Читать книгу The Land of Promise - W. Somerset Maugham - Страница 5
ACT I
ОглавлениеScene: The drawing-room at Miss Wickham’s house in Tunbridge Wells. It is a room in which there is too much furniture. There are armchairs covered with faded chintz, little tables here and there, cabinets containing china, a great many photographs in silver frames, porcelain ornaments wherever there is a vacant space, Chippendale chairs and chairs from the Tottenham Court Road. There are flowers in vases and growing plants. The wall-paper has a pattern of enormous chrysanthemums, and on the walls are a large number of old-fashioned watercolours in gilt frames. There is one door, which leads into the hall; and a French window opens on to the garden. The window is decorated with white lace curtains. It is four o’clock in the afternoon. The sun is streaming through the drawn blinds. There is a wreath of white flowers in a cardboard box on one of the chairs. The door is opened by Kate, the parlour-maid. She is of respectable appearance and of a decent age. She admits Miss Pringle. Miss Pringle is companion to a wealthy old lady in Tunbridge Wells. She is a woman of middle age, plainly dressed, thin and narrow of shoulders, with a weather-beaten, tired face and grey hair.
Kate.
I’ll tell Miss Marsh you’re here, Miss Pringle.
Miss Pringle.
How is she to-day, Kate?
Kate.
She’s tired out, poor thing. She’s lying down now. But I’m sure she’d like to see you, Miss.
Miss Pringle.
I’m very glad she didn’t go to the funeral.
Kate.
Dr. Evans thought she’d better stay at home, Miss, and Mrs. Wickham said she’d only upset herself if she went.
Miss Pringle.
I wonder how she stood it all those months, waiting on Miss Wickham hand and foot.
Kate.
Miss Wickham wouldn’t have a professional nurse. And you know what she was, Miss.... Miss Marsh slept in Miss Wickham’s room, and the moment she fell asleep Miss Wickham would have her up because her pillow wanted shaking, or she was thirsty, or something.
Miss Pringle.
I suppose she was very inconsiderate.
Kate.
Inconsiderate isn’t the word, Miss. I wouldn’t be a lady’s companion, not for anything. What they have to put up with!
Miss Pringle.
Oh, well, everyone isn’t like Miss Wickham. The lady I’m companion to, Mrs. Hubbard, is kindness itself.
Kate.
That sounds like Miss Marsh coming downstairs [She goes to the door and opens it.] Miss Pringle is here, Miss.
[Norah comes in. She is a woman of twenty-eight, with a pleasant, honest face and a happy smile. She is gentle, with quiet manners, but she has a quick temper, under very good control, and a passionate nature which is hidden under a demure appearance. She is simply dressed in black.]
Norah.
I am glad to see you. I was hoping you’d be able to come here this afternoon.
Miss Pringle.
Mrs. Hubbard has gone for a drive with somebody or other, and didn’t want me.
[They kiss one another. Norah notices the wreath.]
Norah.
What’s this?
Kate.
It didn’t arrive till after they’d started, Miss.
Norah.
I wonder whom it’s from. [She looks at a card which is attached to the wreath.] “From Mrs. Alfred Vincent, with deepest regret for my dear Miss Wickham and heartiest sympathy for her sorrowing relatives.”
Kate.
Sorrowing relatives is good, Miss.
Norah.
[Remonstrating.] Kate ... I think you’d better take it away.
Kate.
What shall I do with it, Miss?
Norah.
I’m going to the cemetery a little later. I’ll take it with me.
Kate.
Very good, Miss.
[Kate takes up the box and goes out.]
Miss Pringle.
You haven’t been crying, Norah?
Norah.
[With a little apologetic smile.] Yes, I couldn’t help it.
Miss Pringle.
What on earth for?
Norah.
My dear, it’s not unnatural.
Miss Pringle.
Well, I don’t want to say anything against her now she’s dead and gone, poor thing, but Miss Wickham was the most detestable old woman I ever met.
Norah.
I don’t suppose one can live all that time with anyone and not be a little sorry to part with them for ever. I was Miss Wickham’s companion for ten years.
Miss Pringle.
How you stood it! Exacting, domineering, disagreeable.
Norah.
Yes, I suppose she was. Because she paid me a salary she thought I wasn’t a human being. I never saw anyone with such a bitter tongue. At first I used to cry every night when I went to bed because of the things she said to me. But I got used to them.
Miss Pringle.
I wonder you didn’t leave her. I would have.
Norah.
It’s not easy to get posts as lady’s companion.
Miss Pringle.
That’s true. They tell me the agents’ books are full of people wanting situations. Before I went to Mrs. Hubbard I was out of one for nearly two years.
Norah.
It’s not so bad for you. You can always go and stay with your brother.
Miss Pringle.
You’ve got a brother too.
Norah.
Yes, but he’s farming in Canada. He had all he could do to keep himself, he couldn’t keep me too.
Miss Pringle.
How is he doing now?
Norah.
Oh, he’s doing very well. He’s got a farm of his own. He wrote over a couple of years ago and told me he could always give me a home if I wanted one.
Miss Pringle.
Canada’s so far off.
Norah.
Not when you get there.
Miss Pringle.
Why don’t you draw the blinds?
Norah.
I thought I ought to wait till they come back from the funeral.
Miss Pringle.
It must be a great relief to you now it’s all over.
Norah.
Sometimes I can’t realise it. These last few weeks I hardly got to bed at all, and when the end came I was utterly exhausted. For two days I could do nothing but sleep. Poor Miss Wickham. She did hate dying.
Miss Pringle.
That’s the extraordinary part of it. I believe you were really fond of her.
Norah.
D’you know that for nearly a year she would eat nothing but what I gave her with my own hands. And she liked me as much as she was capable of liking anybody.
Miss Pringle.
That wasn’t much.
Norah.
And then, I was so dreadfully sorry for her.
Miss Pringle.
Good heavens!
Norah.
She’d been a hard and selfish woman all her life, and there was no one who cared for her. It seemed so dreadful to die like that and leave not a soul to regret one. Her nephew and his wife were just waiting for her death. It was dreadful. Each time they came down from London I saw them looking at her to see if she was any worse than when last they’d seen her.
Miss Pringle.
Well, I thought her a horrid old woman, and I’m glad she’s dead. And I hope she’s left you well provided for.
Norah.
[With a smile.] Oh, I think she’s done that. Two years ago when I nearly went away she said she’d left me enough to live upon.
Miss Pringle.
You mean when that assistant of Dr. Evans wanted to marry you? I’m glad you wouldn’t have him.
Norah.
He was very nice. But, of course, he wasn’t a gentleman.
Miss Pringle.
I shouldn’t like to live with a man at all; I think they’re horrid, but, of course, it would be impossible if he weren’t a gentleman.
Norah.
[With a twinkle in her eye.] He came to see Miss Wickham, but she wouldn’t have anything to do with him. First she said that she couldn’t spare me, and then she said that I had a very bad temper.
Miss Pringle.
I like her saying that.
Norah.
It’s quite true. Every now and then I felt I couldn’t put up with her any more. I forgot that I was dependent on her, and if she dismissed me I probably shouldn’t be able to find another situation, and I just flew at her. I must say she was very nice about it; she used to look at me and grin, and, when it was all over, say: “My dear, when you marry, if your husband’s a wise man, he’ll use a big stick now and then.”
Miss Pringle.
Old cat.
Norah.
[Smiling.] I should like to see a man try.
Miss Pringle.
How much d’you think she’s left you?
Norah.
Well, of course, I don’t know; the will is going to be read this afternoon when they come back from the funeral, but from what she said I believe about two hundred and fifty a year.
Miss Pringle.
It’s the least she could do. She’s had the ten best years of your life.
Norah.
[With a sigh of relief.] I shall never be at anybody’s beck and call again. I shall be able to get up when I like and go to bed when I like, go out when I choose, and come in when I choose.
Miss Pringle.
[Drily.] You’ll probably marry.
Norah.
Never.
Miss Pringle.
Then what’ll you do?
Norah.
I shall go to Italy, Florence, Rome. D’you think it’s horrible of me, I’m so happy?
Miss Pringle.
My dear child.
[There is a sound of carriage wheels on the drive.]
Norah.
There they are.
Miss Pringle.
I’d better go, hadn’t I?
Norah.
I’m afraid you must.
Miss Pringle.
I do so want to know about the will. Can’t I go up to your room and wait there?
Norah.
No. I’ll tell you what, go and sit in the garden. They want to catch the four something back to London, and we can have a cosy little tea all by ourselves.
Miss Pringle.
Very well. Oh, my dear, I’m so happy in your good luck.
Norah.
Take care.
[Miss Pringle slips out into the garden, and a moment later Mr. and Mrs. Wickham enter the room. Mrs. Wickham is a pretty young woman. She is dressed in black, but her gown is elegant and fashionable. James Wickham is a clean-shaven, thin-faced man, with a baldish head. He is dressed in black and wears black kid gloves.]
Dorothy.
[Cheerfully.] Ouf! Do put the blinds up, Miss Marsh. We really needn’t be depressed any more. Jim, if you love me, take those gloves off. They’re perfectly revolting.
[Norah goes to the window and draws up the blind.]
Wickham.
Why, what’s wrong with them? The fellow in the shop told me they were the right thing.
Dorothy.
I never saw anyone look quite so funereal as you do.
Wickham.
Well, you didn’t want me to get myself up as though I were going to a wedding, did you?
Norah.
Were there many people?
Dorothy.
Quite a lot. The sort of people who indulge in other people’s funerals as a mild form of dissipation.
Wickham.
[Looking at his watch.] I hope Wynne will look sharp. I don’t want to miss that train.
Dorothy.
Who were all those stodgy old things who wrung your hand afterwards, Jim?
Wickham.
I can’t think. They made me feel such a fool.
Dorothy.
Oh, was that it? I saw you looking a perfect owl, and I thought you were giving a very bad imitation of restrained emotion.
Wickham.
[Remonstrating.] Dorothy.
Norah.
Would you like some tea, Mrs. Wickham?
Dorothy.
Well, you might send some in so that it’ll be ready when Mr. Wynne comes.
[Norah is just going to ring the bell, but Mrs. Wickham stops her with a pleasant smile.]
We’ll ring for you, shall we? I daresay you’ve got one or two things you want to do now.
Norah.
Very good, Mrs. Wickham.
[She goes out.]
Wickham.
I say, Dorothy, you oughtn’t to be facetious before Miss Marsh. She was extremely attached to Aunt Louisa.
Dorothy.
Oh, what nonsense! It’s always a very good rule to judge people by oneself, and I’m positive she was just longing for the old lady to die.
Wickham.
She was awfully upset at the end.
Dorothy.
Nerves! Men are so idiotic. They never understand that there are tears and tears. I cried myself, and heaven knows I didn’t regret her death.
Wickham.
My dear Dorothy, you oughtn’t to say that.
Dorothy.
Why not? It’s perfectly true. Aunt Louisa was a detestable person and no one would have stood her for a minute if she hadn’t had money. I don’t see any use in being a hypocrite now that it can’t make any difference either way.
Wickham.
[Looking at his watch again.] I wish Wynne would hurry up. It’ll be beastly inconvenient if we miss that train.
Dorothy.
I don’t trust Miss Marsh. She looks as if she knew what was in the will.
Wickham.
I don’t suppose she does. Aunt Louisa wasn’t the sort of person to talk.
Dorothy.
I’m sure she knows she’s been left something.
Wickham.
Oh, well, I think she has a right to expect that. Aunt Louisa led her a dog’s life.
Dorothy.
She had wages and a comfortable home. If she didn’t like the place she could have left it.... After all it’s family money. I don’t think Aunt Louisa had the right to leave it to strangers.
Wickham.
We oughtn’t to complain if Miss Marsh gets a small annuity. Aunt Louisa promised her something of the sort when she had a chance of marrying a couple of years ago.
Dorothy.
Miss Marsh is quite young. It isn’t as if she’d been here for thirty years.
Wickham.
Well, I’ve got an idea that Aunt Louisa meant to leave her about two hundred and fifty a year.
Dorothy.
But what’s the estate?
Wickham.
About nineteen thousand pounds, I believe.
Dorothy.
Oh, it’s absurd. It’s a most unfair proportion. It makes all the difference to us. On that extra two hundred and fifty a year we could almost keep a car.
Wickham.
My dear, be thankful if we get anything at all.
Dorothy.
[Aghast.] Jim! [She stares at him.] Jim, you don’t think! Oh! That would be too horrible.
Wickham.
Take care.
[The door opens and Kate brings in the tea-things. She puts them on a small table.]
How lucky it is we had a fine day, isn’t it?
Dorothy.
Yes.
Wickham.
It looks as if we were going to have a spell of fine weather.
Dorothy.
Yes.
Wickham.
It’s funny how often it rains for weddings.
Dorothy.
Very funny.
[Exit Kate.]
I’ve been counting on that money for years. I used to dream at night that I was reading a telegram with the news of Aunt Louisa’s death. And I’ve thought of all we should be able to do when we got it. It’ll make such a difference.
Wickham.
You know what she was. She didn’t care two-pence for us. We ought to be prepared for the worst.
Dorothy.
D’you think she could have left everything to Miss Marsh?
Wickham.
I shouldn’t be surprised.
Dorothy.
We’ll dispute the will. It’s undue influence. I suspected Miss Marsh from the beginning. I hate her. Oh, why doesn’t Wynne come?
[There is a ring at the bell.]
Wickham.
Here he is, I expect.
Dorothy.
The suspense is too awful.
Wickham.
Pull yourself together, old girl. And I say, look a bit dismal. After all, we’ve just come from a funeral.
Dorothy.
Are we downhearted?
[Kate enters to announce Mr. Wynne.]
Kate.
Mr. Wynne.
[He enters and she goes out and closes the door. Mr. Wynne, the late Miss Wickham’s solicitor, is a tallish man with a bald head. He has the red cheeks and hearty manner of a man who plays in his spare time at being a country gentleman. He is dressed in mourning because he has been to Miss Wickham’s funeral.]
Wickham.
Hulloa!
Wynne.
[Taking Dorothy’s hand rather solemnly.] I didn’t have an opportunity of shaking hands with you at the cemetery.
Dorothy.
[Somewhat helplessly.] How do you do?
Wynne.
Pray accept my sincerest sympathy on your great bereavement.
Dorothy.
Of course, the end was not entirely unexpected.
Wynne.
No, I know. But it must have been a great shock all the same.
Wickham.
My wife was very much upset, but of course my poor aunt had suffered great pain, and we couldn’t help looking upon it as a happy release.
Wynne.
How is Miss Marsh?
[Dorothy gives him a quick look, wondering whether there is anything behind the polite inquiry.]
Dorothy.
Oh, she’s very well.
Wynne.
Her devotion to Miss Wickham was wonderful. Dr. Evans—he’s my brother-in-law, you know—told me no trained nurse could have been more competent. She was like a daughter to Miss Wickham.
Dorothy.
[Rather coldly.] I suppose we’d better send for her.
Wickham.
Have you brought the.... [He stops in some embarrassment.]
Wynne.
Yes, I have it in my pocket.
Dorothy.
I’ll ring.
[She touches the bell.]
Wickham.
I expect Mr. Wynne would like a cup of tea, Dorothy.
Dorothy.
Oh, I’m so sorry, I quite forgot about it.
Wynne.
No, thank you very much. I never take tea.
[He takes a long envelope out of his pocket, and from it the will. He smooths it out reflectively. Dorothy gives the document a nervous glance. Kate comes in.]
Wickham.
Will you ask Miss Marsh to be good enough to come here.
Kate.
Very good, sir.
[Exit.]
Dorothy.
What is the time, Jim?
Wickham.
[Looking at his watch.] Oh, there’s no hurry. [To Wynne.] We’ve got an important engagement in London this evening. We’re very anxious not to miss the fast train.
Dorothy.
The train service is rotten.
Wynne.
The will is very short. It won’t take me two minutes to read it.
Dorothy.
[Nervous and impatient.] What on earth is Miss Marsh doing?
Wynne.
How pretty the garden is looking now.
Wickham.
[Abruptly.] Very.
Wynne.
Miss Wickham was always so interested in her garden.
Dorothy.
Yes.
Wynne.
My own tulips aren’t so advanced as those.
Wickham.
[Irritably.] Aren’t they?
Wynne.
[To Dorothy.] Are you interested in gardening?
Dorothy.
[Hardly able to control her impatience.] No, I hate it.... At last!
[The door is opened and Miss Marsh comes in. Wynne gets up.]
Wynne.
How d’you do, Miss Marsh?
Norah.
How d’you do?
Wickham.
Will you have a cup of tea?
Dorothy.
[All nerves.] Jim, Miss Marsh would much prefer to have tea quietly after we’re gone.
Norah.
[With a faint smile.] I won’t have any tea, thank you.
Dorothy.
Mr. Wynne has brought the will with him.
Norah.
Oh, yes.
[She sits down calmly. Dorothy, with clenched hands, watches her. She tries to make out from her face whether Norah knows anything.]
Wynne.
Miss Marsh, so far as you know, there’s no other will?
Norah.
How d’you mean?
Wynne.
Miss Wickham didn’t make a later one—without my assistance, I mean? You know of nothing in the house, for instance?
Norah.
[Quite decidedly.] Oh, no. Miss Wickham always said you had her will. She was extremely methodical.
Wynne.
I feel I ought to ask because she consulted me about making a fresh will a couple of years ago. She told me what she wanted to do, but gave me no actual instructions to draw it. I thought perhaps she might have done it herself.
Norah.
I heard nothing about it. I’m sure that her only will is in your hands.
Wynne.
Then I think we may take it that this....
[Dorothy suddenly understands; she interrupts quickly.]
Dorothy.
When was that will made?
Wynne.
Eight or nine years ago.... The exact date was March 4th, 1904.
