William Somerset MaughamThe Unconquered

He came back into the kitchen. The man was still on the floor, lying wherehe had hit him, and his face was bloody. He was moaning. The woman had backedagainst the wall and was staring with terrified eyes at Willi, his friend, and when hecame in she gave a gasp and broke into loud sobbing. Willi was sitting at the table,his revolver in his hand, with a half empty glass of wine beside him. Hans went upto the table, filled his glass and emptied it at a gulp.

"You look as though you'd had trouble, young fellow," said Willi with a grin.Hans's face was blood-stained and you could see the gashes of five sharp

finger-nails. He put his hand gingerly to his cheek."She'd have scratched my eyes out if she could, the bitch. I shall have to put

some iodine on. But she's all right now. You go along.""I don't know. Shall I? It's getting late.""Don't be a fool. You're a man, aren't you? What if it is getting late? We lost

our way."It was still light and the westering sun streamed into the kitchen windows of

the farm-house. Willi hesitated a moment. He was a little fellow, dark and thin-faced, a dress designer in civil life, and he didn't want Hans to think him a cissy.He got up and went towards the door through which Hans had come. When the

woman saw what he was going to do she gave a shriek and sprang forwards. "Non,non," she cried.

With one step Hans was in front of her. He seized her by the shoulders andflung her violently back. She tottered and fell. He took Willi's revolver.

"Stop still, both of you," he rasped in French, but with his guttural Germanaccent. He nodded his head towards the door. "Go on. I'll look after them."

Willi went out, but in a moment was back again."She's unconscious.""Well, what of it?""I can't. It's no good.""Stupid, that's what you are. Ein Weibchen. A woman."Willi flushed."We'd better be getting on our way."Hans shrugged a scornful shoulder."I'll just finish the bottle of wine and then we'll go."He was feeling at ease and it would have been pleasant to linger. He had

been on the job since morning and after so many hours on his motor-cycle hislimbs ached. Luckily they hadn't far to go, only to Soissons - ten or fifteenkilometres. He wondered if he'd have the luck to get a bed to sleep in. Of course allthis wouldn't have happened if the girl hadn't been a fool. They had lost their way,he and Willi, they had stopped a peasant working in a field and he had deliberatelymisled them, and they found themselves on a side road. When they came to thefarm they stopped to ask for a direction. They'd asked very politely, for orders wereto treat the French population well as long as they behaved themselves. The doorwas opened for them by the girl and she said she didn't know the way to Soissons,so they pushed in; then the woman, her mother, Hans guessed, told them. The threeof them, the farmer, his wife and daughter, had just finished supper and there was abottle of wine on the table. It reminded Hans that he was as thirsty as the devil. Theday had been sweltering and he hadn't had a drink since noon. He asked them for abottle of wine and Willi had added that they would pay them well for it. Willi wasa good little chap, but soft. After all, they were the victors. Where was the Frencharmy? In headlong flight. And the English, leaving everything behind, had scuttledlike rabbits back to their island. The conquerors took what they wanted, didn'tthey? But Willi had worked at a Paris dressmaker's for two years. It's true he spokeFrench well, that's why he had his present job, but it had done something to him. Adecadent people. It did a German no good to live among them.

The farmer's wife put a couple of bottles of wine on the table and Willi tooktwenty francs out of his pocket and gave it to her. She didn't even say thank you.Hans's French wasn't as good as Willi's, but he could make himself understood, andhe and Willi spoke it together all the time. Willi corrected his mistakes. It wasbecause Willi was so useful to him in this way that he had made him his friend, andhe knew that Willi admired him. He admired him because he was so tall, slim, andbroad-shouldered, because his curly hair was so fair and his eyes so blue. He neverlost an opportunity to practise his French, and he tried to talk now, but those threeFrench people wouldn't meet him half-way. He told them that he was a farmer's

son himself and when the war was over was going back to the farm. He had beensent to school in Munich because his mother wanted him to go into business, buthis heart wasn't in it, and so after matriculating he had gone to an agriculturalcollege.

"You came here to ask your way and now you know it," said the girl. "Drinkup your wine and go."

He had hardly looked at her before. She wasn't pretty, but she had fine darkeyes and a straight nose. Her face was very pale. She was plainly dressed, butsomehow she didn't look quite like what she evidendy was. There was a sort ofdistinction about her. Ever since the war started he'd heard fellows talk about theFrench girls. They had something the German girls hadn't. Chic, Willi said it was,but when he asked him just what he meant by that Willi could only say that youhad to see it to understand. Of course he'd heard others say that they weremercenary and hard as nails. Well, they'd be in Paris in a week and he'd find out forhimself. They said the High Command had already arranged for houses for themen to go to.

"Finish your wine and let's go," said Willi.But Hans was feeling comfortable and didn't want to be hurried."You don't look like a farmer's daughter," he said to the girl."And so what?" she answered."She's a teacher," said her mother."Then you've had a good education."She shrugged her shoulders, but he went on good-humouredly in his bad

French. "You ought to understand that this is the best thing that has ever happenedto the French people. We didn't declare war. You declared war. And now we'regoing to make France a decent country. We're going to put order into it. We'regoing to teach you to work. You'll learn obedience and discipline."

She clenched her fists and looked at him, her eyes black with hatred. But shedid not speak.

"You're drunk, Hans," said Willi."I'm as sober as a judge. I'm only telling them the truth and they may just as

well know it at once.""He's right," she cried out, unable any longer to contain herself. "You're

drunk. Now go. Go.""Oh, you understand German, do you? All right, I'll go. But you must give

me a kiss first."She took a step back to avoid him, but he seized her wrist."Father," she cried. "Father."The farmer flung himself on the German. Hans let go of her and with all his

might hit him in the face. He crumpled up on the floor. Then, before she couldescape him, he caught the girl in his arms. She gave him a swinging blow on thecheek… He chuckled grimly.

"Is that how you take it when a German soldier wants to kiss you? You'll payfor this."

With his great strength he pinioned her arms and was dragging her out of thedoor, but her mother rushed at him and catching him by the clothes tried to pullhim away. With one arm holding the girl close to him, with the flat of his otherhand he gave the woman a great push and she staggered back to the wall.

"Hans, Hans," cried Willi."Shut up, damn you."He put his hands over the girl's mouth to stop her shrieking and carried her

out of the room. That was how it had happened and you had to admit that she'dbrought it on herself. She shouldn't have slapped him. If she'd given him the kisshe'd asked for he'd have gone away. He gave a glance at the farmer still lyingwhere he had fallen and he could hardly help laughing at his funny face. There wasa smile in his eyes when he looked at the woman cowering against the wall. Wasshe afraid it was her turn next? Not likely. He remembered a French proverb.

"С'est le premier pas qui coute. There's nothing to cry about, old woman. Ithad to come sooner or later." He put his hand to his hip pocket and pulled out awallet. "Look, here's a hundred francs so that mademoiselle can buy herself a newdress. There's not much left of that one." He placed the note on the table and puthis helmet back on his head. "Let's go."

They slammed the door behind them and got on their motor-cycles. Thewoman went into the parlour. Her daughter was lying on the divan. She was lyingas he had left her and she was weeping bitterly.

Three months later Hans found himself in Soissons again. He had been inParis with the conquering army and had ridden through the Arc de Triomphe on hismotor-cycle. He had advanced with the army first to Tours and then to Bordeaux.He'd seen very little fighting. The only French soldiers he'd seen were prisoners.The campaign had been the greatest spree he could ever have imagined. After thearmistice he had spent a month in Paris. He'd sent picture postcards to his family inBavaria and bought them all presents. Willi, because he knew the city like the palmof his hand, had stayed on, but he and the rest of his unit were sent to Soissons tojoin the force that was holding it. It was a nice little town and he was comfortablybilleted. Plenty to eat and champagne for less than a mark a bottle in Germanmoney. When he was ordered to proceed there it had occurred to him that it wouldbe fun to go and have a look at the girl he'd had. He'd take her a pair of silkstockings to show there was no ill-feeling. He had a good bump of locality and hethought he would be able to find the farm without difficulty. So one afternoon,when he had nothing to do, he put the silk stockings in his pocket and got on hismachine. It was a lovely autumn day, with hardly a cloud in the sky, and it waspretty, undulating country that he rode through. It had been fine and dry for so longthat, though it was September, not even the restless poplars gave sign that thesummer was drawing to an end. He took one wrong turning, which delayed him,but for all that he got to the place he sought in less than half an hour. A mongreldog barked at him as he walked up to the door. He did not knock, but turned thehandle and stepped in. The girl was sitting at the table peeling potatoes. She sprangto her feet when she saw the uniformed man.

"What d'you want?" Then she recognized him. She backed to the wall,clutching the knife in her hands. "It's you. Cochon!"

"Don't get excited. I'm not going to hurt you. Look. I've brought you somesilk stockings."

"Take them away and take yourself off with them.""Don't be silly. Drop that knife. You'll only get hurt if you try to be nasty.

You needn't be afraid of me.""I'm not afraid of you," she said.She let the knife fall to the floor. He took off his helmet and sat down. He

reached out with his foot and drew the knife towards him."Shall I peel some of your potatoes for you?"She did not answer. He bent down for the knife and then took a potato out of

the bowl and went to work on it. Her face hard, her eyes hostile, she stood againstthe wall and watched him. He smiled at her disarmingly.

"Why do you look so cross? I didn't do you much harm, you know. I wasexcited, we all were, they'd talked of the invincible French army and the Maginotline…" he finished the sentence with a chuckle. "And the wine went to my head.You might have fared worse. Women have told me that I'm not a bad-lookingfellow."

She looked him up and down scornfully."Get out of here.""Not untill I choose.""If you don't go my father will go to Soissons and complain to the general.""Much he'll care. Our orders are to make friends with the population. What's

your name?""That's not your business."There was a flush in her cheeks now and her angry eyes were blazing. She

was prettier than he remembered her. He hadn't done so badly. She had arefinement that suggested the city-dweller rather than the peasant. He rememberedher mother saying she was a teacher. Because she was almost a lady it amused himto torment her. He felt strong and healthy. He passed his hand through his curlyblond hair, and giggled when he thought that many girls would have jumped at thechance she had had. His face was so deeply tanned by the summer that his eyeswere stardingly blue.

"Where are your father and mother?""Working in the fields.""I'm hungry. Give me a bit of bread and cheese and a glass of wine. I'll pay."She gave a harsh laugh."We haven't seen cheese for three months. We haven't enough bread to stay

our hunger. The French took our horses a year ago and now the Boches have takenour cows, our pigs, our chickens, everything."

"Well, they paid you for them.""Can we eat the worthless paper they gave us?"She began to cry."Are you hungry?"

"Oh, no," she answered bitterly, "we can eat like kings on potatoes and breadand turnips and lettuce. Tomorrow my father's going to Soissons to see if he canbuy some horse meat."

"Listen, Miss. I'm not a bad fellow. I'll bring you a cheese, and I think I canget hold of a bit of ham."

"I don't want your presents. I'll starve before I touch the food you swinehave stolen from us."

"We'll see," he said good-humouredly.He put on his hat, got up, and with an Au revoir, mademoiselle, walked out.He wasn't supposed to go joy-riding round the country and he had to wait to

be sent on an errand before he was able to get to the farm again. It was ten dayslater. He walked in as unceremoniously as before and this time he found the farmerand his wife in the kitchen. It was round about noon and the woman was stirring apot on the stove. The man was seated at table. They gave him a glance when hecame in, but there was no surprise in it. Their daughter had evidendy told them ofhis visit. They did not speak. The woman went on with her cooking, and the man, asurly look on his face, stared at the oil-cloth on the table. But it required more thanthis to disconcert the good-humoured Hans.

"Bonjour, la compagnie," he said cheerfully. "I've brought you a present."He undid the package he had with him and set out a sizable piece of Gruyere

cheese, a piece of pork, and a couple of tins of sardines. The woman turned roundand he smiled when he saw the light of greed in her eyes. The man looked at thefoodstuff sullenly. Hans gave him his sunny grin.

"I'm sorry we had a misunderstanding the first time I came here. But youshouldn't have interfered."

At that moment the girl came in."What are you doing here?" she cried harshly. Then her eyes fell on the

things he had brought. She swept them together and flung them at him. "Take themaway. Take them."

But her mother sprang forward."Annette, you're crazy.""I won't take his presents.""It's our own food that they've stolen from us. Look at the sardines. They're

Bordeaux sardines."She picked the things up. Hans looked at the girl with a mocking smile in his

light blue eyes."Annette's your name, is it? A pretty name. Do you grudge your parents a

little food? You said you hadn't had cheese for three months. I couldn't get anyham; I did the best I could."

The farmer's wife took the lump of meat in her hands and pressed it to herbosom. You felt that she could have kissed it. Tears ran down Annette's cheeks.

"The shame of it," she groaned."Oh, come now, there's no shame in a bit of Gruyere and a piece of pork."

Hans sat down and lit a cigarette. Then he passed the packet over to the oldman. The farmer hesitated for a moment, but the temptation was too strong forhim; he took one and handed back the packet.

"Keep it," said Hans. "I can get plenty more." He inhaled the smoke andblew a cloud of it from his nostrils. "Why can't we be friends? What's done can't beundone. War is war, and, well, you know what I mean. I know Annette's aneducated girl and I want her to think well of me. I expect we shall be in Soissonsfor quite a while and I can bring you something now and then to help out. Youknow, we do all we can to make friends with the townspeople, but they won't letus. They won't even look at us when we pass them in the street. After all, it was anaccident, what happened that time I came here with Willi. You needn't be afraid ofme. I'll respect Annette as if she was my own sister."

"Why do you want to come here? Why can't you leave us alone?" askedAnnette.

He really didn't know. He didn't like to say that he wanted a little humanfriendship. The silent hostility that surrounded them all at Soissons got on hisnerves so that sometimes he wanted to go up to a Frenchman who looked at him asif he wasn't there and knock him down, and sometimes it affected him so that hewas almost inclined to cry. It would be nice if he had some place to go where hewas welcome. He spoke the truth when he said he had no desire for Annette. Shewasn't the sort of woman he fancied. He liked women to be tall and full-breasted,blue-eyed, and fair-haired like himself; he liked them to be strong and hefty andwell-covered. That refinement which he couldn't account for, that thin fine noseand those dark eyes, the long pale face - there was something intimidating aboutthe girl, so that if he hadn't been excited by the great victories of the Germanarmies, if he hadn't been so tired and yet so elated, if he hadn't drunk all that wineon an empty stomach, it would never have crossed his mind that he could haveanything to do with her.

For a fortnight after that Hans couldn't get away. He'd left the food at thefarm and he had no doubt that the old people had wolfed it. He wondered ifAnnette had eaten it too; he wouldn't have been surprised to discover that themoment his back was turned she had set to with the others. These French people,they couldn't resist getting something for nothing. They were weak and decadent.She hated him, yes, God, how she hated him, but pork was pork, and cheese wascheese. He thought of her quite a lot. It tantalized him that she should have such aloathing for him. He was used to being liked by women. It would be funny if oneof these days she fell in love with him. He'd been her first lover and he'd heard thestudents at Munich over their beer saying that it was her first lover a woman loved,after that it was love. When he'd set his mind on getting a girl he'd never failed yet.Hans laughed to himself and a sly look came into his eyes.

At last he got his chance to go to the farm. He got hold of cheese and butter,sugar, a tin of sausages, and some coffee, and set off on his motor-cycle. But thattime he didn't see Annette.

She and her father were at work in the fields. The old woman was in the yardand her face lit up when she saw the parcel he was bringing. She led him into the

kitchen. Her hands trembled a little as she untied the string and when she saw whathe had brought her eyes filled with tears.

"You're very good," she said."May I sit down?" he asked politely."Of course." She looked out of the window and Hans guessed that she

wanted to make sure that Annette was not coming. "Can I offer you a glass ofwine."

"I'd be glad of it."He was sharp enough to see that her greed for food had made her, if not

friendly to him, at least willing to come to terms with him. That look out of thewindow made them almost fellow conspirators.

"Did you like the pork?" he asked."It was a treat.""I'll try to bring you some more next time I come. Did Annette like it?""She wouldn't touch a thing you'd left. She said she'd rather starve.""Silly.""That's what I said to her. As long as the food is there, I said, there's nothing

to be gained by not eating it."They chatted quite amicably while Hans sipped his wine. He discovered that

she was called Madame Perier. He asked her whether there were any othermembers of the family. She sighed. No, they'd had a son, but he'd been mobilizedat the beginning of the war and he'd died. He hadn't been killed, he'd gotpneumonia and died in the hospital at Nancy.

"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, mypoor 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. Hetook care never to come without bringing something. But he made no headwaywith Annette. Seeking to ingratiate himself with her, he used the simple wiles thathe 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 oneoccasion she made him so angry that he would have liked to take her by theshoulders and shake the life out of her. Once he found her alone, and when she gotup 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 canbe useful to you. Why don't you be reasonable like your father and mother?"

It was true that old Perier had come round. You couldn't say that he wascordial, he was indeed cold and gruff, but he was civil. He had even asked Hans tobring him some tobacco, and when he wouldn't accept payment for it had thankedhim. He was pleased to hear the news of Soissons and grabbed the paper that Hansbrought him. Hans, a farmer's son, could talk about the farm as one who knew. Itwas a good farm, not too big and not too small, well watered, for a sizable brookran through it, and well wooded, with arable land and pasture. Hans listened withunderstanding sympathy when the old man bewailed himself because withoutlabour, without fertilizers, his stock taken from him, it was all going to rack andrain.

"You ask me why I can't be reasonable like my father and mother," saidAnnette.

She pulled her dress tight and showed herself to him. He couldn't believe hiseyes. 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 hewent to bed he couldn't get to sleep for hours. He could think of nothing butAnnette and her swollen body. She had been unbearably pathetic as she sat there atthe table crying her eyes out. It was his child she bore in her womb. He began tofeel drowsy, and then with a start he was once more wide awake, for suddenly itcame to him, it came to him with the shattering suddenness of gun-fire: he was inlove with her. It was such a surprise, such a shock that he couldn't cope with it. Ofcourse he'd thought of her a lot, but never in that way, he'd thought it would be agreat joke if he made her fall in love with him, it would be a triumph if the timecame when she offered what he had taken by force; but not for a moment had itoccurred to him that she was anything to him but a woman like another. She wasn'this type. She wasn't very pretty. There was nothing to her. Why should he have allof a sudden this funny feeling for her? It wasn't a pleasant feeling either, it was apain. But he knew what it was all right; it was love, and it made him feel happierthan he had ever felt in his life. He wanted to take her in his arms, he wanted to pether, he wanted to kiss those tear-stained eyes of hers. He didn't desire her, hethought, as a man desires a woman, he wanted to comfort her, he wanted her to

smile at him - strange, he had never seen her smile, he wanted to see her eyes - fineeyes they were, beautiful eyes - soft with tenderness.

For three days he could not leave Soissons and for three days, three days andthree nights, he thought of Annette and the child she would bear. Then he was ableto go to the farm. He wanted to see Madame Perier by herself, and luck was withhim, for he met her on the road some way from the house. She had been gatheringsticks in the wood and was going home with a great bundle on her back. Hestopped his motor-cycle. He knew that the friendliness she showed him was dueonly to the provisions he brought with him, but he didn't care; it was enough thatshe was mannerly, and that she was prepared to be so as long as she could getsomething out of him. He told her he wanted to talk to her and asked her to put herbundle 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 springfrost nipping the fruit trees and ruining the crop, a misfortune that human kindmust accept with resignation and humility. After that dreadful night Annette hadbeen in bed for days with a high fever.

They thought she was going out of her mind. She would scream for hours onend. There were no doctors to be got. The village doctor had been called to thecolours. Even in Soissons there were only two doctors left, old men both of themand how could they get to the farm even if it had been possible to send for them?They weren't allowed to leave the fown. Even when the fever went down Annettewas too ill to leave her bed, and when she got up she was so weak, so pale, it waspitiful. The shock had been terrible, and when a month went by, and anothermonth, without her being unwell she paid no attention. She had always beenirregular. It was Madame Perier who first suspected that something was wrong.She questioned Annette. They were terrified, both of them, but they weren't certainand they said nothing to Perier. When the third month came it was impossible todoubt any longer. Annette was pregnant.

They had an old Citroen in which before the war Madame Perier had takenthe farm produce into the market at Soissons two mornings a week, but since theGerman occupation they had had nothing to sell that made the journey worthwhile. Petrol was almost unobtainable. But now they got it out and drove intotown. The only cars to be seen were the military cars of the Germans. Germansoldiers lounged about. There were German signs in the streets, and on publicbmldings proclamations in French signed by the Officer Commanding. Manyshops were closed. They went to the old doctor they knew, and he confirmed theirsuspicions. But he was a devout Catholic and would not help them. When theywept 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. Hehad been arrested by the Germans because he was a freemason, and was held as ahostage. A bomb had exploded in a cafe frequented by German officers and twohad been killed and several wounded. If the guilty were not handed over before acertain date he was to be shot. The woman seemed kindly and Madame Perier toldher of their trouble.

"The brutes," she said. She looked at Annette with compassion. "My poorchild."

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

That was the story that Madame Perier 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 hehired a push-bike. He tied his parcel of food on the carrier. It was a larger parcelthan usual because he had put a bottle of champagne into it. He got to the farmwhen the gathering darkness made it certain that they would all be home fromwork. It was warm and cosy in the kitchen when he walked in. Madame Perier wascooking 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. "Andhere'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 Perier's greedy eyes ran over the contents ofthe 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 quitehow to begin. I'm sorry for what I did that night, Annette. It wasn't my fault, it wasthe 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 Perier."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 Perier slapped her sharply on both cheeks.

"Don't pay any attention," she said to Hans. "It's hysteria. Her condition, youknow."

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 thetime."

"What does he say?" asked Madame Perier."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 theeldest son and you'd want for nothing."

"Are you a Catholic?" asked Madame Perier."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 grandfatherbought it after the war of 70. And we've got a car and a radio, and we're on thetelephone."

Annette turned to her father."He has all the tact in the world, this gendeman," she cried ironically. She

eyed Hans. "It would be a nice position for me, the foreigner from the conqueredcountry with a child born out of wedlock. It offers me a chance of happiness,doesn't it? A fine chance."

Perier, 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 thelast war and we all did things we wouldn't have done in peace time. Human natureis human nature. But now that our son is dead, Annette is all we have. We can't lether go."

"I thought you might feel that way," said Hans, "and I've got my answer tothat. I'll stay here."

Annette gave him a quick look."What do you mean?" asked Madame Perier."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 thewar's over a lot of Germans will be settling here. It's well known that you haven'tgot enough men in France to work the land you've got. A fellow gave us a lecturethe other day at Soissons. He said that a third of the farms were left uncultivatedbecause there aren't the men to work them."

Perier and his wife exchanged glances and Annette saw that they werewavering. That was what they'd wanted since their son had died, a son-in-law whowas strong and hefty and could take over when they grew too old to do more thanpotter about.

"That changes the case," said Madame Perier. "It's a proposition toconsider."

"Hold your tongue," cried Annette roughly. She leant forward and fixed herburning eyes on the German. "I'm engaged to a teacher who worked in the boys'school in the town where I taught, we were to be married after the war. He's notstrong and big like you, or handsome; he's small and frail. His only beauty is theintelligence that shines in his face, his only strength is the greatness of his soul.He's not a barbarian, he's civilized; he has a thousand years of civilization behindhim. I love him. I love him with all my heart and soul."

Hans's face grew sullen. It had never occurred to him that Annette mightcare for anyone else. "Where is he now?"

"Where do you suppose he is? In Germany. A prisoner and starving. Whileyou eat the fat of our land. How many times have I got to tell you that I hate you?You ask me to forgive you. Never. You want to make reparation. You fool." Shethrew her head back and there was a look of intolerable anguish on her face."Ruined. Oh, he'll forgive me. He's tender. But I'm tortured by the thought that oneday the suspicion may come to him that perhaps I hadn't been forced - that perhapsI'd given myself to you for butter, and cheese and silk stockings. I shouldn't be theonly one. And what would our life be with that child between us, your child, aGerman child? Big like you, and blond like you, and blue-eyed like you. Oh, myGod, why do I have to suffer this?"

She got up and went swifdy out of the kitchen. For a minute the three wereleft in silence. Hans looked ruefully at his bottle of champagne. He sighed and roseto his feet. When he went out Madame Perier accompanied him.

"Did you mean it when you said you would marry her?" she asked him,speaking in a low voice.

"Yes. Every word. I love her."

"And you wouldn't take her away? You'd stay here and work on the farm?""I promise you.""Evidently my old man can't last for ever. At home you'd have to share with

your brother. Here you'd share with nobody.""There's that too.""We never were in favour of Annette marrying that teacher, but our son was

alive then and he said, if she wants to marry him, why shouldn't she? Annette wascrazy about him. But now that our son's dead, poor boy, it's different. Even if shewanted to, how could she work the farm alone?»

"It would be a shame if it was sold. I know how one feels about one's ownland."

They had reached the road. She took his hand and gave it a little squeeze."Come again soon."Hans knew that she was on his side. It was a comfort to him to think that as

he rode back to Soissons. It was a bother that Annette was in love with somebodyelse. Fortunately he was a prisoner; long before he was likely to be released thebaby would be born. That might change her: you could never tell with a woman.Why, in his village there'd been a woman who was so much in love with herhusband that it had been a joke, and then she had a baby and after that she couldn'tbear the sight of him. Well, why shouldn't the contrary happen too? And now thathe'd offered to marry her she must see that he was a decent sort of fellow. God,how pathetic she'd looked with her head flung back, and how well she'd spoken!What language! An actress on the stage couldn't have expressed herself better, andyet it had all sounded so natural. You had to admit that, these French people knewhow to talk. Oh, she was clever. Even when she lashed him with that bitter tongueit was a joy to listen to her. He hadn't had a bad education himself, but he couldn'thold a candle to her. Culture, that's what she had.

"I'm a donkey," he said out loud as he rode along. She'd said he was big andstrong and handsome. Would she have said that if it hadn't meant something to her?And she'd talked of the baby having fair hair and blue eyes like his own. If thatdidn't mean that his colouring had'made an impression on her he was a Dutchman.He chuckled. "Give me time, patience, and let nature go to work."

The weeks went by. The C.O. at Soissons was an elderly, easygoing fellowand in view of what the spring had in store for them he was content not to drive hismen too hard. The German papers told them that England was being wrecked bythe Luftwaffe and the people were in a panic. Submarines were sinking Britishships by the score and the country was starving. Revolution was imminent. Beforesummer it would be all over and the Germans would be masters of the world. Hanswrote home and told his parents that he was going to marry a French girl and withher a fine farm. He proposed that his brother should borrow money to buy him outof his share of the family property so that he could increase the size of his ownholding while land, owing to the war and the exchange, could still be bought for asong. He went over the farm with Perier. The old man listened quietly when Hanstold him his ideas: the farm would have to be restocked and as a German he wouldhave a pull; the motor tractor was old, he would get a fine new one from Germany,

and a motor plough. To make a farm pay you had to take advantage of moderninventions. Madame Perier told him afterwards that her husband had said he wasn'ta bad lad and seemed to know a lot. She was very friendly with him now andinsisted that he should share their midday meal with them on Sundays. Shetranslated his name into French and called him Jean. He was always ready to give ahand, and as time went on and Annette could do less and less it was useful to havea man about who didn't mind doing a job of work.

Annette remained fiercely hostile. She never spoke to him except to answerhis direct questions and as soon as it was possible went to her own room. When itwas so cold that she couldn't stay there she sat by the side of the kitchen stove,sewing or reading, and took no more notice of him than if he hadn't been there. Shewas in radiant health. There was colour in her cheeks and in Hans's eyes she wasbeautiful. Her approaching maternity had given her a strange dignity and he wasfilled with exultation when he gazed upon her. Then one day when he was on hisway to the farm he saw Madame Perier in the road waving to him to stop. He puthis brakes on hard.

"I've been waiting for an hour. I thought you'd never come. You must goback. Pierre is dead."

"Who's Pierre?""Pierre Gavin. The teacher Annette was going to marry." Hans's heart leapt.

What luck! Now he'd have his chance. "Is she upset?""She's not crying. When I tried to say something she bit my head off. If she

saw you today she's capable of sticking a knife into you.""It's not my fault if he died. How did you hear?""A prisoner, a friend of his, escaped through Switzerland and he wrote to

Annette. We got the letter this morning. There was a mutiny in the camp becausethey weren't given enough to eat, and the ringleaders were shot. Pierre was one ofthem."

Hans was silent. He could only think it served the man right. What did theythink that a prison camp was - the Ritz?

"Give her time to get over the shock," said Madame Perier. "When she'scalmer I'll talk to her. I'll write you a letter when you can come again."

"All right. You will help me, won't you?""You can be sure of that. My husband and I, we're agreed. We talked it over

and we came to the conclusion that the only thing to do was to accept the situation.He's no fool, my husband, and he says the best chance for France now is tocollaborate. And take it all in all I don't dislike you. I shouldn't wonder if you didn'tmake Annette a better husband than that teacher. And with the baby coming andall."

"I want it to be a boy," said Hans."It's going to be a boy. I know for certain. I've seen it in the coffee grounds

and I've put out the cards. The answer is a boy every time.""I almost forgot, here are some papers for you," said Hans, as he turned his

cycle and prepared to mount.

He handed her three numbers of Paris-Soir. Old Perier read every evening.He read that the French must be realistic and accept the new order that Hitler wasgoing to create in Europe. He read that the German submarines were sweeping thesea. He read that the General Staff had organized to the last detail the campaignthat would bring England to her knees and that the Americans were toounprepared, too soft and too divided to come to her help. He read that France musttake the heavensent opportunity and by loyal collaboration with the Reich regainher honoured position in the new Europe. And it wasn't Germans who wrote it all;it was Frenchmen. He nodded his head with approval when he read that theplutocrats and the Jews would be destroyed and the poor man in France would atlast come into his own. They were quite right, the clever fellows who said thatFrance was essentially an agricultural country and its backbone was its industriousfarmers. Good sense, that was.

One evening, when they were finishing their supper, ten days after the newshad come of Pierre Gavin's death, Madame Perier by arrangement with herhusband, said to Annette:

"I wrote a letter to Hans a few days ago telling him to come here tomorrow.""Thank you for the warning. I shall stay in my room.""Oh, come, daughter, the time has passed for foolishness. You must be

realistic. Pierre is dead. Hans loves you and wants to marry you. He's a fine-looking fellow. Any girl would be proud of him as a husband. How can we restockthe farm without his help? He's going to buy a tractor and a plough with his ownmoney. You must let bygones be bygones."

"You're wasting your breath, Mother. I earned my living before, I can earnmy living again. I hate him. I hate his vanity and his arrogance. I could kill him:his death wouldn't satisfy me. I should like to torture him as he's tortured me. Ithink I should die happy if I could find a way to wound him as he's wounded me."

"You're being very silly, my poor child.""Your mother's right, my girl," said Perier. "We've been defeated and we

must accept the consequences. We've got to make the best arrangement we canwith the conquerors. We're cleverer than they are and if we play our cards well weshall come out on top. France was rotten. It's the Jews and the plutocrats whoruined the country. Read the papers and you'll see for yourself!"

"Do you think I believe a word in that paper? Why do you think he brings itto you except that it's sold to the Germans? The men who write in it - traitors,traitors. Oh God, may I live to see them torn to pieces by the mob. Bought, boughtevery one of them - bought with German money. The swine."

Madame Perier was getting exasperated."What have you got against the boy? He took you by force - yes, he was

drunk at the time. It's not the first time that's happened to a woman and it won't bethe last time. He hit your father and he bled like a pig, but does your father bearhim malice?"

"It was an unpleasant incident, but I've forgotten it," said Perier.Annette burst into harsh laughter.

"You should have been a priest. You forgive injuries with a spirit trulyChristian."

"And what is there wrong about that?" asked Madame Perier angrily. "Hasn'the done everything he could to make amends? Where would your father have gothis tobacco all these months if it hadn't been for him? If we haven't gone hungryit's owing to him."

"If you'd had any pride, if you'd had any sense of decency, you'd havethrown his presents in his face."

"You've profited by them, haven't you?""Never. Never.""It's a lie and you know it. You've refused to eat the cheese he brought and

the butter and the sardines. But the soup you've eaten, you know I put the meat in itthat he brought; and the salad you ate tonight, if you didn't have to eat it dry, it'sbecause he brought me oil."

Annette sighed deeply. She passed her hand over her eyes."I know. I tried not to, I couldn't help myself, I was so hungry. Yes, I knew

his meat went into the soup and I ate it. I knew the salad was made with his oil. Iwanted to refuse it; I had such a longing for it, it wasn't I that ate it, it was aravenous beast within me."

"That's neither here nor there. You ate it.""With shame. With despair. They broke our strength first with their tanks

and their planes, and now when we're defenceless they're breaking our spirit bystarving us."

"You get nowhere by being theatrical, my girl. For an educated woman youhave really no sense. Forget the past and give a father to your child, to say nothingof a good workman for the farm who'll be worth two hired men. That is sense."

Annette shrugged her shoulders wearily and they lapsed into silence. Nextday Hans came. Annette gave him a sullen look, but neither spoke nor moved.Hans smiled.

"Thank you for not running away," he said."My parents asked you to come and they've gone down to the village. It suits

me because I want to have a definite talk with you. Sit down."He took off his coat and his helmet and drew a chair to the table."My parents want me to marry you. You've been clever; with your presents,

with your promises, you've got round them. They believe all they read in thepapers you bring them. I want to tell you that I will never marry you. I wouldn'thave thought it possible that I could hate a human being as I hate you."

"Let me speak in German. You understand enough to know what I'msaying."

"I ought to. I taught it. For two years I was governess to two little girls inStuttgart."

He broke into German, but she went on speaking French."It's not only that I love you, I admire you. I admire your distinction and

your grace. There's something about you I don't understand. I respect you. Oh, I

can see that you don't want to marry me now even if it were possible. But Pierre isdead."

"Don't speak of him," she cried violendy. "That would be the last straw.""I only want to tell you that for your sake I'm sorry he died.""Shot in cold blood by his German jailers.""Perhaps in time you'll grieve for him less. You know, when someone you

love dies, you think you'll never get over it, but you do. Won't it be better then tohave a father for your child?"

"Even if there were nothing else do you think I could ever forget that you area German and I'm a Frenchwoman? If you weren't as stupid as only a German canbe you'd see that that child must be a reproach to me as long as I live. Do you thinkI have no friends? How could I ever look them in the face with the child I had witha German soldier? There's only one thing I ask you; leave me alone with mydisgrace. Go, go - for God's sake go and never come again."

"But he's my child too. I want him.""You?" she cried in astonishment. "What can a by-blow that you got in a

moment of savage drunkenness mean to you?""You don't understand. I'm so proud and so happy. It was when I knew you

were going to have a baby that I knew I loved you. At first I couldn't believe it; itwas such a surprise to me. Don't you see what I mean? That child that's going to beborn means everything in the world to me. Oh, I don't know how to put it; it's putfeelings in my heart that I don't understand myself."

She looked at him intently and there was a strange gleam in her eyes. Youwould have said it was a look of triumph. She gave a short laugh.

"I don't know whether I more loathe the brutality of you Germans or despiseyour sentimentality."

He seemed not to have heard what she said."I think of him all the rime.""You've made up your mind it'll be a boy?""I know it'll be a boy. I want to hold him in my arms and I want to teach him

to walk. And then when he grows older I'll teach him all I know. I'll teach him toride and I'll teach him to shoot. Are there fish in your brook? I'll teach him to fish.I'm going to be the proudest father in the world."

She stared at him with hard, hard eyes. Her face was set and stern. An idea, aterrible idea was forming itself in her mind. He gave her a disarming smile.

"Perhaps when you see how much I love our boy, you'll come to love metoo. I'll make you a good husband, my pretty."

She said nothing. She merely kept on gazing at him sullenly."Haven't you one kind word for me?" he said.She flushed. She clasped her hands tighdy together."Others may despise me. I will never do anything that can make me despise

myself. You are my enemy and you will always be my enemy. I only live to see thedeliverance of France. It'll come, perhaps not next year or the year after, perhapsnot for thirty years, but it'll come. The rest of them can do what they like, I willnever come to terms with the invaders of my country. I hate you and I hate this

child that you've given me. Yes, we've been defeated. Before the end comes you'llsee that we haven't been conquered. Now go. My mind's made up and nothing onGod's earth can change it."

He was silent for a minute or two."Have you made arrangements for a doctor? I'll pay all the expenses.""Do you suppose we want to spread our shame through the whole

countryside? My mother will do all that's necessary.""But supposing there's an accident?""And supposing you mind your own business!"He sighed and rose to his feet. When he closed the door behind him she

watched him walk down the pathway that led to the road. She realized with ragethat some of the things he said had aroused in her heart a feeling that she had neverfelt for him before.

"O God, give me strength," she cried.Then, as he walked along, the dog, an old dog they'd had for years, ran up to

him barking angrily. He had tried for months to make friends with the dog, but ithad never responded to his advances; when he tried to pat it, it backed awaygrowling and showing its teeth. And now as the dog ran towards him, irritablygiving way to his feeling of frustration, Hans gave it a savage brutal kick and thedog was flung into the bushes and limped yelping away.

"The beast," she cried. "Lies, lies, lies. And I was weak enough to be almostsorry for him."

There was a looking-glass hanging by the side of the door and she looked atherself in it. She drew herself up and smiled at her reflection. But rather than asmile it was a finished grimace.

It was now March. There was a bustle of activity in the garrison at Soissons.There were inspections and there was intensive training. Rumour was rife. Therewas no doubt they were going somewhere, but the rank and file could only guesswhere. Some thought they were being got ready at last for the invasion of England,others were of opinion that they would be sent to the Balkans, and others againtalked of the Ukraine. Hans was kept busy. It was not till the second Sundayafternoon that he was able to get out to the farm. It was a cold grey day, with sleetthat looked as though it might turn to snow falling in sudden windy flurries. Thecountry was grim and cheerless.

"You!" cried Madame Perier when he went in. "We thought you were dead.""I couldn't come before. We're off any day now. We don't know when.""The baby was born this morning. It's a boy."Hans's heart gave a great leap in his breast. He hung his arms round the old

woman and kissed her on both cheeks."A Sunday child, he ought to be lucky. Let's open the bottle of champagne.

How's Annette?""She's as well as can be expected. She had a very easy time. She began to

have pains last night and by five o'clock this morning it was all over."

Old Perier was smoking his pipe sitting as near the stove as he could get. Hesmiled quiedy at the boy's enthusiasm.

"One's first child, it has an effect on one," he said."He has quite a lot of hair and it's as fair as yours; and blue eyes just like you

said he'd have," said Madame Perier. "I've never seen a lovelier baby. He'll be justlike his papa."

"Oh, my God, I'm so happy," cried Hans. "How beautiful the world is! Iwant to see Annette."

"I don't know if she'll see you. I don't want to upset her on account of themilk."

"No, no, don't upset her on my account. If she doesn't want to see me itdoesn't matter. But let me see the baby just for a minute."

"I'll see what I can do. I'll try to bring it down."Madame Perier went out and they heard her heavy tread clumping up the

stairs. But in a moment they heard her clattering down again. She burst into thekitchen.

"They're not there. She isn't in her room. The baby's gone."Perier and Hans cried out and without thinking what they were doing all

three of them scampered upstairs. The harsh light of the winter afternoon cast overthe shabby furniture, the iron bed, the cheap wardrobe, the chest of drawers, adismal squalor. There was no one in the room.

"Where is she?" screamed Madame Perier. She ran into the narrow passage,opening doors, and called the girl's name. "Annette, Annette. Oh, what madness!"

"Perhaps in the sitting-room."They ran downstairs to the unused parlour. An icy air met them as they

opened the door. They opened the door of a storeroom."She's gone out. Something awful has happened.""How could she have got out?" asked Hans sick with anxiety."Through the front door, you fool."Perier went up to it and looked."That's right. The bolt's drawn back.""Oh, my God, my God, what madness," cried Madame Perier; "It'll kill her.""We must look for her," said Hans. Instinctively, because that was the way

he always went in and out, he ran back into the kitchen and the others followedhim. "Which way?"

"The brook," the old woman gasped.He stopped as though turned to stone with horror. He stared at the old

woman aghast."I'm frightened," she cried. "I'm frightened."Hans flung open the door, and as he did so Annette walked in. She had

nothing on but her nightdress and a flimsy rayon dressing-gown. It was pink, withpale blue flowers. She was soaked, and her hair, dishevelled, clung damply to herhead and hung down her shoulders in bedraggled wisps. She was deathly white.Madame Perier sprang towards her and took her in her arms.

"Where have you been? Oh, my poor child, you're wet through. Whatmadness!"

But Annette pushed her away. She looked at Hans."You've come at the right moment, you.""Where's the baby?" cried Madame Perier."I had to do it at once. I was afraid if I waited I shouldn't have the courage.""Annette, what have you done?""I've done what I had to do. I took it down to the brook and held it under

water till it was dead."Hans gave a great cry, the cry of an animal wounded to death; he covered his

face with his hands, and staggering like a drunken man flung out of the door.Annette sank into a chair, and leaning her forehead on her two fists burst intopassionate weeping.

William Somerset Maugham Theatre

I

THE door opened and Michael Gosselyn looked up. Julia came in. "Hulloa! I won't keep you a minute. I was just signing some let-ters." "No hurry. I only came to see what seats had been sent to the Dennorants. What's that young man doing here?" With the experienced actress's instinct to fit the gesture to the word, by a movement of her neat head she indicated the room thro-ugh which she had just passed. "He's the accountant. He comes from Lawrence and Hamphreys. He's been here three days." "He looks very young." "He's an articled clerk. He seems to know his job. He can't get over the way our accounts are kept. He told me he never expected a theatre to be run on such businesslike lines. He says the way some of those firms in the city keep their accounts is enough to turn your hair grey." Julia smiled at the complacency on her husband's handsome face. "He's a young man of tact." "He finishes today. I thought we might take him back with us and give him a spot of lunch. He's quite a gentleman." "Is that a sufficient reason to ask him to lunch?" Michael did not notice the faint irony of her tone. "I won't ask him if you don't want him. I merely thought it would be a treat for him. He admires you tremendously. He's been to see the play three times. He's crazy to be introduced to you." Michael touched a button and in a moment his secretary came in. "Here are the letters, Margery. What appointments have I got for this afternoon?" Julia with half an ear listened to the list Margery read out and, though she knew the room so well, idly looked about her. It was a very proper room for the manager of a first-class theatre. The walls had been panelled (at cost price) by a good decorator and on them hung engravings of theatrical pictures by Zoffany and de Wilde. The armchairs were large and comfortable. Michael sat in a heavily car-ved Chippendale* chair, a reproduction but made by a well-known firm, and his Chippendale table, with heavy ball and claw feet, was immensely solid. On it stood in a massive silver frame a photograph of herself and to balance it a photograph of Roger, their son. Betwe-en these was a magnificent silver ink-stand that she had herself gi-

ven him on one of his birthdays and behind it a rack in red morocco, heavily gilt, in which he kept his private paper in case he wanted to write a letter in his own hand. The paper bore the address, Siddons Theatre, and the envelope his crest, a boar's head with the motto underneath: Nemo me impune lacessit.* A bunch of yellow tulips in a silver bowl, which he had got through winning the theatrical golf tournament three times running, showed Margery's care. Julia gave her a reflective glance. Notwithstanding her cropped peroxide hair and her heavily-painted lips she had the neutral look that marks the perfect secretary. She had been with Michael for five years. In that time she must have got to know him inside and out. Julia wondered if she could be such a fool as to be in love with him. But Michael rose from his chair. "Now, darling, I'm ready for you." Margery gave him his black Homburg* hat and opened the door for Julia and Michael to go out. As they entered the office the young man Julia had noticed turned round and stood up. "I should like to introduce you to Miss Lambert," said Michael. Then with the air of an ambassador presenting an attache to the so-vereign of the court to which he is accredited: "This is the gentle-man who is good enough to put some order into the mess we make of our accounts." The young man went scarlet. He smiled stiffly in answer to Julia's warm, ready smile and she felt the palm of his hand wet with sweat when she cordially grasped it. His confusion was touching. That was how people had felt when they were presented to Sarah Siddons. She thought that she had not been very gracious to Michael when he had proposed asking the boy to luncheon. She looked straight in-to his eyes. Her own were large, of a very dark brown, and starry. It was no eftort to her, it was as instinctive as brushing away a fly that was buzzing round her, to suggest now a faintly amused, friendly tenderness. "I wonder if we could persuade you to come and eat a chop with us. Michael will drive you back after lunch." The young man blushed again and his adam's apple moved in his thin neck. "It's awfully kind of you." He gave his clothes a troubled look. "I'm absolutely filthy." "You can have a wash and brush up when we get home." The car was waiting for them at the stage door, a long car in black and chromium, upholstered in silver leather, and with Micha-el's crest discreetly emblazoned on the doors. Julia got in. "Come and sit with me. Michael is going to drive." They lived in Stanhope Place, and when they arrived Julia told the butler to show the young man where he could wash his hands. She went up to the drawing-room. She was painting her lips when Micha-

el joined her. "I've told him to come up as soon as he's ready." "By the way, what's his name?" "I haven't a notion." "Darling, we must know. I'll ask him to write in our book." "Damn it, he's not important enough for that." Michael asked only very distinguished people to write in their book. "We shall never see him again." At that moment the young man appeared. In the car Julia had do-ne all she could to put him at his ease, but he was still very shy. The cocktails were waiting and Michael poured them out. Julia took a ci-garette and the young man struck a match for her, but his hand was trembling so much that she thought he would never be able to hold the light near enough to her cigarette, so she took his hand and held it. "Poor lamb," she thought, "I suppose this is the most wonderful moment in his whole life. What fun it'll be for him when he tells his people. I expect he'll be a blasted little hero in his office." Julia talked very differently to herself and to other people: when she talked to herself her language was racy. She inhaled the first whiff of her cigarette with delight. It was really rather wonderful, when you came to think of it, that just to have lunch with her and talk to her for three quarters of an hour, perhaps, could make a man quite important in his own scrubby little circle. The young man forced himself to make a remark. "What a stunning room this is." She gave him the quick, delightful smile, with a slight lift of her fi-ne eyebrows, which he must often have seen her give on the stage. "I'm so glad you like it." Her voice was rather low and ever so slightly hoarse. You would have thought his observation had taken a weight off her mind. "We think in the family that Michael has such perfect taste." Michael gave the room a complacent glance. "I've had a good deal of experience. I always design the sets myself for our plays. Of course, I have a man to do the rough work for me, but the ideas are mine." They had moved into that house two years before, and he knew, and Julia knew, that they had put it into the hands of an expensive decorator when they were going on tour, and he had agreed to have it completely ready for them, at cost price in return for the work they promised him in the theatre, by the time they came back. But it was unnecessary to impart such tedious details to a young man whose name even they did not know. The house was furnished in extremely good taste, with a judicious mixture of the antique and the modern, and Michael was right when he said that it was quite obviously a gentleman's house. Julia, however, had insisted that she

must have her bedroom as she liked, and having had exactly the bedroom that pleased her in the old house in Regent's Park which they had occupied since the end of the war she brought it over bo-dily. The bed and the dressing-table were upholstered in pink silk, the chaise-longue and the armchair in Nattier blue; over the bed there were fat little gilt cherubs who dangled a lamp with a pink sha-de, and fat little gilt cherubs swarmed all round the mirror on the dressing-table. On satinwood tables were signed photographs, richly framed, of actors and actresses and members of the royal family. The decorator had raised his supercilious eyebrows, but it was the only room in the house in which Julia felt completely at home. She wrote her letters at a satinwood desk, seated on a gilt Hamlet stool. Luncheon was announced and they went downstairs. "I hope you'll have enough to eat," said Julia. "Michael and I have very small appetites." In point of fact there was grilled sole, grilled cutlets and spinach, and stewed fruit. It was a meal designed to satisfy legitimate hun-ger, but not to produce fat. The cook, warned by Margery that there was a guest to luncheon had hurriedly made some fried potatoes. They looked crisp and smelt appetizing. Only the young man took them. Julia gave them a wistful look before she shook her head in re-fusal. Michael stared at them gravely for a moment as though he co-uld not quite tell what they were, and then with a little start, bre-aking out of a brown study, said No thank you. They sat at a refec-tory table, Julia and Michael at either end in very grand Italian cha-irs, and the young man in the middle on a chair that was not at all comfortable, but perfectly in character. Julia noticed that he seemed to be looking at the sideboard and with her engaging smile, leaned forward. "What is it?" He blushed scarlet. "I was wondering if I might have a piece of bread." "Of course." She gave the butler a significant glance; he was at that moment helping Michael to a glass of dry white wine, and he left the room. "Michael and I never eat bread. It was stupid of Jevons not to re-alize that you might want some." "Of course bread is only a habit," said Michael."It's wonderful how soon you can break yourself of it if you set your mind to it." "The poor lamb's as thin as a rail, Michael." "I don't eat bread not because I'm afraid of getting fat. I don't eat it because I see no point in it. After all, with the exercise I take I can eat anything I like." He still had at fifty-two a very good figure. As a young man, with a great mass of curling chestnut hair, with a wonderful skin and large deep blue eyes, a straight nose and small ears, he had been the

best-looking actor on the English stage. The only thing that slightly spoiled him was the thinness of his mouth. He was just six foot tall and he had a gallant bearing. It was his obvious beauty that had en-gaged him to go on the stage rather than to become a soldier like his father. Now his chestnut hair was very grey, and he wore it much shorter; his face had broadened and was a good deal lined; his skin no longer had the soft bloom of a peach and his colour was high. But with his splendid eyes and his fine figure he was still a very handso-me man. Since his five years at the war he had adopted a military bearing, so that if you had not known who he was (which was scar-cely possible, for in one way and another his photograph was always appearing in the illustrated papers) you might have taken him for an officer of high rank. He boasted that his weight had not changed sin-ce he was twenty, and for years, wet or fine, he had got up every morning at eight to put on shorts and a sweater and have a run ro-und Regent's Park. "The secretary told me you were rehearsing this morning, Miss Lambert," the young man remarked. "Does that mean you're putting on a new play?" "Not a bit of it," answered Michael. "We're playing to capacity." "Michael thought we were getting a bit ragged, so he called a re-hearsal." "I'm very glad I did. I found little bits of business had crept in that I hadn't given them and a good many liberties were being taken with the text. I'm a great stickler for saying the author's exact words, though, God knows, the words authors write nowadays aren't much." "If you'd like to come and see our play," Julia said graciously, "I'm sure Michael will be delighted to give you some seats." "I'd love to come again," the young man answered eagerly. "I've seen it three times already." "You haven't?" cried Julia, with surprise, though she remembered perfectly that Michael had already told her so. "Of course it's not a bad little play, it's served our purpose very well, but I can't imagine anyone wanting to see it three times." "It's not so much the play I went to see, it was your performance." "I dragged that out of him all right," thought Julia, and then aloud: "When we read the play Michael was rather doubtful about it. He didn't think my part was very good. You know, it's not really a star part. But I thought I could make something out of it. Of course we had to cut the other woman a lot in rehearsals." "I don't say we rewrote the play," said Michael, "but I can tell you it was a very different play we produced from the one the author submitted to us." "You're simply wonderful in it," the young man said. ("He has a certain charm.") "I'm glad you liked me," she answe-

red. "If you're very nice to Julia I dare say she'll give you a photograph of herself when you go." "Would you?" He blushed again and his blue eyes shone. ("He's really rather sweet.") He was not particularly good- looking, but he had a frank, open face and his shyness was attractive. He had curly light brown hair, but it was plastered down and Julia thought how much better he would look if, instead of trying to smooth out the wave with brilli-antine, he made the most of it. He had a fresh colour, a good skin and small well-shaped teeth. She noticed with approval that his clot-hes fitted and that he wore them well. He looked nice and clean. "I suppose you've never had anything to do with the theatre from the inside before?" she said. "Never. That's why I was so crazy to get this job. You can't think how it thrills me." Michael and Julia smiled on him kindly. His admiration made them feel a little larger than life-size. "I never allow outsiders to come to rehearsals, but as you're our accountant you almost belong to the theatre, and I wouldn't mind making an exception in your favour if it would amuse you to come." "That would be terribly kind of you. I've never been to a rehearsal in my life. Are you going to act in the next play?" "Oh, I don't think so. I'm not very keen about acting any more. I find it almost impossible to find a part to suit me. You see, at my ti-me of life I can't very well play young lovers, and authors don't se-em to write the parts they used to write when I was a young fellow. What the French call a raisonneur. You know the sort of thing I me-an, a duke, or a cabinet minister, or an eminent K.C.* who says cle-ver, witty things and turns people round his little finger. I don't know what's happened to authors. They don't seem able to write good li-nes any more. Bricks without straw; that's what we actors are ex-pected to make nowadays. And are they grateful to us? The authors, I mean. You'd be surprised if I told you the terms some of them have the nerve to ask." "The fact remains, we can't do without them," smiled Julia. "If the play's wrong no acting in the world will save it." "That's because the public isn't really interested in the theatre. In the great days of the English stage people didn't go to see the plays, they went to see the players. It didn't matter what Kemble and Mrs. Siddons acted. The public went to see them. And even now, though I don't deny that if the play's wrong you're dished, I do contend that if the play's right, it's the actors the public go to see, not the play." "I don't think anyone can deny that," said Julia. "All an actress like Julia wants is a vehicle. Give her that and she'll do the rest."

Julia gave the young man a delightful, but slightly deprecating smile. "You mustn't take my husband too seriously. I'm afraid we must admit that he's partial where I'm concerned." "Unless this young man is a much bigger fool than I think him he must know that there's nothing in the way of acting that you can't do." "Oh, that's only an idea that people have got because I take care never to do anything but what I can do." Presently Michael looked at his watch. "I think when you've finished your coffee, young man, we ought to be going." The boy gulped down what was left in his cup and Julia rose from the table. "You won't forget my photograph?" "I think there are some in Michael's den. Come along and we'll choose one." She took him into a fair-sized room behind the dining-room. Tho-ugh it was supposed to be Michael's private sitting-room - "a fellow wants a room where he can get away by himself and smoke his pi-pe" - it was ch iefly used as a cloak-room when they had guests. There was a noble mahogany desk on which were signed photog-raphs of George V and Queen Mary. Over the chimney-piece was an old copy of Lawrence's portrait of Kemble as Hamlet. On a small tab-le was a pile of typescript plays. The room was surrounded by bookshelves under which were cup-boards, and from one of these Julia took a bundle of her latest pho-tographs. She handed one to the young man. "This one is not so bad." "It's lovely." "Then it can't be as like me as I thought." "But it is. It's exactly like you." She gave him another sort of smile, just a trifle roguish; she lowe-red her eyelids for a second and then raising them gazed at him for a little with that soft expression that people described as her velvet look. She had no object in doing this. She did it, if not mechanically, from an instinctive desire to please. The boy was so young, so shy, he looked as if he had such a nice nature, and she would never see him again, she wanted him to have his money's worth; she wanted him to look back on this as one of the great moments of his life. She glanced at the photograph again. She liked to think she looked like that. The photographer had so posed her, with her help, as to show her at her best. Her nose was slightly thick, but he had managed by his lighting to make it look very delicate, not a wrinkle marred the smoothness of her skin, and there was a melting look in her fine eyes.

"All right. You shall have this one. You know I'm not a beautiful woman, I'm not even a very pretty one; Coquelin always used to say I had the beaute du diable.* You understand French, don't you?" "Enough for that." "I'll sign it for you." She sat at the desk and with her bold, flowing hand wrote: Yours sincerely, Julia Lambert.

2 WHEN the two men had gone she looked through the photog-raphs again before putting them back. "Not bad for a woman of forty-six," she smiled. "They are like me, there's no denying that." She looked round the room for a mirror, but there wasn't one. "These damned decorators. Poor Michael, no wonder he never uses this room. Of course I never have photograp-hed well." She had an impulse to look at some of her old photographs. Mic-hael was a tidy, business-like man, and her photographs were kept in large cardboard cases, dated and chronologically arranged. His were in other cardboard cases in the same cupboard. "When someone comes along and wants to write the story of our careers he'll find all the material ready to his hand," he said. With the same laudable* object he had had all their press cuttings from the very beginning pasted in a series of large books. There were photographs of Julia when she was a child, and pho-tographs of her as a young girl, photographs of her in her first parts, photographs of her as a young married woman, with Michael, and then with Roger, her son, as a baby. There was one photograph of the three of them, Michael very manly and incredibly handsome, herself all tenderness looking down at Roger with maternal feeling, and Roger a little boy with a curly head, which had been an enormo-us success. All the illustrated papers had given it a full page and they had used it on the programmes. Reduced to picture-postcard size it had sold in the provinces for years. It was such a bore that Roger when he got to Eton refused to be photographed with her any more. It seemed so funny of him not to want to be in the papers. "People will think you're deformed or something," she told him. "And it's not as if it weren't good form. You should just go to a first night and see the society people how they mob the photographers, cabinet ministers and judges and everyone. They may pretend they don't like it, but just see them posing when they think the camera-man's got his eye on them." But he was obstinate. Julia came across a photograph of herself as Beatrice. It was the only Shakespearean part she had ever played. She knew that she didn't look well in costume; she could never understand why, beca-

use no one could wear modern clothes as well as she could. She had her clothes made in Paris, both for the stage and for private life, and the dressmakers said that no one brought them more orders. She had a lovely figure, everyone admitted that; she was fairly tall for a woman, and she had long legs. It was a pity she had never had a chance of playing Rosalind, she would have looked all right in boy's clothes, of course it was too late now, but perhaps it was just as well she hadn't risked it. Though you would have thought, with her brilli-ance, her roguishness, her sense of comedy she would have been perfect. The critics hadn't really liked her Beatrice. It was that dam-ned blank verse. Her voice, her rather low rich voice, with that effec-tive hoarseness, which wrung your heart in an emotional passage or gave so much humour to a comedy line, seemed to sound all wrong when she spoke it. And then her articulation; it was so distinct that, without raising her voice, she could make you hear her every word in the last row of the gallery; they said it made verse sound like pro-se. The fact was, she supposed, that she was much too modern. Michael had started with Shakespeare. That was before she knew him. He had played Romeo at Cambridge, and when he came down, after a year at a dramatic school, Benson had engaged him. He to-ured the country and played a great variety of parts. But he realized that Shakespeare would get him nowhere and that if he wanted to become a leading actor he must gain experience in modern plays. A man called James Langton was running a repertory theatre at Mid-dlepool that was attracting a good deal of attention; and after Mic-hael had been with Benson for three years, when the company was going to Middlepool on its annual visit, he wrote to Langton and as-ked whether he would see him. Jimmie Langton, a fat, bald-headed, rubicund man of forty-five, who looked like one of Rubens' prospero-us burghers, had a passion for the theatre. He was an eccentric, ar-rogant, exuberant, vain and charming fellow. He loved acting, but his physique prevented him from playing any but a few parts, which was fortunate, for he was a bad actor. He could not subdue his natu-ral flamboyance, and every part he played, though he studied it with care and gave it thought, he turned into a grotesque. He broadened every gesture, he exaggerated every intonation. But it was a very different matter when he rehearsed his cast; then he would suffer nothing artificial. His ear was perfect, and though he could not pro-duce the right intonation himself he would never let a false one pass in anyone else. "Don't be natural," he told his company. "The stage isn't the place for that. The stage is make-believe. But seem natural." He worked his company hard. They rehearsed every morning from ten till two, when he sent them home to learn their parts and rest before the evening's performance. He bullied them, he scre-amed at them, he mocked them. He underpaid them. But if they pla-

yed a moving scene well he cried like a child, and when they said an amusing line as he wanted it said he bellowed with laughter. He wo-uld skip about the stage on one leg if he was pleased, and if he was angry would throw the script down and stamp on it while tears of ra-ge ran down his cheeks. The company laughed at him and abused him and did everything they could to please him. He aroused a pro-tective instinct in them, so that one and all they felt that they co-uldn't let him down. Though they said he drove them like slaves, and they never had a moment to themselves, flesh and blood co-uldn't stand it, it gave them a sort of horrible satisfaction to comply with his outrageous demands. When he wrung an old trooper's hand, who was getting seven pounds a week, and said, by God, lad-die, you're stupendous, the old trooper felt like Charles Kean. It happened that when Michael kept the appointment he had as-ked for, Jimmie Langton was in need of a leading juvenile. He had guessed why Michael wanted to see him, and had gone the night be-fore to see him play. Michael was playing Mercutio and he had not thought him very good, but when he came into the office he was staggered by his beauty. In a brown coat and grey flannel trousers, even without make-up, he was so handsome it took your breath away. He had an easy manner and he talked like a gentleman. While Michael explained the purpose of his visit Jimmie Langton observed him shrewdly. If he could act at all, with those looks that young man ought to go far. "I saw your Mercutio last night," he said. "What d'you think of it yourself?" "Rotten." "So do I. How old are you?" "Twenty-five." "I suppose you've been told you're good-looking?" "That's why I went on the stage. Otherwise I'd have gone into the army like my father." "By gum, if I had your looks what an actor I'd have been." The result of the interview was that Michael got an engagement. He stayed at Middlepool for two years. He soon grew popular with the company. He was good-humoured and kindly; he would take any amount of trouble to do anyone a service. His beauty created a sen-sation in Middlepool and the girls used to hang about the stage door to see him go out. They wrote him love letters and sent him flowers. He took it as a natural homage, but did not allow it to turn his head. He was eager to get on and seemed determined not to let any en-tanglement interfere with his career. It was his beauty that saved him, for Jimmie Langton quickly came to the conclusion that, not-withstanding his perseverance and desire to excel, he would never be more than a competent actor. His voice was a trifle thin and in moments of vehemence was apt to go shrill. It gave then more the

effect of hysteria than of passion. But his gravest fault as a juvenile lead was that he could not make love. He was easy enough in ordi-nary dialogue and could say his lines with point, but when it came to making protestations of passion something seemed to hold him back. He felt embarrassed and looked it. "Damn you, don't hold that girl as if she was a sack of potatoes," Jimmie Langton shouted at him. "You kiss her as if you were afraid you were standing in a draught. You're in love with that girl. You must feel that you're in love with her. Feel as if your bones were melting inside you and if an earthquake were going to swallow you up next minute, to hell with the earthquake." But it was no good. Notwithstanding his beauty, his grace and his ease of manner, Michael remained a cold lover. This did not prevent Julia from falling madly in love with him. For it was when he joined Langton's repertory company that they met. Her own career had been singularly lacking in hardship. She was born in Jersey, where her father, a native of that island, practised as a veterinary surgeon. Her mother's sister was married to a French-man, a coal merchant, who lived at St. Malo, and Julia had been sent to live with her while she attended classes at the local lycee. She le-arnt to speak French like a Frenchwoman. She was a born actress and it was an understood thing for as long as she could remember that she was to go on the stage. Her aunt, Madame Falloux, was "en relations" with an old actress who had been a societaire of the Co-medie Francaise and who had retired to St. Malo to live on the small pension that one of her lovers had settled on her when after many years of faithful concubinage they had parted. When Julia was a child of twelve this actress was a boisterous, fat old woman of more than sixty, but of great vitality, who loved food more than anything else in the world. She had a great, ringing laugh, like a man's, and she talked in a deep, loud voice, t was she who gave Julia her first lessons. She taught her all the arts that she had herself learnt at the Conservatoire and she talked to her of Reichenberg who had played ingenues till she was seventy, of Sarah Bernhardt and her golden voice, of Mounet-Sully and his majesty, and of Coquelin the greatest actor of them all. She recited to her the great tirades of Corneille and Racine as she had learnt to say them at the Francaise and ta-ught her to say them in the same way. It was charming to hear Julia in her childish voicerecite those languorous, passionate speeches of Phedre, emphasizing the beat of the Alexandrines and mouthing her words in that manner which is so artificial and yet so wonderfully dramatic. Jane Taitbout must always have been a very stagy act-ress, but she taught Julia to articulate with extreme distinctness, she taught her how to walk and how to hold herself, she taught her not to be afraid of her own voice, and she made deliberate that wonder-ful sense of timing which Julia had by instinct and which afterwards

was one of her greatest gifts. "Never pause unless you have a re-ason for it," she thundered, banging with her clenched fist on the table at which she sat, "but when you pause, pause as long as you can." When Julia was sixteen and went to the Royal Academy of Drama-tic Art in Gower Street she knew already much that they could teach her there. She had to get rid of a certain number of tricks that were out of date and she had to acquire a more conversational style. But she won every prize that was open to her, and when she was finis-hed with the school her good French got her almost immediately a small part in London as a French maid. It looked for a while as tho-ugh her knowledge of French would specialize her in parts needing a foreign accent, for after this she was engaged to play an Austrian waitress. It was two years later that Jimmie Langton discovered her. She was on tour in a melodrama that had been successful in Lon-don; in the part of an Italian adventuress, whose machinations were eventually exposed, she was trying somewhat inadequately to rep-resent a woman of forty. Since the heroine, a blonde person of ma-ture years, was playing a young girl, the performance lacked verisi-militude. Jimmie was taking a short holiday which he spent in going every night to the theatre in one town after another. At the end of the piece he went round to see Julia. He was well enough known in the theatrical world for her to be flattered by the compliments he paid her, and when he asked her to lunch with him next day she ac-cepted. They had no sooner sat down to table than he went straight to the point. "I never slept a wink all night for thinking of you," he said. "This is very sudden. Is your proposal honourable or dishonourab-le?" He took no notice of the flippant rejoinder. "I've been at this game for twenty-five years. I've been a call-boy, a stage-hand, a stage-manager, an actor, a publicity man, damn it, I've even been a critic. I've lived in the theatre since I was a kid just out of a board school, and what I don't know about acting isn't worth k