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

express themselves with good taste: nothing could be more false, for, at such times, people, however refined, use precisely the terms of the Family Herald. The utterance of violent passion is never artistic, but trite, ridiculous, and grotesque, vulgar often, and silly.” Miss Ley smiled. “Probably novelists alone make love in a truly romantic manner; but then it’s ten to one they’re quoting from some unpublished work, or are listening intently to themselves in admiration of their glowing and polished phraseology.”

      At all events, the interview between Hilda and Basil was eminently satisfactory, as may be seen by the following letter which some days later the young man received.

      “Mon cher enfant: It is with the greatest surprise and delight that I read in this morning’s Post of your engagement to Mrs. Murray. You have fallen on your feet, mon ami, and I congratulate you. Don’t you remember that Becky Sharp said she could be very good on five thousand a year, and the longer I live the more convinced I am that this is a vraie vérité: with a house in Charles Street and le reste, you will find the world a very different place to live in; you will grow more human, dress better, and be less censorious. Do come to luncheon to-morrow, and bring Mrs. Murray; there will be a few people, and I hope it will be amusing—one o’clock. I’m afraid it’s an extraordinary hour to lunch, but I’m going to be received into the Catholic Church in the morning, and we’er all coming on here afterward. I mean to assume the names of the two saints whose example has most assisted me in my conversion, and henceforth shall sign myself,

      “Your affectionate mother,

       “Marguérite Elizabeth Claire Vizard.

      “P. S.—The Duke of St. Olpherts is going to be my sponsor.”

      A month late, Hilda Murray and Basil were married in All Souls by the Rev. Collinson Farley; Miss Ley gave away the bride, and in the church, besides, were only the verger and Frank Hurrell. Afterward, in the vestry, Miss Ley shook the Vicar’s hand.

      “I think it went off very nicely. It was charming of you to offer to marry them.”

      “The bride is a very dear friend of mine; I was anxious to give her this proof of my goodwill at the beginning of her new life.” He paused and smiled benignly, so that Miss Ley, who knew something of his old attachment to Hilda, wondered at his good spirits; she had never seen him more trim and imposing—he looked already every inch a bishop. “Shall I tell you a great secret?” he added blandly. “I am about to contract an alliance with Florence, Lady Newhaven. We shall be married at the end of the season.”

      “My dear Mr. Farley, I congratulate you with all my heart. I see already these shapely calves encased in the gaiters episcopal.”

      Mr. Farley smiled pleasantly, for he made a practice of appreciating the jests of elderly maiden ladies with ample means, and he could boast that to his sense of humour was due the luxurious appointing of his church; for no place of worship in the West End had more beautiful altar-cloths, handsomer ornaments; nowhere could be seen smarter hassocks for the knees of the devout, or hymn-books in a more excellent state of preservation.

      The newly married couple meant to spend their honeymoon on the river, and, having lunched in Charles Street, started immediately.

      “I’m thankful they don’t want us to see them off at Paddington,” said Frank, when he walked with Miss Ley toward the park.

      “Why are you in such an abominable temper?” she asked, smiling. “During luncheon, I was twice on the point of reminding you that marriage is an event at which a certain degree of hilarity is not indecorous.”

      Frank did not answer, and now they turned into one of the park gates: in that gay June weather, the place was crowded; though the hour was early still, motors tore along with hurried panting, carriages passed tranquil and dignified; the well-dressed London throng sat about idly on chairs or lounged up and down looking at their neighbours, talking light-heartedly of the topics of the hour. Frank’s eyes travelled over them slowly, and shuddering a little, his brow grew strangely dark.

      “During that ceremony and afterward I could think of nothing but Jenny. It’s only eighteen months since I signed my name for Basil’s first marriage in a dingy registry office. You don’t know how beautiful the girl was on that day—full of love and gratitude and happiness; she looked forward to the future with such eager longing! And now she’s rotting underground, and the woman she hated and the man she adored are married, and they haven’t a thought for all her misery. I hated Basil in his new frock coat, and Hilda Murray, and you: I can’t imagine why a sensible woman like you should overdress ridiculously for such a function.”

      Miss Ley, conscious of the entire success of her costume, could afford to smile at this.

      “I have observed that, whenever you’re out of humour with yourself, you insult me,” she murmured.

      Frank went on, his face hard and set, his dark eyes glowering fiercely.

      “It all seemed so useless. It seemed that the wretched girl had to undergo such frightful torture merely to bring these two commonplace creatures together. They must have no imagination, or no shame—how could they marry with that unhappy death between them? For, after all, it was they who killed her. And d’you think Basil is grateful because Jenny gave him her youth and her love, her wonderful beauty and at last her life? He doesn’t think of her. And you, too, because she was a barmaid, are convined that it’s a very good thing she’s out of the way. The only excuse I can see for them is that they’re blind instruments of fate: nature was working through them, obscurely—working to join them together for her own purposes, and, because Jenny came between, she crushed her ruthlessly.”

      “I can find a better excuse for them than that,” answered Miss Ley, looking gravely at Frank; “I forgive them because they’re human and weak. The longer I live, the more I am overwhelmed by the utter, utter weakness of men; they do try to do their duty, they do their best honestly, they seek straight ways—but they’re dreadfully weak. And so I think one ought to be sorry for them and make all possible allowances—I’m afraid it sounds rather idiotic, but I find the words now most frequently on my lips are: forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

      They walked silently, and after a while Frank stopped on a sudden and faced Miss Ley. He pulled out his watch.

      “It’s quite early yet, and we have the afternoon before us. Will you come with me to the cemetery where Jenny is buried?”

      “Why not let the dead lie? Let us think of life, rather than of death.”

      Frank shook his head.

      “I must go. I couldn’t rest otherwise. I can’t bear that, on this day, she should be entirely forgotten.”

      “Very well. I will come with you.”

      They turned round and came out of the park; Frank hailed a cab, and they started. They passed the pompous mansions of the great, sedate, and magnificent, and, driving north, traversed long streets of smaller dwellings, dingy and gray notwithstanding the brightness of the sky; they went on, it seemed, interminably, and each street strangely, awfully, resembled its predecessor; they came to roads where each house was separate and had its garden, and there were trees and flowers—they were the habitations of merchants and stock-brokers, and had a trim, respectable look, self-satisfied and smug; but these they left behind for more crowded parts; and now it seemed a different London, more vivacious, more noisy; the way was thronged with trams and ’buses, and there were coster-barrows along the pavements; the shops were gaudy and cheap, and the houses mean; they drove through slums, with children playing merrily on the curb and women in dirty aprons, blousy and dishevelled, lounging about their doorsteps. At length they reached a broad, straight road, white and dusty and unshaded, and knew their destination was at hand, for occasionally they passed a shop where grave-stones were made; and an empty hearse trundled by, the mutes huddled on the box, laughing loudly, smoking after the fatigue of their accustomed work. The cemetery came in sight, and they stopped at iron gates and walked in: it was a vast place, crowded with every imaginable kind of funeral ornament which glistened white and cold in the sun;