Chapter LXXXVII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Ten days later Thorpe Athelny was well enough to leave the hospital. Hegave Philip his address, and Philip promised to dine with him at oneo'clock on the following Sunday. Athelny had told him that he lived in ahouse built by Inigo Jones; he had raved, as he raved over everything,over the balustrade of old oak; and when he came down to open the door forPhilip he made him at once admire the elegant carving of the lintel. Itwas a shabby house, badly needing a coat of paint, but with the dignity ofits period, in a little street between Chancery Lane and Holborn, whichhad once been fashionable but was now little better than a slum: there wasa plan to pull it down in order to put up handsome offices; meanwhile therents were small, and Athelny was able to get the two upper floors at aprice which suited his income. Philip had not seen him up before and wassurprised at his small size; he was not more than five feet and fiveinches high. He was dressed fantastically in blue linen trousers of thesort worn by working men in France, and a very old brown velvet coat; hewore a bright red sash round his waist, a low collar, and for tie aflowing bow of the kind used by the comic Frenchman in the pages ofPunch. He greeted Philip with enthusiasm. He began talking at once ofthe house and passed his hand lovingly over the balusters."Look at it, feel it, it's like silk. What a miracle of grace! And in fiveyears the house-breaker will sell it for firewood."He insisted on taking Philip into a room on the first floor, where a manin shirt sleeves, a blousy woman, and three children were having theirSunday dinner."I've just brought this gentleman in to show him your ceiling. Did youever see anything so wonderful? How are you, Mrs. Hodgson? This is Mr.Carey, who looked after me when I was in the hospital.""Come in, sir," said the man. "Any friend of Mr. Athelny's is welcome. Mr.Athelny shows the ceiling to all his friends. And it don't matter whatwe're doing, if we're in bed or if I'm 'aving a wash, in 'e comes."Philip could see that they looked upon Athelny as a little queer; but theyliked him none the less and they listened open-mouthed while he discoursedwith his impetuous fluency on the beauty of the seventeenth-centuryceiling."What a crime to pull this down, eh, Hodgson? You're an influentialcitizen, why don't you write to the papers and protest?"The man in shirt sleeves gave a laugh and said to Philip:"Mr. Athelny will 'ave his little joke. They do say these 'ouses are thatinsanitory, it's not safe to live in them.""Sanitation be damned, give me art," cried Athelny. "I've got ninechildren and they thrive on bad drains. No, no, I'm not going to take anyrisk. None of your new-fangled notions for me! When I move from here I'mgoing to make sure the drains are bad before I take anything."There was a knock at the door, and a little fair-haired girl opened it."Daddy, mummy says, do stop talking and come and eat your dinner.""This is my third daughter," said Athelny, pointing to her with a dramaticforefinger. "She is called Maria del Pilar, but she answers more willinglyto the name of Jane. Jane, your nose wants blowing.""I haven't got a hanky, daddy.""Tut, tut, child," he answered, as he produced a vast, brilliant bandanna,"what do you suppose the Almighty gave you fingers for?"They went upstairs, and Philip was taken into a room with walls panelledin dark oak. In the middle was a narrow table of teak on trestle legs,with two supporting bars of iron, of the kind called in Spain mesa dehieraje. They were to dine there, for two places were laid, and therewere two large arm-chairs, with broad flat arms of oak and leathern backs,and leathern seats. They were severe, elegant, and uncomfortable. The onlyother piece of furniture was a bargueno, elaborately ornamented withgilt iron-work, on a stand of ecclesiastical design roughly but veryfinely carved. There stood on this two or three lustre plates, much brokenbut rich in colour; and on the walls were old masters of the Spanishschool in beautiful though dilapidated frames: though gruesome in subject,ruined by age and bad treatment, and second-rate in their conception, theyhad a glow of passion. There was nothing in the room of any value, but theeffect was lovely. It was magnificent and yet austere. Philip felt that itoffered the very spirit of old Spain. Athelny was in the middle of showinghim the inside of the bargueno, with its beautiful ornamentation andsecret drawers, when a tall girl, with two plaits of bright brown hairhanging down her back, came in."Mother says dinner's ready and waiting and I'm to bring it in as soon asyou sit down.""Come and shake hands with Mr. Carey, Sally." He turned to Philip. "Isn'tshe enormous? She's my eldest. How old are you, Sally?""Fifteen, father, come next June.""I christened her Maria del Sol, because she was my first child and Idedicated her to the glorious sun of Castile; but her mother calls herSally and her brother Pudding-Face."The girl smiled shyly, she had even, white teeth, and blushed. She waswell set-up, tall for her age, with pleasant gray eyes and a broadforehead. She had red cheeks."Go and tell your mother to come in and shake hands with Mr. Carey beforehe sits down.""Mother says she'll come in after dinner. She hasn't washed herself yet.""Then we'll go in and see her ourselves. He mustn't eat the Yorkshirepudding till he's shaken the hand that made it."Philip followed his host into the kitchen. It was small and muchovercrowded. There had been a lot of noise, but it stopped as soon as thestranger entered. There was a large table in the middle and round it,eager for dinner, were seated Athelny's children. A woman was standing atthe oven, taking out baked potatoes one by one."Here's Mr. Carey, Betty," said Athelny."Fancy bringing him in here. What will he think?"She wore a dirty apron, and the sleeves of her cotton dress were turned upabove her elbows; she had curling pins in her hair. Mrs. Athelny was alarge woman, a good three inches taller than her husband, fair, with blueeyes and a kindly expression; she had been a handsome creature, butadvancing years and the bearing of many children had made her fat andblousy; her blue eyes had become pale, her skin was coarse and red, thecolour had gone out of her hair. She straightened herself, wiped her handon her apron, and held it out."You're welcome, sir," she said, in a slow voice, with an accent thatseemed oddly familiar to Philip. "Athelny said you was very kind to him inthe 'orspital.""Now you must be introduced to the live stock," said Athelny. "That isThorpe," he pointed to a chubby boy with curly hair, "he is my eldest son,heir to the title, estates, and responsibilities of the family. There isAthelstan, Harold, Edward." He pointed with his forefinger to threesmaller boys, all rosy, healthy, and smiling, though when they feltPhilip's smiling eyes upon them they looked shyly down at their plates."Now the girls in order: Maria del Sol...""Pudding-Face," said one of the small boys."Your sense of humour is rudimentary, my son. Maria de los Mercedes, Mariadel Pilar, Maria de la Concepcion, Maria del Rosario.""I call them Sally, Molly, Connie, Rosie, and Jane," said Mrs. Athelny."Now, Athelny, you go into your own room and I'll send you your dinner.I'll let the children come in afterwards for a bit when I've washed them.""My dear, if I'd had the naming of you I should have called you Maria ofthe Soapsuds. You're always torturing these wretched brats with soap.""You go first, Mr. Carey, or I shall never get him to sit down and eat hisdinner."Athelny and Philip installed themselves in the great monkish chairs, andSally brought them in two plates of beef, Yorkshire pudding, bakedpotatoes, and cabbage. Athelny took sixpence out of his pocket and senther for a jug of beer."I hope you didn't have the table laid here on my account," said Philip."I should have been quite happy to eat with the children.""Oh no, I always have my meals by myself. I like these antique customs. Idon't think that women ought to sit down at table with men. It ruinsconversation and I'm sure it's very bad for them. It puts ideas in theirheads, and women are never at ease with themselves when they have ideas."Both host and guest ate with a hearty appetite."Did you ever taste such Yorkshire pudding? No one can make it like mywife. That's the advantage of not marrying a lady. You noticed she wasn'ta lady, didn't you?"It was an awkward question, and Philip did not know how to answer it."I never thought about it," he said lamely.Athelny laughed. He had a peculiarly joyous laugh."No, she's not a lady, nor anything like it. Her father was a farmer, andshe's never bothered about aitches in her life. We've had twelve childrenand nine of them are alive. I tell her it's about time she stopped, butshe's an obstinate woman, she's got into the habit of it now, and I don'tbelieve she'll be satisfied till she's had twenty."At that moment Sally came in with the beer, and, having poured out a glassfor Philip, went to the other side of the table to pour some out for herfather. He put his hand round her waist."Did you ever see such a handsome, strapping girl? Only fifteen and shemight be twenty. Look at her cheeks. She's never had a day's illness inher life. It'll be a lucky man who marries her, won't it, Sally?"Sally listened to all this with a slight, slow smile, not muchembarrassed, for she was accustomed to her father's outbursts, but with aneasy modesty which was very attractive."Don't let your dinner get cold, father," she said, drawing herself awayfrom his arm. "You'll call when you're ready for your pudding, won't you?"They were left alone, and Athelny lifted the pewter tankard to his lips.He drank long and deep."My word, is there anything better than English beer?" he said. "Let usthank God for simple pleasures, roast beef and rice pudding, a goodappetite and beer. I was married to a lady once. My God! Don't marry alady, my boy."Philip laughed. He was exhilarated by the scene, the funny little man inhis odd clothes, the panelled room and the Spanish furniture, the Englishfare: the whole thing had an exquisite incongruity."You laugh, my boy, you can't imagine marrying beneath you. You want awife who's an intellectual equal. Your head is crammed full of ideas ofcomradeship. Stuff and nonsense, my boy! A man doesn't want to talkpolitics to his wife, and what do you think I care for Betty's views uponthe Differential Calculus? A man wants a wife who can cook his dinner andlook after his children. I've tried both and I know. Let's have thepudding in."He clapped his hands and presently Sally came. When she took away theplates, Philip wanted to get up and help her, but Athelny stopped him."Let her alone, my boy. She doesn't want you to fuss about, do you, Sally?And she won't think it rude of you to sit still while she waits upon you.She don't care a damn for chivalry, do you, Sally?""No, father," answered Sally demurely."Do you know what I'm talking about, Sally?""No, father. But you know mother doesn't like you to swear."Athelny laughed boisterously. Sally brought them plates of rice pudding,rich, creamy, and luscious. Athelny attacked his with gusto."One of the rules of this house is that Sunday dinner should never alter.It is a ritual. Roast beef and rice pudding for fifty Sundays in the year.On Easter Sunday lamb and green peas, and at Michaelmas roast goose andapple sauce. Thus we preserve the traditions of our people. When Sallymarries she will forget many of the wise things I have taught her, but shewill never forget that if you want to be good and happy you must eat onSundays roast beef and rice pudding.""You'll call when you're ready for cheese," said Sally impassively."D'you know the legend of the halcyon?" said Athelny: Philip was growingused to his rapid leaping from one subject to another. "When thekingfisher, flying over the sea, is exhausted, his mate places herselfbeneath him and bears him along upon her stronger wings. That is what aman wants in a wife, the halcyon. I lived with my first wife for threeyears. She was a lady, she had fifteen hundred a year, and we used to givenice little dinner parties in our little red brick house in Kensington.She was a charming woman; they all said so, the barristers and their wiveswho dined with us, and the literary stockbrokers, and the buddingpoliticians; oh, she was a charming woman. She made me go to church in asilk hat and a frock coat, she took me to classical concerts, and she wasvery fond of lectures on Sunday afternoon; and she sat down to breakfastevery morning at eight-thirty, and if I was late breakfast was cold; andshe read the right books, admired the right pictures, and adored the rightmusic. My God, how that woman bored me! She is charming still, and shelives in the little red brick house in Kensington, with Morris papers andWhistler's etchings on the walls, and gives the same nice little dinnerparties, with veal creams and ices from Gunter's, as she did twenty yearsago."Philip did not ask by what means the ill-matched couple had separated, butAthelny told him."Betty's not my wife, you know; my wife wouldn't divorce me. The childrenare bastards, every jack one of them, and are they any the worse for that?Betty was one of the maids in the little red brick house in Kensington.Four or five years ago I was on my uppers, and I had seven children, andI went to my wife and asked her to help me. She said she'd make me anallowance if I'd give Betty up and go abroad. Can you see me giving Bettyup? We starved for a while instead. My wife said I loved the gutter. I'vedegenerated; I've come down in the world; I earn three pounds a week aspress agent to a linendraper, and every day I thank God that I'm not inthe little red brick house in Kensington."Sally brought in Cheddar cheese, and Athelny went on with his fluentconversation."It's the greatest mistake in the world to think that one needs money tobring up a family. You need money to make them gentlemen and ladies, butI don't want my children to be ladies and gentlemen. Sally's going to earnher living in another year. She's to be apprenticed to a dressmaker,aren't you, Sally? And the boys are going to serve their country. I wantthem all to go into the Navy; it's a jolly life and a healthy life, goodfood, good pay, and a pension to end their days on."Philip lit his pipe. Athelny smoked cigarettes of Havana tobacco, which herolled himself. Sally cleared away. Philip was reserved, and itembarrassed him to be the recipient of so many confidences. Athelny, withhis powerful voice in the diminutive body, with his bombast, with hisforeign look, with his emphasis, was an astonishing creature. He remindedPhilip a good deal of Cronshaw. He appeared to have the same independenceof thought, the same bohemianism, but he had an infinitely more vivacioustemperament; his mind was coarser, and he had not that interest in theabstract which made Cronshaw's conversation so captivating. Athelny wasvery proud of the county family to which he belonged; he showed Philipphotographs of an Elizabethan mansion, and told him:"The Athelnys have lived there for seven centuries, my boy. Ah, if you sawthe chimney-pieces and the ceilings!"There was a cupboard in the wainscoting and from this he took a familytree. He showed it to Philip with child-like satisfaction. It was indeedimposing."You see how the family names recur, Thorpe, Athelstan, Harold, Edward;I've used the family names for my sons. And the girls, you see, I've givenSpanish names to."An uneasy feeling came to Philip that possibly the whole story was anelaborate imposture, not told with any base motive, but merely from a wishto impress, startle, and amaze. Athelny had told him that he was atWinchester; but Philip, sensitive to differences of manner, did not feelthat his host had the characteristics of a man educated at a great publicschool. While he pointed out the great alliances which his ancestors hadformed, Philip amused himself by wondering whether Athelny was not the sonof some tradesman in Winchester, auctioneer or coal-merchant, and whethera similarity of surname was not his only connection with the ancientfamily whose tree he was displaying.