of pop tonight, my pet, and a slap-up dinner.” He gave a chuckle. “I heard the Strouds and the Maundrys arranging to meet at the Trocadero Grill-Room.”
He took up the papers and asked if she wanted any of them. Anne shook her head.
“Tired?” he smiled.
“No.”
“Excited?”
In order not to answer she gave a little laugh. He began to look at the papers, starting with the publishers’ advertisements, and she was conscious of the intense satisfaction it was to him to feel himself through them once more in the middle of things. They had taken in those same papers in Sondurah, but they arrived six weeks old, and though they kept them abreast of what was going on in the world that interested them both, they emphasized their exile. But these were fresh from the press. They smelt different. They had a crispness that was almost voluptuous. He wanted to read them all at once. Anne looked out of the window. The country was dark, and she could see little but the lights of their carriage reflected on the glass, but very soon the town encroached upon it, and then she saw little sordid houses, mile upon mile of them, with a light in a window here and there, and the chimneys made a dreary pattern against the sky. They passed through Barking and East Ham and Bromley-it was silly that the name on the platform as they went through the station should give her such a tremor-and then Stepney. Alban put down his papers.
“We shall be there in five minutes now.”
He put on his hat and took down from the racks the things the porter had put in them. He looked at her with shining eyes and his lips twitched. She saw that he was only just able to control his emotion. He looked out of the window, too, and they passed over brightly lighted thoroughfares, close packed with tram-cars, buses, and motor-vans, and they saw the streets thick with people. What a mob! The shops were all lit up. They saw the hawkers with their barrows at the kerb.
“London,” he said.
He took her hand and gently pressed it. His smile was so sweet that she had to say something. She tried to be facetious.
“Does it make you feel all funny inside?”
“I don’t know if I want to cry or if I want to be sick.”
Fenchurch Street. He lowered the window and waved his arm for a porter. With a grinding of brakes the train came to a standstill. A porter opened the door and Alban handed him out one package after another. Then in his polite way, having jumped out, he gave his hand to Anne to help her down to the platform. The porter went to fetch a barrow and they stood by the pile of their luggage. Alban waved to two passengers from the ship who passed them. The man nodded stiffly.
“What a comfort it is that we shall never have to be civil to those awful people any more,” said Alban lightly.
Anne gave him a quick glance. He was really incomprehensible. The porter came back with his barrow, the luggage was put on, and they followed him to collect their trunks. Alban took his wife’s arm and pressed it.
“The smell of London. By God, it’s grand.”
He rejoiced in the noise and the bustle, and the crowd of people who jostled them; the radiance of the arc-lamps and the black shadows they cast, sharp but full-toned, gave him a sense of elation. They got out into the street and the porter went off to get them a taxi. Alban’s eyes glittered as he looked at the buses and the policemen trying to direct the confusion. His distinguished face bore a look of something like inspiration. The taxi came. Their luggage was stowed away and piled up beside the driver, Alban gave the porter half-a-crown, and they drove off. They turned down Gracechurch Street and in Cannon Street were held up by a block in the traffic. Alban laughed out loud.
“What’s the matter?” said Anne.
“I’m so excited.”
They went along the Embankment. It was relatively quiet there. Taxis and cars passed them. The bells of the trams were music in his ears. At Westminster Bridge they cut across Parliament Square and drove through the green silence of St James’s Park. They had engaged a room at a hotel just off Jermyn Street. The reception clerk took th
“This looks all right,” said Alban. “It’ll do us till we can find a flat or something.”
He looked at his watch.
“Look here, darling, we shall only fall over one another if we try to unpack together. We’ve got oodles of time and it’ll take you longer to get straight and dress than me. I’ll clear out. I want to go to the club and see if there’s any mail for me. I’ve got my dinner jacket in my suit-case and it’ll only take me twenty minutes to have a bath and dress. Does that suit you?”
“Yes. That’s all right.”
“I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Very well.”
He took out of his pocket the little comb he always carried and passed it through his long fair hair. Then he put on his hat. He gave himself a glance in the mirror.
“Shall I turn on the bath for you?”
“No, don’t bother.”
“All right. So long.”
He went out.
When he was gone Anne took her dressing-case and her hat-box and put them on the top of her trunk. Then she rang the bell. She did not take off her hat. She sat down and lit a cigarette. When a servant answered the bell she asked for the porter. He came. She pointed to the luggage.
“Will you take those things and leave them in the hall for the present. I’ll tell you what to do with them presently.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
She gave him a florin. He took the trunk out and the other packages and closed the door behind him. A few tears slid down Anne’s cheeks, but she shook herself; she dried her eyes and powdered her face. She needed all her calm. She was glad that Alban had conceived the idea of going to his club. It made things easier and gave her a little time to think them out.