Chapter VIII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　On reading over what I have written of the Stricklands, I amconscious that they must seem shadowy. I have been able toinvest them with none of those characteristics which make thepersons of a book exist with a real life of their own; and,wondering if the fault is mine, I rack my brains to rememberidiosyncrasies which might lend them vividness. I feel thatby dwelling on some trick of speech or some queer habit Ishould be able to give them a significance peculiar to themselves.As they stand they are like the figures in an old tapestry;they do not separate themselves from the background,and at a distance seem to lose their pattern, so that you havelittle but a pleasing piece of colour. My only excuse is thatthe impression they made on me was no other. There was justthat shadowiness about them which you find in people whoselives are part of the social organism, so that they exist init and by it only. They are like cells in the body, essential,but, so long as they remain healthy, engulfed inthe momentous whole. The Stricklands were an average familyin the middle class. A pleasant, hospitable woman, with aharmless craze for the small lions of literary society; arather dull man, doing his duty in that state of life in whicha merciful Providence had placed him; two nice-looking,healthy children. Nothing could be more ordinary. I do notknow that there was anything about them to excite theattention of the curious.When I reflect on all that happened later, I ask myself if Iwas thick-witted not to see that there was in CharlesStrickland at least something out of the common. Perhaps.I think that I have gathered in the years that intervene betweenthen and now a fair knowledge of mankind, but even if when I firstmet the Stricklands I had the experience which I have now,I do not believe that I should have judged themdifferently. But because I have learnt that man is incalculable,I should not at this time of day be so surprised by the newsthat reached me when in the early autumn I returned to London.I had not been back twenty-four hours before I ran across RoseWaterford in Jermyn Street."You look very gay and sprightly," I said. "What's the matterwith you?"She smiled, and her eyes shone with a malice I knew already.It meant that she had heard some scandal about one of herfriends, and the instinct of the literary woman was all alert."You did meet Charles Strickland, didn't you?"Not only her face, but her whole body, gave a sense of alacrity.I nodded. I wondered if the poor devil had beenhammered on the Stock Exchange or run over by an omnibus."Isn't it dreadful? He's run away from his wife."Miss Waterford certainly felt that she could not do hersubject justice on the curb of Jermyn Street, and so,like an artist, flung the bare fact at me and declared thatshe knew no details. I could not do her the injustice of supposingthat so trifling a circumstance would have prevented her fromgiving them, but she was obstinate."I tell you I know nothing," she said, in reply to my agitatedquestions, and then, with an airy shrug of the shoulders:"I believe that a young person in a city tea-shop has lefther situation."She flashed a smile at me, and, protesting an engagement withher dentist, jauntily walked on. I was more interested thandistressed. In those days my experience of life at first handwas small, and it excited me to come upon an incident amongpeople I knew of the same sort as I had read in books.I confess that time has now accustomed me to incidents of thischaracter among my acquaintance. But I was a little shocked.Strickland was certainly forty, and I thought it disgustingthat a man of his age should concern himself with affairs ofthe heart. With the superciliousness of extreme youth, I putthirty-five as the utmost limit at which a man might fall inlove without making a fool of himself. And this news wasslightly disconcerting to me personally, because I had writtenfrom the country to Mrs. Strickland, announcing my return, andhad added that unless I heard from her to the contrary,I would come on a certain day to drink a dish of tea with her.This was the very day, and I had received no word from Mrs.Strickland. Did she want to see me or did she not? It waslikely enough that in the agitation of the moment my note hadescaped her memory. Perhaps I should be wiser not to go.On the other hand, she might wish to keep the affair quiet,and it might be highly indiscreet on my part to give any sign thatthis strange news had reached me. I was torn between the fearof hurting a nice woman's feelings and the fear of being inthe way. I felt she must be suffering, and I did not want tosee a pain which I could not help; but in my heart was adesire, that I felt a little ashamed of, to see how she wastaking it. I did not know what to do.Finally it occurred to me that I would call as though nothinghad happened, and send a message in by the maid asking Mrs.Strickland if it was convenient for her to see me. This wouldgive her the opportunity to send me away. But I wasoverwhelmed with embarrassment when I said to the maid thephrase I had prepared, and while I waited for the answer in adark passage I had to call up all my strength of mind not to bolt.The maid came back. Her manner suggested to my excitedfancy a complete knowledge of the domestic calamity."Will you come this way, sir?" she said.I followed her into the drawing-room. The blinds were partlydrawn to darken the room, and Mrs. Strickland was sitting withher back to the light. Her brother-in-law, Colonel MacAndrew,stood in front of the fireplace, warming his back at an unlit fire.To myself my entrance seemed excessively awkward. I imaginedthat my arrival had taken them by surprise, and Mrs. Stricklandhad let me come in only because she had forgotten to put me off.I fancied that the Colonel resented the interruption."I wasn't quite sure if you expected me," I said, trying toseem unconcerned."Of course I did. Anne will bring the tea in a minute."Even in the darkened room, I could not help seeing that Mrs.Strickland's face was all swollen with tears. Her skin,never very good, was earthy."You remember my brother-in-law, don't you? You met at dinner,just before the holidays."We shook hands. I felt so shy that I could think of nothingto say, but Mrs. Strickland came to my rescue. She asked mewhat I had been doing with myself during the summer, and withthis help I managed to make some conversation till tea wasbrought in. The Colonel asked for a whisky-and-soda."You'd better have one too, Amy," he said."No; I prefer tea."This was the first suggestion that anything untowardhad happened. I took no notice, and did my best to engageMrs. Strickland in talk. The Colonel, still standing in frontof the fireplace, uttered no word. I wondered how soon I coulddecently take my leave, and I asked myself why on earth Mrs.Strickland had allowed me to come. There were no flowers,and various knick-knacks, put away during the summer, had not beenreplaced; there was something cheerless and stiff about theroom which had always seemed so friendly; it gave you an oddfeeling, as though someone were lying dead on the other sideof the wall. I finished tea."Will you have a cigarette?" asked Mrs. Strickland.She looked about for the box, but it was not to be seen."I'm afraid there are none."Suddenly she burst into tears, and hurried from the room.I was startled. I suppose now that the lack of cigarettes,brought as a rule by her husband, forced him back upon herrecollection, and the new feeling that the small comforts shewas used to were missing gave her a sudden pang. She realisedthat the old life was gone and done with. It was impossibleto keep up our social pretences any longer."I dare say you'd like me to go," I said to the Colonel,getting up."I suppose you've heard that blackguard has deserted her,"he cried explosively.I hesitated."You know how people gossip," I answered. "I was vaguely toldthat something was wrong.""He's bolted. He's gone off to Paris with a woman. He's leftAmy without a penny.""I'm awfully sorry," I said, not knowing what else to say.The Colonel gulped down his whisky. He was a tall, lean manof fifty, with a drooping moustache and grey hair. He hadpale blue eyes and a weak mouth. I remembered from myprevious meeting with him that he had a foolish face, and wasproud of the fact that for the ten years before he left thearmy he had played polo three days a week."I don't suppose Mrs. Strickland wants to be bothered with mejust now," I said. "Will you tell her how sorry I am?If there's anything I can do. I shall be delighted to do it."He took no notice of me."I don't know what's to become of her. And then there are thechildren. Are they going to live on air? Seventeen years.""What about seventeen years?""They've been married," he snapped. "I never liked him.Of course he was my brother-in-law, and I made the best of it.Did you think him a gentleman? She ought never to havemarried him.""Is it absolutely final?""There's only one thing for her to do, and that's to divorcehim. That's what I was telling her when you came in.'Fire in with your petition, my dear Amy,' I said. `You owe itto yourself and you owe it to the children.' He'd better not letme catch sight of him. I'd thrash him within an inch of his life."I could not help thinking that Colonel MacAndrew might havesome difficulty in doing this, since Strickland had struck meas a hefty fellow, but I did not say anything. It is alwaysdistressing when outraged morality does not possess thestrength of arm to administer direct chastisement on the sinner.I was making up my mind to another attempt at goingwhen Mrs. Strickland came back. She had dried her eyes andpowdered her nose."I'm sorry I broke down," she said. "I'm glad you didn't go away."She sat down. I did not at all know what to say. I felt acertain shyness at referring to matters which were no concernof mine. I did not then know the besetting sin of woman,the passion to discuss her private affairs with anyone who iswilling to listen. Mrs. Strickland seemed to make an effortover herself."Are people talking about it?" she asked.I was taken aback by her assumption that I knew all about herdomestic misfortune."I've only just come back. The only person I've seen is RoseWaterford."Mrs. Strickland clasped her hands."Tell me exactly what she said." And when I hesitated,she insisted. "I particularly want to know.""You know the way people talk. She's not very reliable, isshe? She said your husband had left you.""Is that all?"I did not choose to repeat Rose Waterford's parting referenceto a girl from a tea-shop. I lied."She didn't say anything about his going with anyone?""No.""That's all I wanted to know."I was a little puzzled, but at all events I understood that Imight now take my leave. When I shook hands with Mrs.Strickland I told her that if I could be of any use to her Ishould be very glad. She smiled wanly."Thank you so much. I don't know that anybody can do anythingfor me."Too shy to express my sympathy, I turned to say good-bye tothe Colonel. He did not take my hand."I'm just coming. If you're walking up Victoria Street,I'll come along with you.""All right," I said. "Come on."