The Great Exotic Novels and Short Stories of Somerset Maugham

  Meaning to take Edward by surprise he had not cabled to announce his arrival, and when at last he landed at Tahiti he allowed a youth, who said he was the son of the house, to lead him to the Hotel de la Fleur. He chuckled when he thought of his friend’s amazement on seeing him, the most unexpected of visitors, walk into his office.

  “By the way,” he asked, as they went along, “can you tell me where I shall find Mr. Edward Barnard?”

  “Barnard?” said the youth. “I seem to know the name.”

  “He’s an American. A tall fellow with light brown hair and blue eyes. He’s been here over two years.”

  “Of course. Now I know who you mean. You mean Mr Jackson’s nephew.”

  “Whose nephew?”

  “Mr Arnold Jackson.”

  “I don’t think we’re speaking of the same person,” answered Bateman, frigidly.

  He was startled. It was queer that Arnold Jackson, known apparently to all and sundry, should live here under the disgraceful name in which he had been convicted. But Bateman could not imagine whom it was that he passed off as his nephew. Mrs Longstaffe was his only sister and he had never had a brother. The young man by his side talked volubly in an English that had something in it of the intonation of a foreign tongue, and Bateman, with a sidelong glance, saw, what he had not noticed before, that there was in him a good deal of native blood. A touch of hauteur involuntarily entered into his manner. They reached the hotel. When he had arranged about his room Bateman asked to be directed to the premises of Braunschmidt & Co. They were on the front, facing the lagoon, and, glad to feel the solid earth under his feet after eight days at sea, he sauntered down the sunny road to the water’s edge. Having found the place he sought, Bateman sent in his card to the manager and was led through a lofty barn-like room, half store and half warehouse, to an office in which sat a stout, spectacled, bald-headed man.

  “Can you tell me where I shall find Mr Edward Barnard? I understand he was in this office for some time.”

  “That is so. I don’t know just where he is.”

  “But I thought he came here with a particular recommendation from Mr Braunschmidt. I know Mr Braunschmidt very well.”

  The fat man looked at Bateman with shrewd, suspicious eyes. He called to one of the boys in the warehouse.

  “Say, Henry, where’s Barnard now, d’you know?”

  “He’s working at Cameron’s, I think,” came the answer from someone who did not trouble to move.

  The fat man nodded.

  “If you turn to your left when you get out of here you’ll come to Cameron’s in about three minutes.”

  Bateman hesitated.

  “I think I should tell you that Edward Barnard is my greatest friend. I was very much surprised when I heard he’d left Braunschmidt & Co.”

  The fat man’s eyes contracted till they seemed like pin-points, and their scrutiny made Bateman so uncomfortable that he felt himself blushing.

  “I guess Braunschmidt & Co. and Edward Barnard didn’t see eye to eye on certain matters,” he replied.

  Bateman did not quite like the fellow’s manner, so he got up, not without dignity, and with an apology for troubling him bade him good-day. He left the place with a singular feeling that the man he had just interviewed had much to tell him, but no intention of telling it. He walked in the direction indicated and soon found himself at Cameron’s. It was a trader’s store, such as he had passed half a dozen of on his way, and when he entered the first person he saw, in his shirt sleeves, measuring out a length of trade cotton, was Edward. It gave him a start to see him engaged in so humble an occupation. But he had scarcely appeared when Edward, looking up, caught sight of him, and gave a joyful cry of surprise.

  “Bateman! Who ever thought of seeing you here?”

  He stretched his arm across the counter and wrung Bateman’s hand. There was no self-consciousness in his manner and the embarrassment was all on Bateman’s side.

  “Just wait till I’ve wrapped this package.”

  With perfect assurance he ran his scissors across the stuff, folded it, made it into a parcel, and handed it to the dark-skinned customer.

  “Pay at the desk, please.”

  Then, smiling, with bright eyes, he turned to Bateman.

  “How did you show up here? Gee, I am delighted to see you. Sit down, old man. Make yourself at home.”

  “We can’t talk here. Come along to my hotel. I suppose you can get away?”

  This he added with some apprehension.

  “Of course I can get away. We’re not so businesslike as all that in Tahiti.” He called out to a Chinese who was standing behind the opposite counter. “Ah-Ling, when the boss comes tell him a friend of mine’s just arrived from America and I’ve gone out to have a drain with him.”

  “All-light,” said the Chinese, with a grin.

  Edward slipped on a coat and, putting on his hat, accompanied Bateman out of the store. Bateman attempted to put the matter facetiously.

  “I didn’t expect to find you selling three and a half yards of rotten cotton to a greasy nigger,” he laughed.

  “Braunschmidt fired me, you know, and I thought that would do as well as anything else.”

  Edward’s candour seemed to Bateman very surprising, but he thought it indiscreet to pursue the subject.

  “I guess you won’t make a fortune where you are,” he answered, somewhat dryly.

  “I guess not. But I earn enough to keep body and soul together, and I’m quite satisfied with that.”

  “You wouldn’t have been two years ago.”

  “We grow wiser as we grow older,” retorted Edward, gaily.

  Bateman took a glance at him. Edward was dressed in a suit of shabby white ducks, none too clean, and a large straw hat of native make. He was thinner than he had been, deeply burned by the sun, and he was certainly better looking than ever. But there was something in his appearance that disconcerted Bateman. He walked with a new jauntiness; there was a carelessness in his demeanour, a gaiety about nothing in particular, which Bateman could not precisely blame, but which exceedingly puzzled him.

  “I’m blest if I can see what he’s got to be so darned cheerful about,” he said to himself.

  They arrived at the hotel and sat on the terrace. A Chinese boy brought them cocktails. Edward was most anxious to hear all the news of Chicago and bombarded his friend with eager questions. His interest was natural and sincere. But the odd thing was that it seemed equally divided among a multitude of subjects. He was as eager to know how Bateman’s father was as what Isabel was doing. He talked of her without a shade of embarrassment, but she might just as well have been his sister as his promised wife; and before Bateman had done analysing the exact meaning of Edward’s remarks he found that the conversation had drifted to his own work and the buildings his father had lately erected. He was determined to bring the conversation back to Isabel and was looking for the occasion when he saw Edward wave his hand cordially. A man was advancing towards them on the terrace, but Bateman’s back was turned to him and he could not see him.

  “Come and sit down,” said Edward gaily.

  The new-comer approached. He was a very tall, thin man, in white ducks, with a fine head of curly white hair. His face was thin too, long, with a large, hooked nose and a beautiful, expressive mouth.

  “This is my old friend Bateman Hunter. I’ve told you about him,” said Edward, his constant smile breaking on his lips.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Hunter. I used to know your father.”

  The stranger held out his hand and took the young man’s in a strong, friendly grasp. It was not till then that Edward mentioned the other’s name.

  “Mr Arnold Jackson.”

  Bateman turned white and he felt his hands grow cold. This was the forger, the convict, this was Isabel’s uncle. He did not know what to say. He tried to conceal his confusion. Arnold Jackson looked at him with twinkling eyes.

  “I daresay my name is familiar to you.”
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  Bateman did not know whether to say yes or no, and what made it more awkward was that both Jackson and Edward seemed to be amused. It was bad enough to have forced on him the acquaintance of the one man on the island he would rather have avoided, but worse to discern that he was being made a fool of. Perhaps, however, he had reached this conclusion too quickly, for Jackson, without a pause, added:

  “I understand you’re very friendly with the Longstaffes. Mary Longstaffe is my sister.”

  Now Bateman asked himself if Arnold Jackson could think him ignorant of the most terrible scandal that Chicago had ever known. But Jackson put his hand on Edward’s shoulder.

  “I can’t sit down, Teddie,” he said. “I’m busy. But you two boys had better come up and dine to-night.”

  “That’ll be fine,” said Edward.

  “It’s very kind of you, Mr Jackson,” said Bateman, frigidly, “but I’m here for so short a time; my boat sails to-morrow, you know; I think if you’ll forgive me, I won’t come.”

  “Oh, nonsense. I’ll give you a native dinner. My wife’s a wonderful cook. Teddie will show you the way. Come early so as to see the sunset. I can give you both a shake-down if you like.”

  “Of course we’ll come,” said Edward. “There’s always the devil of a row in the hotel on the night a boat arrives and we can have a good yarn up at the bungalow.”

  “I can’t let you off, Mr Hunter,” Jackson continued with the utmost cordiality. “I want to hear all about Chicago and Mary.”

  He nodded and walked away before Bateman could say another word.

  “We don’t take refusals in Tahiti,” laughed Edward. “Besides, you’ll get the best dinner on the island.”

  “What did he mean by saying his wife was a good cook? I happen to know his wife’s in Geneva.”

  “That’s a long way off for a wife, isn’t it?” said Edward. “And it’s a long time since he saw her. I guess it’s another wife he’s talking about.”

  For some time Bateman was silent. His face was set in grave lines. But looking up he caught the amused look in Edward’s eyes, and he flushed darkly.

  “Arnold Jackson is a despicable rogue,” he said.

  “I greatly fear he is,” answered Edward, smiling.

  “I don’t see how any decent man can have anything to do with him.”

  “Perhaps I’m not a decent man.”

  “Do you see much of him, Edward?”

  “Yes, quite a lot. He’s adopted me as his nephew.”

  Bateman leaned forward and fixed Edward with his searching eyes.

  “Do you like him?”

  “Very much.”

  “But don’t you know, doesn’t everyone here know, that he’s a forger and that he’s been a convict? He ought to be hounded out of civilised society.”

  Edward watched a ring of smoke that floated from his cigar into the still, scented air.

  “I suppose he is a pretty unmitigated rascal,” he said at last. “And I can’t flatter myself that any repentance for his misdeeds offers one an excuse for condoning them. He was a swindler and a hypocrite. You can’t get away from it. I never met a more agreeable companion. He’s taught me everything I know.”

  “What has he taught you?” cried Bateman in amazement.

  “How to live.”

  Bateman broke into ironical laughter.

  “A fine master. Is it owing to his lessons that you lost the chance of making a fortune and earn your living now by serving behind a counter in a ten cent store?”

  “He has a wonderful personality,” said Edward, smiling good-naturedly. “Perhaps you’ll see what I mean to-night.”

  “I’m not going to dine with him if that’s what you mean. Nothing would induce me to set foot within that man’s house.”

  “Come to oblige me, Bateman. We’ve been friends for so many years, you won’t refuse me a favour when I ask it.”

  Edward’s tone had in it a quality new to Bateman. Its gentleness was singularly persuasive.

  “If you put it like that, Edward, I’m bound to come,” he smiled.

  Bateman reflected, moreover, that it would be as well to learn what he could about Arnold Jackson. It was plain that he had a great ascendency over Edward, and if it was to be combated it was necessary to discover in what exactly it consisted. The more he talked with Edward the more conscious he became that a change had taken place in him. He had an instinct that it behooved him to walk warily, and he made up his mind not to broach the real purport of his visit till he saw his way more clearly. He began to talk of one thing and another, of his journey and what he had achieved by it, of politics in Chicago, of this common friend and that, of their days together at college.

  At last Edward said he must get back to his work and proposed that he should fetch Bateman at five so that they could drive out together to Arnold Jackson’s house.

  “By the way, I rather thought you’d be living at this hotel,” said Bateman, as he strolled out of the garden with Edward. “I understand it’s the only decent one here.”

  “Not I,” laughed Edward. “It’s a deal too grand for me. I rent a room just outside the town. It’s cheap and clean.”

  “If I remember right those weren’t the points that seemed most important to you when you lived in Chicago.”

  “Chicago!”

  “I don’t know what you mean by that, Edward. It’s the greatest city in the world.”

  “I know,” said Edward.

  Bateman glanced at him quickly, but his face was inscrutable.

  “When are you coming back to it?”

  “I often wonder,” smiled Edward.

  This answer, and the manner of it, staggered Bateman, but before he could ask for an explanation Edward waved to a half-caste who was driving a passing motor.

  “Give us a ride down, Charlie,” he said.

  He nodded to Bateman, and ran after the machine that had pulled up a few yards in front. Bateman was left to piece together a mass of perplexing impressions.

  Edward called for him in a rickety trap drawn by an old mare, and they drove along a road that ran by the sea. On each side of it were plantations, coconut and vanilla; and now and then they saw a great mango, its fruit yellow and red and purple among the massy green of the leaves; now and then they had a glimpse of the lagoon, smooth and blue, with here and there a tiny islet graceful with tall palms. Arnold Jackson’s house stood on a little hill and only a path led to it, so they unharnessed the mare and tied her to a tree, leaving the trap by the side of the road. To Bateman it seemed a happy-go-lucky way of doing things. But when they went up to the house they were met by a tall, handsome native woman, no longer young, with whom Edward cordially shook hands. He introduced Bateman to her.

  “This is my friend Mr Hunter. We’re going to dine with you, Lavina.”

  “All right,” she said, with a quick smile. “Arnold ain’t back yet.”

  “We’ll go down and bathe. Let us have a couple of pareos.”

  The woman nodded and went into the house.

  “Who is that?” asked Bateman.

  “Oh, that’s Lavina. She’s Arnold’s wife.”

  Bateman tightened his lips, but said nothing. In a moment the woman returned with a bundle, which she gave to Edward; and the two men, scrambling down a steep path, made their way to a grove of coconut trees on the beach. They undressed and Edward showed his friend how to make the strip of red trade cotton which is called a pareo into a very neat pair of bathing-drawers. Soon they were splashing in the warm, shallow water. Edward was in great spirits. He laughed and shouted and sang. He might have been fifteen. Bateman had never seen him so gay, and afterwards when they lay on the beach, smoking cigarettes, in the limpid air, there was such an irresistible light-heartedness in him that Bateman was taken aback.

  “You seem to find life mighty pleasant,” said he.

  “I do.”

  They heard a soft movement and looking round saw that Arnold Jackson was coming towards them.
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  “I thought I’d come down and fetch you two boys back,” he said. “Did you enjoy your bath, Mr Hunter?”

  “Very much,” said Bateman.

  Arnold Jackson, no longer in spruce ducks, wore nothing but a pareo round his loins and walked barefoot. His body was deeply browned by the sun. With his long, curling white hair and his ascetic face he made a fantastic figure in the native dress, but he bore himself without a trace of self-consciousness.

  “If you’re ready we’ll go right up,” said Jackson.

  “I’ll just put on my clothes,” said Bateman.

  “Why, Teddie, didn’t you bring a pareo for your friend?”

  “I guess he’d rather wear clothes,” smiled Edward.

  “I certainly would,” answered Bateman, grimly, as he saw Edward gird himself in the loincloth and stand ready to start before he himself had got his shirt on.

  “Won’t you find it rough walking without your shoes?” he asked Edward. “It struck me the path was a trifle rocky.”

  “Oh, I’m used to it.”

  “It’s a comfort to get into a pareo when one gets back from town,” said Jackson. “If you were going to stay here I should strongly recommend you to adopt it. It’s one of the most sensible costumes I have ever come across. It’s cool, convenient, and inexpensive.”

  They walked up to the house, and Jackson took them into a large room with white-washed walls and an open ceiling in which a table was laid for dinner. Bateman noticed that it was set for five.

  “Eva, come and show yourself to Teddie’s friend, and then shake us a cocktail,” called Jackson.

  Then he led Bateman to a long low window.

  “Look at that,” he said, with a dramatic gesture. “Look well.”

  Below them coconut trees tumbled down steeply to the lagoon, and the lagoon in the evening light had the colour, tender and varied, of a dove’s breast. On a creek, at a little distance, were the clustered huts of a native village, and towards the reef was a canoe, sharply silhouetted, in which were a couple of natives fishing. Then, beyond, you saw the vast calmness of the Pacific and twenty miles away, airy and unsubstantial like the fabric of a poet’s fancy, the unimaginable beauty of the island which is called Murea. It was all so lovely that Bateman stood abashed.