The Complete Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham - II - The World Over (62 page)

But whom she could not do without. Miss Glaser was a haggard person of fifty, with grey hair and a sallow, wrinkled face. She was a queer creature. She knew everything there was to be known about La Falterona. She both adored and hated her. Behind her back she could be extremely funny at her expense, and the imitation she gave in secret of the great singer with her admirers was the most richly comic thing I have ever heard. But she watched over her like a mother. It was she who, sometimes by wheedling, sometimes by sheer plainness of speech, caused La Falterona to behave herself something like a human being. It was she who had written the singer’s exceedingly inaccurate memoirs.

La Falterona wore pale-blue satin pyjamas (she liked satin) and, presumably to rest her hair, a green silk wig; except for a few rings, a pearl necklace, a couple of bracelets, and a diamond brooch at her waist, she wore no jewellery. She had much to tell me of her triumphs in South America. She talked on and on. She had never been in more superb voice and the ovations she had received were unparalleled. The concert halls were sold out for every performance, and she had made a packet.

“Is it true or is it not true, Glaser?” cried Maria with a strong South American accent.

“Most of it,” said Miss Glaser.

La Falterona had the objectionable habit of addressing her companion by her surname. But it must long since have ceased to annoy the poor woman, so there was not much point in it.

“Who was that man we met in Buenos Aires?”

“Which man?”

“You fool, Glaser. You remember perfectly. The man I was married to once.”

“Pepe Zapata,” Miss Glaser replied without a smile.

“He was broke. He had the impudence to ask me to give him back a diamond necklace he’d given me. He said it had belonged to his mother.”

“It wouldn’t have hurt you to give it him,” said Miss Glaser. “You never wear it.”

“Give it him back?” cried La Falterona, and her astonishment was such that she spoke the purest English. “Give it him back? You’re crazy.”

She looked at Miss Glaser as though she expected her there and then to have an attack of acute mania. She got up from the table, for we had finished our dinner.

“Let us go outside,” she said. “If I hadn’t the patience of an angel I’d have sacked that woman long ago.”

La Falterona and I went out, but Miss Glaser did not come with us. We sat on the veranda. There was a magnificent cedar in the garden, and its dark branches were silhouetted against the starry sky. The sea, almost at our feet, was marvellously still. Suddenly La Falterona gave a start.

“I almost forgot. Glaser, you fool,” she shouted, “why didn’t you remind me?” And then again to me: “I’m furious with you.”

“I’m glad you didn’t remember till after dinner,” I answered.

“That friend of yours and his book.”

I didn’t immediately grasp what she was talking about.

“What friend and what book?”

“Don’t be so stupid. An ugly little man with a shiny face and a bad figure. He wrote a book about me.”

“Oh! Peter Melrose. But it’s not about you.”

“Of course it is. Do you take me for a fool? He had the impudence to send it me.”

“I hope you had the decency to acknowledge it.”

“Do you think I have the time to acknowledge all the books twopenny-halpenny authors send me? I expect Glaser wrote to him. You had no right to ask me to dinner to meet him. I came to oblige you, because I thought you liked me for myself, I didn’t know I was just being made use of. It’s awful that one can’t trust one’s oldest friends to behave like gentlemen. I’ll never dine with you again so long as I live. Never, never, never.”

She was working herself into one of her tantrums, so I interrupted her before it was too late.

“Come off it, my dear,” I said. “In the first place the character of the singer in that book, which I suppose is the one you’re referring to …”

“You don’t suppose I’m referring to the charwoman, do you?”

“Well, the character of the singer was roughed out before he’d even seen you, and besides, it isn’t in the least like you.”

“How d’you mean, it’s not like me? All my friends have recognized me. I mean, it’s the most obvious portrait.”

“Mary,” I expostulated.

“My name is Maria and no one knows it better than you, and if you can’t call me Maria you can call me Madame Falterona or Princess.”

I paid no attention to this.

“Did you read the book?”

“Of course I read it. When everyone told me it was about me.”

“But the boy’s heroine, the
prima donna,
is twenty-five.”

“A woman like me is ageless.”

“She’s musical to her finger-tips, gentle as a dove, and a miracle of unselfishness; she’s frank, loyal, and disinterested. Is that the opinion you have of yourself?”

“And what is
your
opinion of me?”

“Hard as nails, absolutely ruthless, a born intriguer, and as self-centred as they make “em.”

She then called me a name which a lady does not habitually apply to a gentleman who, whatever his faults, has never had his legitimacy called in question. But though her eyes flashed I could see that she was not in the least angry. She accepted my description of her as complimentary.

“And what about the emerald ring? Are you going to deny that I told him that?”

The story of the emerald ring was this: La Falterona was having a passionate love-affair with the Crown Prince of a powerful state and he had made her a present of an emerald of immense value. One night they had a quarrel, high words passed, and some reference being made to the ring she tore it off her finger and flung it in the fire. The Crown Prince, being a man of thrifty habit, with a cry of consternation, threw himself on his knees and began raking out the coals till he recovered the ring. La Falterona watched him scornfully as he grovelled on the floor. She didn’t give much away herself, but she could not bear economy in others. She finished the story with these splendid words:

“After that I
couldn’t
love him.”

The incident was picturesque and had taken Peter’s fancy. He had used it very neatly.

“I told you both about that in the greatest confidence and I’ve never told it to a soul before. It’s a scandalous breach of confidence to have to put it into a book. There are no excuses either for him or for you.”

“But I’ve heard you tell the story dozens of times. And it was told me by Florence Montgomerie about herself and the Crown Prince Rudolf. It was one of her favourite stories too. Lola Montez used to tell it about herself and the King of Bavaria. I have little doubt that Nell Gwyn told it about herself and Charles II. It’s one of the oldest stories in the world.”

She was taken aback, but only for an instant.

“I don’t see anything strange in its having happened more than once. Everyone knows that women are passionate and that men are as mean as cat’s-meat. I could show you the emerald if you liked. I had to have it reset, of course.”

“With Lola Montez it was pearls,” I said ironically. “I believe they were considerably damaged.”

“Pearls?” She gave that brilliant smile of hers. “Have I ever told you about Benjy Riesenbaum and the pearls? You might make a story out of it.”

Benjy Riesenbaum was a person of great wealth, but it was common knowledge that for a long time he had been the Falterona’s lover. In fact it was he who had bought her the luxurious little villa in which we were now sitting.

“He’d given me a very handsome string in New York. I was singing at the Metropolitan, and at the end of the season we travelled back to Europe together. You never knew him, did you?”

“No.”

“Well, he wasn’t bad in some ways, but he was insanely jealous. We had a row on the boat because a young Italian officer was paying me a good deal of attention. Heaven knows, I’m the easiest woman in the world to get on with, but I will not be bullied by any man. After all, I have my self-respect to think of. I told him where he got off, if you understand what I mean, and he slapped my face. On deck if you please. I don’t mind telling you I was mad. I tore the string of pearls off my neck and flung it in the sea. ‘They cost fifty thousand dollars,’ he gasped. He went white. I drew myself up to my full height. ‘I only valued them because I loved you,’ I said. And I turned on my heel.”

“You were a fool,” I said.

“I wouldn’t speak to him for twenty-four hours. At the end of that time I had him eating out of my hand. When we got to Paris the first thing he did was to go to Cartier’s and buy me another just as good.”

She began to giggle.

“Did you say I was a fool? I’d left the real string in the bank in New York, because I knew I was going back next season. It was an imitation one that I threw in the sea.”

She started to laugh, and her laugh was rich and joyous and like a child’s. That was the sort of trick that thoroughly appealed to her. She chortled with glee.

“What fools men are,” she gasped. “And you, you thought I’d throw a real string into the sea.”

She laughed and laughed. At last she stopped. She was excited.

“I want to sing. Glaser, play an accompaniment.”

A voice came from the drawing-room.

“You can’t sing after all that food you walloped down.”

“Shut up, you old cow. Play something, I tell you.”

There was no reply, but in a moment Miss Glaser began to play the opening bars of one of Schumann’s songs. It was no strain on the voice, and I guessed that Miss Glaser knew what she was doing when she chose it. La Falterona began to sing, in an undertone, but as she heard the sounds come from her lips and found that they were clear and pure she let herself go. The song finished. There was silence. Miss Glaser had heard that La Falterona was in magnificent voice, and she sensed that she wished to sing again. The
prima donna
was standing in the window, with her back to the lighted room, and she looked out at the darkly shining sea. The cedar made a lovely pattern against the sky. The night was soft and balmy. Miss Glaser played a couple of bars. A cold shiver ran down my spine. La Falterona gave a little start as she recognized the music, and I felt her gather herself together:

Mild und leise wie er lachelt
Wie das Auge er offnet.

It was Isolde’s death song. She had never sung in Wagner, fearing the strain on her voice, but this, I suppose, she had often sung in concerts. It did not matter now that instead of an orchestral accompaniment she had only the thin tinkle of a piano. The notes of the heavenly melody fell upon the still air and travelled over the water. In that too romantic scene, in that starry night, the effect was shattering. La Falterona’s voice, even now, was exquisite in its quality, mellow and crystalline; and she sang with wonderful emotion, so tenderly, with such tragic, beautiful anguish that my heart melted within me. I had a most awkward lump in my throat when she finished, and looking at her I saw that tears were streaming down her face. I did not want to speak. She stood quite still looking out at that ageless sea.

What a strange woman! I thought then that I would sooner have her as she was, with her monstrous faults, than as Peter Melrose saw her, a pattern of all the virtues. But then people blame me because I rather like people who are a little worse than is reasonable. She was hateful, of course, but she was irresistible.

I
T WAS
Henry Garnet’s habit on leaving the city of an afternoon to drop in at his club and play bridge before going home to dinner. He was a pleasant man to play with. He knew the game well and you could be sure that he would make the best of his cards. He was a good loser; and when he won was more inclined to ascribe his success to his luck than to his skill. He was indulgent, and if his partner made a mistake could be trusted to find an excuse for him. It was surprising then on this occasion to hear him telling his partner with unnecessary sharpness that he had never seen a hand worse played; and it was more surprising still to see him not only make a grave error himself, an error of which you would never have thought him capable, but when his partner, not unwilling to get a little of his own back, pointed it out, insist against all reason and with considerable heat that he was perfectly right. But they were all old friends, the men he was playing with, and none of them took his ill-humour very seriously. Henry Garnet was a broker, a partner in a firm of repute, and it occurred to one of them that something had gone wrong with some stock he was interested in.

“How’s the market today?” he asked.

“Booming. Even the suckers are making money.”

It was evident that stocks and shares had nothing to do with Henry Garnet’s vexation; but something was the matter; that was evident too. He was a hearty fellow, who enjoyed excellent health; he had plenty of money; he was fond of his wife, and devoted to his children. As a rule he had high spirits, and he laughed easily at the nonsense they were apt to talk while they played; but today he sat glum and silent. His brows were crossly puckered and there was a sulky look about his mouth. Presently, to ease the tension, one of the others mentioned a subject upon which they all knew Henry Garnet was glad to speak.