The Greatest Plays of William Somerset Maugham. Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

dear Jenny, I don't.... I'm very fond of dogs.

      Jenny.

      Oh, you're always sneering. Isn't he as good as I am? And you condescended to marry me.

      Basil.

      [Coldly.] I really can't see that because I married you I must necessarily take your whole family to my bosom.

      Jenny.

      Why don't you like them? They're honest and respectable.

      Basil.

      [With a little sigh of boredom.] My dear Jenny, we don't choose our friends because they're honest and respectable any more than we choose them because they change their linen daily.

      Jenny.

      They can't help it if they're poor.

      Basil.

      My dear, I'm willing to acknowledge that they have every grace and every virtue, but they rather bore me.

      Jenny.

      They wouldn't if they were swells.

      [Basil gives a short laugh, but does not answer; and Jenny irritated, continues more angrily.

      Jenny.

      And after all we're not in such a bad position as all that. My mother's father was a gentleman.

      Basil.

      I wish your mother's son were.

      Jenny.

      D'you know what Jimmie says you are?

      Basil.

      I don't vastly care. But if it pleases you very much you may tell me.

      Jenny.

      [Flushing angrily.] He says you're a damned snob.

      Basil.

      Is that all? I could have invented far worse things than that to say of myself.... [With a change of tone.] You know, Jenny, it's not worth while to worry ourselves about such trifles. One can't force oneself to like people. I'm very sorry that I can't stand your relations. Why on earth don't you resign yourself and make the best of it?

      Jenny.

      [Vindictively.] You don't think they're good enough for you to associate with because they're not in swell positions.

      Basil.

      My dear Jenny, I don't in the least object to their being grocers and haberdashers. I only wish they'd sell us things at cost price.

      Jenny.

      Jimmie isn't a grocer or a haberdasher. He's an auctioneer's clerk.

      Basil.

      [Ironically.] I humbly apologise. I thought he was a grocer, because last time he did us the honour of visiting us he asked how much a pound we paid for our tea and offered to sell us some at the same price.... But then he also offered to insure our house against fire and to sell me a gold mine in Australia.

      Jenny.

      Well, it's better to make a bit as best one can than to.... [She stops.]

      Basil.

      [Smiling.] Go on. Pray don't hesitate for fear of hurting my feelings.

      Jenny.

      [Defiantly.] Well, then, it's better to do that than moon about like you do.

      Basil.

      [Shrugging his shoulders.] Really, even to please you, I'm afraid I can't go about with little samples of tea in my pocket and sell my friends a pound or two when I call on them. Besides, I don't believe they'd ever pay me.

      Jenny.

      [Scornfully.] Oh no, you're a gentleman and a barrister and an author, and you couldn't do anything to dirty those white hands that you're so careful about, could you?

      Basil.

      [Looking at his hands, then up at Jenny.] And what is it precisely you want me to do?

      Jenny.

      Well, you've been at the Bar for five years. I should have thought you could make something after all that time.

      Basil.

      I can't force the wily solicitor to give me briefs.

      Jenny.

      How do other fellows manage it?

      Basil.

      [With a laugh.] The simplest way, I believe, is to marry the wily solicitor's daughter.

      Jenny.

      Instead of a barmaid?

      Basil.

      [Gravely.] I didn't say that, Jenny.

      Jenny.

      [Passionately.] Oh no. You didn't say it, but you hinted it. You never say anything, but you're always hinting and insinuating—till you drive me out of my senses.

      Basil.

      [After a moment's pause, gravely.] I'm very sorry if I hurt your feelings. I promise you I don't mean to. I always try to be kind to you.

      [He looks at Jenny, expecting her to say something in forgiveness or in apology. But she, shrugging her shoulders, looks down sullenly at her work, without a word, and begins again to sew. Then Basil, tightening his lips, picks up writing materials and goes towards the door.

      Jenny.

      [Looking up quickly.] Where are you going?

      Basil.

      [Stopping.] I have some letters to write.

      Jenny.

      Can't you write them here?

      Basil.

      Certainly—if it pleases you.

      Jenny.

      Don't you want me to see who you're writing to?

      Basil.

      I haven't the least objection to your knowing all about my correspondence.... And that's fortunate, since you invariably make yourself acquainted with it.

      Jenny.

      Accuse me of reading your letters now.

      Basil.

      [With a smile.] You always leave my papers in such disorder after you've been to my desk.

      Jenny.

      You've got no right to say that.

      [Basil pauses and looks at her steadily.

      Basil.

      Are you willing to swear that you don't go to my desk when I'm away to read my letters? Come, Jenny, answer that question.

      Jenny.

      [Disturbed but forced by his glance to reply.] Well, I'm you're wife, I have a right to know.

      Basil.

      [Bitterly.] You have such odd ideas about the duties of a wife, Jenny. They include reading my letters and following me in the street. But tolerance and charity and forbearance don't seem to come in your scheme of things.

      Jenny.

      [Sullenly.] Why d'you want to write your letters elsewhere?

      Basil.

      [Shrugging his shoulders.] I thought I should be quieter.

      Jenny.

      I suppose I disturb you?

      Basil.

      It's a little difficult to write when you're talking.

      Jenny.