The Complete Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham - II - The World Over (73 page)

“I’m sorry,” said Hans.

“Perhaps he’s better off than if he’d lived. He was like Annette in many ways. He could never have borne the shame of defeat.” She sighed again. “Oh, my poor friend, we’ve been betrayed.”

“Why did you want to fight for the Poles? What were they to you?”

“You’re right. If we had let your Hitler take Poland he would have left us alone.”

When Hans got up to go he said he would come again soon.

“I shan’t forget the pork.”

Then Hans had a lucky break; he was given a job that took him twice a week to a town in the vicinity so that he was able to get to the farm much oftener. He took care never to come without bringing something. But he made no headway with Annette. Seeking to ingratiate himself with her, he used the simple wiles that he had discovered went down with women; but they only excited her derision. Thin-lipped and hard, she looked at him as though he were dirt. On more than one occasion she made him so angry that he would have liked to take her by the shoulders and shake the life out of her. Once he found her alone, and when she got up to go he barred her passage.

“Stop where you are. I want to talk to you.”

“Talk. I am a woman and defenceless.”

“What I want to say is this: for all I know I may be here for a long time. Things aren’t going to get easier for you French, they’re going to get harder. I can be useful to you. Why don’t you be reasonable like your father and mother?”

It was true that old Périer had come round. You couldn’t say that he was cordial, he was indeed cold and gruff, but he was civil. He had even asked Hans to bring him some tobacco, and when he wouldn’t accept payment for it had thanked him. He was pleased to hear the news of Soissons and grabbed the paper that Hans brought him. Hans, a farmer’s son, could talk about the farm as one who knew. It was a good farm, not too big and not too small, well watered, for a sizeable brook ran through it, and well wooded, with arable land and pasture. Hans listened with understanding sympathy when the old man bewailed himself because without labour, without fertilizers, his stock taken from him, it was all going to rack and ruin.

“You ask me why I can’t be reasonable like my father and mother,” said Annette.

She pulled her dress tight and showed herself to him. He couldn’t believe his eyes. What he saw caused such a convulsion in his soul as he had never known. The blood rushed to his cheeks.

“You’ re pregnant.”

She sank back on her chair and leaning her head on her hands began to weep as though her heart would break.

“The shame of it. The shame.”

He sprang towards her to take her in his arms.

“My sweet,” he cried.

But she sprang to her feet and pushed him away.

“Don’t touch me. Go away. Go away. Haven’t you done me enough harm already?”

She flung out of the room. He waited by himself for a few minutes. He was bewildered. His thoughts in a whirl, he rode slowly back to Soissons, and when he went to bed he couldn’t get to sleep for hours. He could think of nothing but Annette and her swollen body. She had been unbearably pathetic as she sat there at the table crying her eyes out. It was his child she bore in her womb. He began to feel drowsy, and then with a start he was once more wide awake, for suddenly it came to him, it came to him with the shattering suddenness of gun-fire: he was in love with her. It was such a surprise, such a shock that he couldn’t cope with it. Of course he’d thought of her a lot, but never in that way, he’d thought it would be a great joke if he made her fall in love with him, it would be a triumph if the time came when she offered what he had taken by force; but not for a moment had it occurred to him that she was anything to him but a woman like another. She wasn’t his type. She wasn’t very pretty. There was nothing to her. Why should he have all of a sudden this funny feeling for her? It wasn’t a pleasant feeling either, it was a pain. But he knew what it was all right; it was love, and it made him feel happier than he had ever felt in his life. He wanted to take her in his arms, he wanted to pet her, he wanted to kiss those tear-stained eyes of hers. He didn’t desire her, he thought, as a man desires a woman, he wanted to comfort her, wanted her to smile at him-strange, he had never seen her smile, he wanted to see her eyes-fine eyes they were, beautiful eyes-soft with tenderness.

For three days he could not leave Soissons and for three days, three days and three nights, he thought of Annette and the child she would bear. Then he was able to go to the farm. He wanted to see Madame Périer by herself, and luck was with him, for he met her on the road some way from the house. She had been gathering sticks in the wood and was going home with a great bundle on her back. He stopped his motor-cycle. He knew that the friendliness she showed him was due only to the provisions he brought with him, but he didn’t care; it was enough that she was mannerly, and that she was prepared to be so as long as she could get something out of him. He told her he wanted to talk to her and asked her to put her bundle down. She did as he bade. It was a grey, cloudy day, but not cold.

“I know about Annette,” he said.

She started.

“How did you find out? She was set on your not knowing.”

“She told me.”

“That was a pretty job of work you did that evening.”

“I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

She began to talk, not bitterly, not blaming him even, but as though it were a misfortune of nature, like a cow dying in giving birth to a calf or a sharp spring frost nipping the fruit trees and ruining the crop, a misfortune that human kind must accept with resignation and humility. After that dreadful night Annette had been in bed for days with a high fever. They thought she was going out of her mind. She would scream for hours on end. There were no doctors to be got. The village doctor had been called to the colours. Even in Soissons there were only two doctors left, old men both of them, and how could they get to the farm even if it had been possible to send for them? They weren’t allowed to leave the town. Even when the fever went down Annette was too ill to leave her bed, and when she got up she was so weak, so pale, it was pitiful. The shock had been terrible, and when a month went by, and another month, without her being unwell she paid no attention. She had always been irregular. It was Madame Périer who first suspected that something was wrong. She questioned Annette. They were terrified, both of them, but they weren’t certain and they said nothing to Périer. When the third month came it was impossible to doubt any longer. Annette was pregnant.

They had an old Citroen in which before the war Madame Périer had taken the farm produce into the market at Soissons two mornings a week, but since the German occupation they had had nothing to sell that made the journey worth while. Petrol was almost unobtainable. But now they got it out and drove into town. The only cars to be seen were the military cars of the Germans. German soldiers lounged about. There were German signs in the streets, and on public buildings proclamations in French signed by the Officer Commanding. Many shops were closed. They went to the old doctor they knew, and he confirmed their suspicions. But he was a devout Catholic and would not help them. When they wept he shrugged his shoulders.

“You’re not the only one,” he said.
“Il faut souffrir.”

They knew about the other doctor too and went to see him. They rang the bell and for a long time no one answered. At last the door was opened by a sad-faced woman in black, but when they asked to see the doctor she began to cry. He had been arrested by the Germans because he was a freemason, and was held as a hostage. A bomb had exploded in a café frequented by German officers and two had been killed and several wounded. If the guilty were not handed over before a certain date he was to be shot. The woman seemed kindly and Madame Périer told her of their trouble.

“The brutes,” she said. She looked at Annette with compassion “My poor child.”

She gave them the address of a midwife in the town and told them to say that they had come from her. The midwife gave them some medicine. It made Annette so ill that she thought she was going to die, but it had no further effect. Annette was still pregnant.

That was the story that Madame Périer told Hans. For a while he was silent.

“It’s Sunday tomorrow,” he said then. “I shall have nothing to do. I’ll come and we’ll talk. I’ll bring something nice.”

“We have no needles. Can you bring some?”

“I’ll try.”

She hoisted the bundle of sticks on her back and trudged down the road. Hans went back to Soissons. He dared not use his motor-cycle, so next day he hired a push-bike. He tied his parcel of food on the carrier. It was a larger parcel than usual because he had put a bottle of champagne into it. He got to the farm when the gathering darkness made it certain that they would all be home from work. It was warm and cosy in the kitchen when he walked in. Madame Périer was cooking and her husband was reading a
Paris-Soir.
Annette was darning stockings.

“Look, I’ve brought you some needles,” he said, as he undid his parcel. “And here’s some material for you, Annette.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Don’t you?” he grinned. “You’ll have to begin making things for the baby.”

“That’s true, Annette,” said her mother, “and we have nothing.” Annette did not look up from her sewing. Madame Périer’s greedy eyes ran over the contents of the parcel. “A bottle of champagne.”

Hans chuckled.

“I’ll tell you what that’s for presently. I’ve had an idea.” He hesitated for a moment, then drew up a chair and sat down facing Annette. “I don’t know quite how to begin. I’m sorry for what I did that night, Annette. It wasn’t my fault, it was the circumstances. Can’t you forgive me?”

She threw him a look of hatred.

“Never. Why don’t you leave me alone? Isn’t it enough that you’ve ruined my life?”

“Well, that’s just it. Perhaps I haven’t. When I knew you were going to have a baby it had a funny effect on me. It’s all different now. It’s made me so proud.”

“Proud?” she flung at him viciously.

“I want you to have the baby, Annette. I’m glad you couldn’t get rid of it.”

“How dare you say that?”

“But listen to me. I’ve been thinking of nothing else since I knew. The war will be over in six months. We shall bring the English to their knees in the spring. They haven’t got a chance. And then I shall be demobilized and I’ll marry you.”

“You? Why?”

He blushed under his tan. He could not bring himself to say it in French, so he said it in German. He knew she understood it.

“Ich liebe dich.”

“What does he say?” asked Madame Périer.

“He says he loves me.”

Annette threw back her head and broke into a peal of harsh laughter. She laughed louder and louder and she couldn’t stop and tears streamed from her eyes. Madame Périer slapped her sharply on both cheeks.

“Don’t pay any attention,” she said to Hans. “It’s hysteria. Her condition, you know.”

Annette gasped. She gained control over herself.

“I brought the bottle of champagne to celebrate our engagement,” said Hans.

“That’s the bitterest thing of all,” said Annette, “that we were beaten by fools, by such fools.”

Hans went on speaking in German.

“I didn’t know I loved you till that day when I found out that you were going to have a baby. It came like a clap of thunder, but I think I’ve loved you all the time.”

“What does he say?” asked Madame Périer.

“Nothing of importance.”

He fell back into French. He wanted Annette’s parents to hear what he had to say.

“I’d marry you now, only they wouldn’t let me. And don’t think I’m nothing at all. My father’s well-to-do and we’re well thought of in our commune. I’m the eldest son and you’d want for nothing.”

“Are you a Catholic?” asked Madame Périer.

“Yes, I’m a Catholic’

“That’ s something.”

“It’s pretty, the country where we live and the soil’s good. There’s not better farming land between Munich and Innsbruck, and it’s our own. My grandfather bought it after the war of “70. And we’ve got a car and a radio, and we’re on the telephone.”

Annette turned to her father.

“He has all the tact in the world, this gentleman,” she cried ironically. She eyed Hans. “It would be a nice position for me, the foreigner from the conquered country with a child born out of wedlock. It offers me a chance of happiness, doesn’t it? A fine chance.”

Périer, a man of few words, spoke for the first time.

“No. I don’t deny that it’s a fine gesture you’re making. I went through the last war and we all did things we wouldn’t have done in peace time. Human nature is human nature. But now that our son is dead, Annette is all we have. We can’t let her go.”

“I thought you might feel that way,” said Hans, “and I’ve got my answer to that. I’ll stay here.”

Annette gave him a quick look.

“What do you mean?” asked Madame Périer.

“I’ve got another brother. He can stay and help my father. I like this country. With energy and initiative a man could make a good thing of your farm. When the war’s over a lot of Germans will be settling here. It’s well known that you haven’t got enough men in France to work the land you’ve got. A fellow gave us a lecture the other day at Soissons. He said that a third of the farms were left uncultivated because there aren’t the men to work them.”