THE COLLECTED PLAYS OF W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM. Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

      Can I trust you?

      John.

      What d'you mean?

      [She stares into his eyes, doubting, trying to see whether he will be willing to help her.

      Jenny.

      You used to be a good sort. You never looked down on me because I was a barmaid. Tell me I can trust you, John. There's no one I can speak to, and I feel if I don't speak I shall go off my head.

      John.

      What is the matter?

      Jenny.

      Will you tell me the truth if I ask you something?

      John.

      Of course.

      Jenny.

      On your oath?

      John.

      On my oath.

      Jenny.

      [After a momentary pause.] Is there anything between Basil and Mrs. Murray?

      John.

      [Aghast.] No. Certainly not.

      Jenny.

      How d'you know? Are you sure? You wouldn't tell me, if there was. You're all against me because I'm not a lady.... Oh, I'm so unhappy.

      [She tries to restrain her tears, she is half-hysterical. John stares at her, surprised, at a loss for words.

      Jenny.

      If you only knew what a life we lead! He calls it a dog's life, and he's right.

      John.

      I thought you got on so well.

      Jenny.

      Oh, before you we've always kept up appearances. He's ashamed to let you know he regrets he ever married me. He wants to separate.

      John.

      What!

      Jenny.

      [Impatiently.] Oh, don't look so surprised. You're not an utter fool, are you? He proposed it to-day before you came in. We'd been having one of our rows.

      John.

      But what on earth is it all about?

      Jenny.

      God knows!

      John.

      It's nonsense. It can only be a little passing quarrel. You must expect to have those.

      Jenny.

      No, it isn't. No, it isn't. He doesn't love me. He's in love with your sister-in-law.

      John.

      It's impossible.

      Jenny.

      He's always there. He was there twice last week and twice the week before.

      John.

      How d'you know?

      Jenny.

      I've followed him.

      John.

      You followed him in the street, Jenny?

      Jenny.

      [Defiantly.] Yes. If I'm not ladylike enough for him, I needn't play the lady there. You're shocked now, I suppose?

      John.

      I wouldn't presume to judge you, Jenny.

      Jenny.

      And I've read his letters, too—because I wanted to know what he was doing. I steamed one open, and he saw it, and he never said a word.

      John.

      Good heavens, why did you do it?

      Jenny.

      Because I can't live unless I know the truth. I thought it was Mrs. Murray's handwriting.

      John.

      Was it from her?

      Jenny.

      No. It was a receipt from the coal merchant. I could see how he despised me when he looked at the envelope—I didn't stick it down again very well. And I saw him smile when he found it was only a receipt.

      John.

      Upon my word, I don't think you've got much cause to be jealous.

      Jenny.

      Oh, you don't know. Last Tuesday he was dining there, and you should have seen the state he was in. He was so restless he couldn't sit still. He looked at his watch every minute. His eyes simply glittered with excitement, and I could almost hear his heart beating.

      John.

      It can't be true.

      Jenny.

      He never loved me. He married me because he thought it was his duty. And then when the baby died—he thought I'd entrapped him.

      John.

      He didn't say so.

      Jenny.

      No. He never says anything—but I saw it in his eyes. [Passionately clasping her hands.] Oh, you don't know what our life is. For days he doesn't say a word except to answer my questions. And the silence simply drives me mad. I shouldn't mind if he blackguarded me. I'd rather he hit me than simply look and look. I can see he's keeping himself in. He's said more to-day than he's ever said before. I knew it was getting towards the end.

      John.

      [With a helpless gesture.] I'm very sorry.

      Jenny.

      Oh, don't you pity me, too. I've had a great deal too much pity. I don't want it. Basil married me from pity. Oh, I wish he hadn't. I can't stand the unhappiness.

      John.

      [Gravely.] You know, Jenny, he's a man of honour.

      Jenny.

      Oh, I know he's a man of honour. I wish he had a little less of it. One doesn't want a lot of fine sentiments in married life. They don't work.... Oh, why couldn't I fall in love with a man of my own class? I should have been so much happier. I used to be so proud that Basil wasn't a clerk, or something in the City. He's right, we shall never be happy.

      John.

      [Trying to calm her.] Oh, yes, you will. You mustn't take things too seriously.

      Jenny.

      It isn't a matter of yesterday, or to-day, or to-morrow. I can't alter myself. He knew I wasn't a lady when he married me. My father had to bring up five children on two-ten a week. You can't expect a man to send his daughters to a boarding-school at Brighton on that, and have them finished in Paris.... He doesn't say a word when I do something or say something a lady wouldn't—but he purses up his lips, and looks.... Then I get so mad that I do things just to aggravate him. Sometimes I try to be vulgar. One learns a good deal in a bar in the City, and I know so well the things to say that'll make Basil curl up. I want to get a bit of revenge out of him sometimes, and I know exactly where he's raw and where I can hurt him. [With a laugh of scorn.] You should see the way he looks when I don't eat properly, or when I call a man a Johnny.

      John.

      [Drily.] It opens up endless possibilities of domestic unhappiness.

      Jenny.

      Oh, I know it isn't fair to him, but I lose my head. I can't always be refined. Sometimes I can't help breaking out. I feel I must let myself go.

      John.

      Why don't you separate, then?

      Jenny.

      Because I love him. Oh, John, you don't know how I love him. I'd do anything to make him happy. I'd