The Favorite Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham

  My brain was reeling when Miss Porchester, looking at her watch, said: “Are you not going to read to us tonight, Uncle Edwin?”

  I withdrew.

  It was while I was drinking a glass of port with Mr St Clair one evening that he told me the sad story of Miss Porchester. She was engaged to be married to a nephew of Mrs St Clair, a barrister, when it was discovered that he had had an intrigue with the daughter of his laundress.

  “It was a terrible thing,” said Mr St Clair. “A terrible thing. But of course my niece took the only possible course. She returned him his ring, his letters, and his photograph, and said that she could never marry him. She implored him to marry the young person he had wronged and said she would be a sister to her. It broke her heart. She has never cared for anyone since.”

  “And did he marry the young person?”

  Mr St Clair shook his head and sighed.

  “No, we were greatly mistaken in him. It has been a sore grief to my dear wife to think that a nephew of hers should behave in such a dishonourable manner. Some time later we heard that he was engaged to a young lady in a very good position with ten thousand pounds of her own. I considered it my duty to write to her father and put the facts before him. He answered my letter in a most insolent fashion. He said he would much rather his son-in-law had a mistress before marriage than after.”

  “What happened then?”

  “They were married and now my wife’s nephew is one of His Majesty’s Judges of the High Court, and his wife is My Lady. But we’ve never consented to receive them. When my wife’s nephew was knighted Eleanor suggested that we should ask them to dinner, but my wife said that he should never darken our doors and I upheld her.”

  “And the laundress’s daughter?”

  “She married in her own class of life and has a public-house at Canterbury. My niece, who has a little money of her own, did everything for her and is godmother to her eldest child.”

  Poor Miss Porchester. She had sacrificed herself on the altar of Victorian morality and I am afraid the consciousness that she had behaved beautifully was the only benefit she had got from it.

  “Miss Porchester is a woman of striking appearance,” I said. “When she was younger she must have been perfectly lovely. I wonder she never married somebody else.”

  “Miss Porchester was considered a great beauty. Alma-Tadema admired her so much that he asked her to sit as a model for one of his pictures, but of course we couldn’t very well allow that.” Mr St Clair’s tone conveyed that the suggestion had deeply outraged his sense of decency. “No, Miss Porchester never cared for anyone but her cousin. She never speaks of him and it is now thirty years since they parted, but I am convinced that she loves him still. She is a true woman, my dear sir, one life, one love, and though perhaps I regret that she has been deprived of the joys of marriage and motherhood I am bound to admire her fidelity.”

  But the heart of woman is incalculable and rash is the man who thinks she will remain in one stay. Rash, Uncle Edwin. You have known Eleanor for many years, for when, her mother having fallen into a decline and died, you brought the orphan to your comfortable and even luxurious house in Leinster Square, she was but a child; but what, when it comes down to brass tacks, Uncle Edwin, do you really know of Eleanor?

  It was but two days after Mr St Clair had confided to me the touching story which explained why Miss Porchester had remained a spinster that, coming back to the hotel in the afternoon after a round of golf, the manageress came up to me in an agitated manner.

  “Mr St Clair’s compliments and will you go up to number twenty-seven the moment you come in.”

  “Certainly. But why?”

  “Oh, there’s a rare upset. They’ll tell you.”

  I knocked at the door. I heard a “Come in, come in,” which reminded me that Mr St Clair had played Shakespearean parts in probably the most refined amateur dramatic company in London. I entered and found Mrs St Clair lying on the sofa with a handkerchief soaked in eau-de-Cologne on her brow and a bottle of smelling-salts in her hand. Mr St Clair was standing in front of the fire in such a manner as to prevent anyone else in the room from obtaining any benefit from it.

  “I must apologize for asking you to come up in this unceremonious fashion, but we are in great distress, and we thought you might be able to throw some light on what has happened.”

  His perturbation was obvious.

  “What has happened?”

  “Our niece, Miss Porchester, has eloped. This morning she sent in a message to my wife that she had one of her sick headaches. When she has one of her sick headaches she likes to be left absolutely alone and it wasn’t till this afternoon that my wife went to see if there was anything she could do for her. The room was empty. Her trunk was packed. Her dressing-case with silver fittings was gone. And on the pillow was a letter telling us of her rash act.”

  “I’m very sorry,” I said. “I don’t know exactly what I can do.”

  “We were under the impression that you were the only gentleman at Elsom with whom she had any acquaintance.”

  His meaning flashed across me.

  “I haven’t eloped with her,” I said. “I happen to be a married man.”

  “I see you haven’t eloped with her. At the first moment we thought perhaps … but if it isn’t you, who is it?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “Show him the letter, Edwin,” said Mrs St Clair from the sofa.

  “Don’t move, Gertrude. It will bring on your lumbago.”

  Miss Porchester had “her’ sick headaches and Mrs St Clair had “her’ lumbago. What had Mr St Clair? I was willing to bet a fiver that Mr St Clair had “his’ gout. He gave me the letter and I read it with an air of decent commiseration.

  Dearest Uncle Edwin and Aunt Gertrude

  When you receive this I shall be far away. I am going to be married this morning to a gentleman who is very dear to me. I know I am doing wrong in running away like this, but I was afraid you would endeavour to set obstacles in the way of my marriage and since nothing would induce me to change my mind I thought it would save us all much unhappiness if I did it without telling you anything about it. My fiancé is a very retiring man, owing to his long residence in tropical countries not in the best of health, and he thought it much better that we should be married quite privately. When you know how radiantly happy I am I hope you will forgive me. Please send my box to the luggage office at Victoria Station.

  Your loving niece, Eleanor

  “I will never forgive her,” said Mr St Clair as I returned him the letter. “She shall never darken my doors again. Gertrude, I forbid you ever to mention Eleanor’s name in my hearing.”

  Mrs St Clair began to sob quietly.

  “Aren’t you rather hard?” I said. “Is there any reason why Miss Porchester shouldn’t marry?”

  “At her age,” he answered angrily. “It’s ridiculous. We shall be the laughingstock of everyone in Leinster Square. Do you know how old she is? She’s fifty-one.”

  “Fifty-four,” said Mrs St Clair through her sobs.

  “She’s been the apple of my eye. She’s been like a daughter to us. She’s been an old maid for years. I think it’s positively improper for her to think of marriage.”

  “She was always a girl to us, Edwin,” pleaded Mrs St Clair.

  “And who is this man she’s married? It’s the deception that rankles. She must have been carrying on with him under our very noses. She does not even tell us his name. I fear the very worst.”

  Suddenly I had an inspiration. That morning after breakfast I had gone out to buy myself some cigarettes and at the tobacconist’s I ran across Mortimer Ellis. I had not seen him for some days.

  “You’re looking very spruce,” I said.

  His boots had been repaired and were neatly blacked, his hat was brushed, he was wearing a clean collar and new gloves. I thought he had laid out my two pounds to advantage.

  “I have to go to London this morning on b
usiness,” he said.

  I nodded and left the shop.

  I remembered that a fortnight before, walking in the country, I had met Miss Porchester and, a few yards behind, Mortimer Ellis. Was it possible that they had been walking together and he had fallen back as they caught sight of me? By heaven, I saw it all.

  “I think you said that Miss Porchester had money of her own,” I said.

  “A trifle. She has three thousand pounds.”

  Now I was certain. I looked at them blankly. Suddenly Mrs St Clair, with a cry, sprang to her feet.

  “Edwin, Edwin, supposing he doesn’t marry her?”

  Mr St Clair at this put his hand to his head and in a state of collapse sank into a chair.

  “The disgrace would kill me,” he groaned.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” I said. “He’ll marry her all right. He always does. He’ll marry her in church.”

  They paid no attention to what I said. I suppose they thought I’d suddenly taken leave of my senses. I was quite sure now. Mortimer Ellis had achieved his ambition after all. Miss Porchester completed the Round Dozen.

  THE HAIRLESS MEXICAN

  “DO YOU like macaroni?” said R.

  “What do you mean by macaroni?” answered Ashenden. “It is like asking me if I like poetry. I like Keats and Wordsworth and Verlaine and Goethe. When you say macaroni, do you mean spaghetti, tagliatelli, vermicelli, fettuccini, tufali, farfalli, or just macaroni?”

  “Macaroni,” replied R., a man of few words.

  “I like all simple things, boiled eggs, oysters and caviare, truite au bleu, grilled salmon, roast lamb (the saddle by preference), cold grouse, treacle tart, and rice pudding. But of all simple things the only one I can eat day in and day out, not only without disgust but with the eagerness of an appetite unimpaired by excess, is macaroni.”

  “I am glad of that because I want you to go down to Italy.”

  Ashenden had come from Geneva to meet R. at Lyons and having got there before him had spent the afternoon wandering about the dull, busy and prosaic streets of that thriving city. They were sitting now in a restaurant on the place to which Ashenden had taken R. on his arrival because it was reputed to give you the best food in that part of France. But since in so crowded a resort (for the Lyonese like a good dinner) you never knew what inquisitive ears were pricked up to catch any useful piece of information that might fall from your lips, they had contented themselves with talking of indifferent things. They had reached the end of an admirable repast.

  “Have another glass of brandy?” said R.

  “No, thank you,” answered Ashenden, who was of an abstemious turn.

  “One should do what one can to mitigate the rigours of war,” remarked R. as he took the bottle and poured out a glass for himself and another for Ashenden.

  Ashenden, thinking it would be affectation to protest, let the gesture pass, but felt bound to remonstrate with his chief on the unseemly manner in which he held the bottle.

  “In my youth I was always taught that you should take a woman by the waist and a bottle by the neck,” he murmured.

  “I am glad you told me. I shall continue to hold a bottle by the waist and give women a wide berth.”

  Ashenden did not know what to reply to this and so remained silent. He sipped his brandy and R. called for his bill. It was true that he was an important person, with power to make or mar quite a large number of his fellows, and his opinions were listened to by those who held in their hands the fate of empires; but he could never face the business of tipping a waiter without an embarrassment that was obvious in his demeanour. He was tortured by the fear of making a fool of himself by giving too much or of exciting the waiter’s icy scorn by giving too little. When the bill came he passed some hundred-franc notes over to Ashenden and said:

  “Pay him, will you? I can never understand French figures.”

  The groom brought them their hats and coats.

  “Would you like to go back to the hotel?” asked Ashenden.

  “We might as well.”

  It was early in the year, but the weather had suddenly turned warm, and they walked with their coats over their arms. Ashenden knowing that R. liked a sitting-room had engaged one for him, and to this, when they reached the hotel, they went. The hotel was old-fashioned and the sitting-room was vast. It was furnished with a heavy mahogany suite upholstered in green velvet and the chairs were set primly round a large table. On the walls, covered with a dingy paper, were large steel engravings of the battles of Napoleon, and from the ceiling hung an enormous chandelier once used for gas, but now fitted with electric bulbs. It flooded the cheerless room with a cold, hard light.

  “This is very nice,” said R., as they went in.

  “Not exactly cosy,” suggested Ashenden.

  “No, but it looks as though it were the best room in the place. It all looks very good to me.”

  He drew one of the green velvet chairs away from the table and, sitting down, lit a cigar. He loosened his belt and unbuttoned his tunic.

  “I always thought I liked a cheroot better than anything,” he said, “but since the war I’ve taken quite a fancy to Havanas. Oh well, I suppose it can’t last for ever.” The corners of his mouth flickered with the beginning of a smile. “It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.”

  Ashenden took two chairs, one to sit on and one for his feet, and when R. saw him he said: “That’s not a bad idea,” and swinging another chair out from the table with a sigh of relief put his boots on it.

  “What room is that next door?” he asked.

  “That’s your bedroom.”

  “And on the other side?”

  “A banqueting hall.”

  R. got up and strolled slowly about the room and when he passed the windows, as though in idle curiosity, peeped through the heavy rep curtains that covered them, and then returning to his chair once more comfortably put his feet up.

  “It’s just as well not to take any more risk than one need,” he said.

  He looked at Ashenden reflectively. There was a slight smile on his thin lips, but the pale eyes, too closely set together, remained cold and steely. R.“s stare would have been embarrassing if Ashenden had not been used to it. He knew that R. was considering how he would broach the subject that he had in mind. The silence must have lasted for two or three minutes.

  “I’m expecting a fellow to come and see me tonight,” he said at last. “His train gets in about ten.” He gave his wrist-watch a glance. “He’s known as the Hairless Mexican.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s hairless and because he’s a Mexican.”

  “The explanation seems perfectly satisfactory,” said Ashenden.

  “He’ll tell you all about himself. He talks nineteen to the dozen. He was on his uppers when I came across him. It appears that he was mixed up in some revolution in Mexico and had to get out with nothing but the clothes he stood up in. They were rather the worse for wear when I found him. If you want to please him you call him General. He claims to have been a general in Huerta’s army, at least I think it was Huerta; anyhow he says that if things had gone right he would be Minister of War now and no end of a big bug. I’ve found him very useful. Not a bad chap. The only thing I really have against him is that he will use scent.”

  “And where do I come in?” asked Ashenden.

  “He’s going down to Italy. I’ve got rather a ticklish job for him to do and I want you to stand by. I’m not keen on trusting him with a lot of money. He’s a gambler and he’s a bit too fond of the girls. I suppose you came from Geneva on your Ashenden passport?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got another for you, a diplomatic one, by the way, in the name of Somerville with visas for France and Italy. I think you and he had better travel together. He’s an amusing cove when he gets going, and I think you ought to know one another.”

  “What is the job?”

  “I haven’t yet quite made up my mind how much it’s
desirable for you to know about it.”

  Ashenden did not reply. They eyed one another in a detached manner, as though they were strangers who sat together in a railway carriage and each wondered who and what the other was.

  “In your place I’d leave the General to do most of the talking. I wouldn’t tell him more about yourself than you find absolutely necessary. He won’t ask you any questions, I can promise you that, I think he’s by way of being a gentleman after his own fashion.”

  “By the way, what is his real name?”

  “I always call him Manuel. I don’t know that he likes it very much, his name is Manuel Carmona.”

  “I gather by what you have not said that he’s an unmitigated scoundrel.”

  R. smiled with his pale blue eyes.

  “I don’t know that I’d go quite as far as that. He hasn’t had the advantages of a public-school education. His ideas of playing the game are not quite the same as yours or mine. I don’t know that I’d leave a gold cigarette-case about when he was in the neighbourhood, but if he lost money to you at poker and had pinched your cigarette-case he would immediately pawn it to pay you.

  If he had half a chance he’d seduce your wife, but if you were up against it he’d share his last crust with you. The tears will run down his face when he hears Gounod’s Ave Maria on the gramophone, but if you insult his dignity he’ll shoot you like a dog. It appears that in Mexico it’s an insult to get between a man and his drink and he told me himself that once when a Dutchman who didn’t know passed between him and the bar he whipped out his revolver and shot him dead.”

  “Did nothing happen to him?”

  “No, it appears that he belongs to one of the best families. The matter was hushed up and it was announced in the papers that the Dutchman had committed suicide. He did practically. I don’t believe the Hairless Mexican has a great respect for human life.”

  Ashenden, who had been looking intently at R., started a little and he watched more carefully than ever his chiefs tired, lined, and yellow face. He knew that he did not make this remark for nothing.