The Essential Somerset Maugham: 33 Books in One Edition. Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

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      Chapter XII

       Table of Contents

       The passion to analyse the casual fellow-creature was the most absorbing vice that Miss Ley possessed; and no ties of relationship or affection (the two go not invariably together) prevented her from exercising her talents in that direction. She observed Bertha and Edward during luncheon: Bertha was talkative, chattering with a vivacity that seemed suspicious, about the neighbours—Mrs. Branderton’s new bonnets and new hair, Miss Glover’s good works and Mr. Glover’s visits to London; Edward was silent, except when he pressed Miss Ley to take a second helping. He ate largely, and the maiden lady noticed the enormous mouthfuls he took and the heartiness with which he drank his beer. Of course she drew conclusions; and she drew further conclusions, when, having devoured half a pound of cheese and taken a last drink of ale, he pushed back his chair and with a sort of low roar, reminding one of a beast of prey gorged with food, said—

      “Ah, well, I suppose I must set about my work. There’s no rest for the weary.”

      He pulled a new briar-wood pipe from his pocket, filled and lit it.

      “I feel better now.... Well, so-long; I shall be in to tea.”

      Conclusions buzzed about Miss Ley, like midges on a summer’s day. She drew them all the afternoon; she drew them all through dinner. Bertha was effusive too, unusually so; and Miss Ley asked herself a dozen times if this stream of chatter, these peals of laughter, proceeded from a light heart or from a base desire to deceive a middle-aged and inquiring aunt. After dinner, Edward, telling her that of course she was one of the family so he hoped she did not wish him to stand on ceremony, began to read the paper. When Bertha, at Miss Ley’s request, played the piano, good manners made him put it aside, and he yawned a dozen times in a quarter of an hour.

      “I mustn’t play any more,” said Bertha, “or Eddie will go to sleep—won’t you, darling?”

      “I shouldn’t wonder,” he replied, laughing. “The fact is that the things Bertha plays when we’ve got company give me the fair hump!”

      “Edward only consents to listen when I play The Blue Bells of Scotland or Yankee Doodle.”

      Bertha made the remark, smiling good-naturedly at her husband, but Miss Ley drew conclusions.

      “I don’t mind confessing that I can’t stand all this foreign music. What I say to Bertha is—why can’t you play English stuff?”

      “If you must play at all,” interposed his wife.

      “After all’s said and done The Blue Bells of Scotland has got a tune about it that a fellow can get his teeth into.”

      “You see, there’s the difference,” said Bertha, strumming a few bars of Rule Britannia, “it sets mine on edge.”

      “Well, I’m patriotic,” retorted Edward. “I like the good, honest, homely English airs. I like ’em because they’re English. I’m not ashamed to say that for me the best piece of music that’s ever been written is God Save the Queen.”

      “Which was written by a German, dear Edward,” said Miss Ley, smiling.

      “That’s as it may be,” said Edward, unabashed, “but the sentiment’s English and that’s all I care about.”

      “Hear! hear!” cried Bertha. “I believe Edward has aspirations towards a political career. I know I shall finish up as the wife of the local M.P.”

      “I’m patriotic,” said Edward, “and I’m not ashamed to confess it.”

      “Rule Britannia,” sang Bertha, “Britannia rules the waves, Britons never, never shall be slaves. Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay! Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!”

      “It’s the same everywhere now,” proceeded the orator. “We’re choke full of foreigners and their goods. I think it’s scandalous. English music isn’t good enough for you—you get it from France and Germany. Where do you get your butter from? Brittany! Where d’you get your meat from? New Zealand!” This he said with great scorn, and Bertha punctuated the observation with a resounding chord. “And as far as the butter goes, it isn’t butter—it’s margarine. Where does your bread come from? America. Your vegetables from Jersey.”

      “Your fish from the sea,” interposed Bertha.

      “And so it is all along the line—the British farmer hasn’t got a chance!”

      To this speech Bertha played a burlesque accompaniment, which would have irritated a more sensitive man than Craddock; but he merely laughed good-naturedly.

      “Bertha won’t take these things seriously,” he said, passing his hand affectionately over her hair.

      She suddenly stopped playing, and his good-humour, joined with the loving gesture, filled her with remorse. Her eyes filled with tears.

      “You are a dear, good thing,” she faltered, “and I’m utterly horrid.”

      “Now don’t talk stuff before Aunt Polly. You know she’ll laugh at us.”

      “Oh, I don’t care,” said Bertha, smiling happily. She stood up and linked her arm with his. “Eddie’s the best tempered person in the world—he’s perfectly wonderful.”

      “He must be, indeed,” said Miss Ley, “if you have preserved your faith in him after six months of marriage.”

      But the maiden lady had stored so many observations that she felt an urgent need to retire to the privacy of her bed-chamber, and sort them. She kissed Bertha and held out her hand to Edward.

      “Oh, if you kiss Bertha, you must kiss me too,” said he, bending forward with a laugh.

      “Upon my word!” said Miss Ley, somewhat taken aback; then as he was evidently insisting she embraced him on the cheek. She positively blushed.

       The upshot of Miss Ley’s investigations was that once again the hymeneal path had been found strewn with roses; and the idea crossed her head as she laid it on the pillow, that Dr. Ramsay would certainly come and crow over her: it was not in masculine human nature, she thought, to miss an opportunity of exulting over a vanquished foe.

      “He’ll vow that I was the direct cause of the marriage. The dear man, he’ll be so pleased with my discomfiture that I shall never hear the last of it. He’s sure to call to-morrow.”

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