A REALLY NICE STORY

Hawera & Normanby Star, Volume XLII, Issue 7464, 24 May 1902, Page 2 (Supplement)

A REALLY NICE STORY

(By William Somerset Maugham.)

I like Fanny for a dozen quite solid reasons, but" also" because^ she is -the living image of my Dresden Shepherdess^ Of course, , she pretends %t) object to being- told so; but no woman can really object to the. statement, that her complexion is like the finest porcelain, and' I notice that Fanny in her dress cultivates the style with great perseverance.

At costume balls she usually gets herself up in direct imitation of the figure upon my mantelpiece, dignifying herself, however, with the name of Madame de Pompadour; like many quite spotless, women, she has rather a passion for those members of her sex whose fame is not precisely due to their respectability. Similarly a man whose morals are irreproachable lends a piquancy to his' conversation by hinting that he is a perfect devil with the ladies; in both cases the real sinner takes gdod care to broaden his phylacteries,' and to invite a High Church parson whenever he gives a dinner party. If your character is as white as snow you may tell the world that you're no better than you should be; - but if there is a single speck of mud on it, for heaven's sake keep silent, and walk on the other side with the priest and the Levite when your friend gets into the divorce court.

Now, Fanny and I adore muffins, and in the winter months she often invites me to come and eat one with her.

"Wretch!" she said, when I appeared one afternoon to keep such an appointment. "I asked you for two days ago." I pulled out my watch. "I am a little late," I said apologetically; "but you have told me so often that you loathe punctual people." "I loathe the man who comes to dinner at the precise hour for which you've asked him; and then you have to hurl yourself into your clothes, j'Ou can't find anything, and you get frightfully hot, and when, finally, you've leaped at one bound down a flight of stairs, you come into tho room perfectly breathless, and as red as a turkey cock."

Fanny got so excited about the man who came to dinner as if he'd lived all his life in savage places that she quite forgot my particular transgression. The muffin to which I had been asked had gone the usual wav with muffins, but after an interval another appeared, and we ate it with the solemnity which befits such a dainty. Fanny, who has lately gone in for Imperialism, with great vigour, assured me that she always ate muffins now as being a peculiarly English product; she seemed to fancy that bread and butter savoured somehow of the Continent, and therefore of all iniquity. I hoped her principles would injure neither her digestion nor her figure; you cannot be a Dresden Shepherdess and portly!

"I'm so glad you came just at this minute," she remarked, gulping' down her third cup of tea. "I've just finished a novel, and I hate starting another immediately. You get so jumbled up."

"I suppose it is better not to read more than three a week," I politely | agreed. ji

Fanny is a perfectly omnivorous reader of fiction; the excellent Mr Mudie has no customer more constant — of course, she never dreams of buying a book — and she devours the spring and autumn outputs with in-, satiable appetite.

"Don't try to be sarcastic," she said,, in reply to my observation. "As a. matter of fact, I can easily get through an ordinary-sized book in, two days. I read 'Halsbeck of Bannisdale' in four."

"And 'The Christian'?"

"Oh, T haven't read it yet: T know, it's perfectly scandalous (not the book, of course — the fact of not hay-< ing read it), but I'm keeping it till I have a really bad cold. You know' the sort of cold I mean — when you can't see out of your eyes, and your nose is stuffed up and'you feel simply hopelessly idiotic."

"I wonder you think it needful to wait."

"I suppose that means that you think me always hopelessly idiotic. I wish you'd say things plainly."

"It means nothing of the sort," II 11I 1 protested. "I was only thinking that you must feel sadly behind the times."'

Rut Fanny was convinced that she knew my meaning better than myself. "You meant that T was a hopeless idiot — Oh, I don't mind; I know it's merely because I can't stand your books. Novelists are simply the vainest creatures in the world."

"I didn't know you were acquainted with any," I said, objecting- a little' to the boldness of a generalism upon a single instance.

But, of course, Fanny had the best of the argument.

"My dear boy, they have their photographs in very shop window and! paragraphs about themselves in every paper, which doesn't look as if they were very retiring."

She rattled out quite an imposing list of names.

"There was an awfully good skit upon them in a novel I read some' time, ago — by — T can't recollect the'

man's name."

Fanny never by nny chnnce remem-, hers the name of a hook or its au-' fhor, and a week after her very rapid ' pernsal has the vaguest idea even oft.

its| plot. * ' Sfie< defends", herself by say-in^.-that it'sVonly a novel, inferring •thpi Her nyjre earnest attention is devoted to solid reading 1 ; and ,the casual stranger, not knowing fh'at" by this she means the "Lady's Pic-toria-H*-"and*-the "Gentlewoman," imagines with some awe she studies the and the '"Genealogy bf *" neither of which, as a matter of fact, she has e\*er3i t e'arttnnrf.r "T

"Now, tell me," she said, breaking suddenly into a different topic, "are you still wasting your time in writing- novels? I d,o think it a pity that you don't do something 1 serious."

Fanny doesn't like my books, and •keeps them under lock and key, along with the ''Family Physician" and "Advice to a Mother." "And when you do write things," she went on, waiting for no answer, "no one can read them. Why don't 'you write something- like Anthony Hope?"

"1 wish I could," I replied. "I badly want a new carpet in my library." "Of course you can't say anything ■charitable' about another novelist. You pretend you never read novels."

"I pretend nothing- of the sort," I said. "I have the very greatest adJmiration for the 'Dolly Dialogues," and I wish to goodness I'd discovered •the Kingdom- of Ruritania." ' "Well, I'm very glad you didn't — ■ you'd have made everybody break the Ten Commandments, and I couldn't have given the book to my sister as a Christmas present." i Fanny thinks she can be as rude as ever she likes to me, and never dreams that, she is saying anything to hurt mj- little feelings. Sometimes, however, she has qualms of conscience.

"I don't wish to be too hard upon you," she said now, "but, you know, I do wish you'd write a really nice book." I regret to say that Fanny is somewhat addicted to sentiment. "Something," she added, "that'll please your wife to read."

"But I haven't got a wife," I objected.

"Something," she went on, "about decent people who wear nice clothes and get married at St. George's, Hanover Square."

I thought I saw my opportunity, for even the weekest worm will turn. "Something," I said thoughtfully, as I entertained the idea, "about the upper classes."

"If you choose to call them so — the sort of people who rustle when they walk about."

"1 confess I do like silk petticoats," I said.

"What ion earth have they got to do with it?" asked Fanny.

"My dear Fanny, you mast confess that you can't have an elegant rustle without a silk petticoat."

"I refuse to discuss the point," she said, blushing; "and even if it is so, it need not be referred to. That's what I complain of, you can never see a well-dressed woman "

"Without thinking that she's got a heart underneath, to say nothing of a nervous system, digestive organs and probably a beast of a temper."

My interruption rather nonplussed Fanny, and before she recovered I started of£ again, for I meant to give her at least a taste of a really nice story.

'•As a matter of fact, I'm thinking of doing a story more o» less of the sort yon like. D'you think this will be a good ibeginning? — 'It was Sunday afternoon, and Lady Hippolita Plantagenet, youngest daughter of the Duke of Gloucester, was sitting in the — I beg pardon — was reclining in the garden, listening to the sweet and homely chimes of the church bells.' Here I should put in a couple of pages about church bells." "The names are idiotic," said Fanny, "but you can change them. Go on."

" 'She was dressed in white muslin as pure and snowy as her soul.' " I said this with great unction.

"Men are the stupidest fools," broke in Fanny, rudely. "Imagine dressing a nice girl in plain white muslin at the end of the nineteenth century! If novelists weren't so eaten up with their own conceit they'd spend a year or two at a good dressmaker's, jxist to learn up their clothes."

I begged Fanny to pity my infirmity, and, out of her boundless knowledge, to help me. She gave me a long account of what Lady Hippolita really wore. It sounded very elegant and appropriate, and I promised to remember every word. .Then she "told me to go on, and I saw my story was proceeding on the right lines.

"You got to 'pure and snowy as her soul,' " she said.

"Oh, yes. 'She was as beautiful as the morning, and as fresh as the breeze in May. Her hair ' "

"Oh, you can leave out all that — you can't do it properly — and if you'd condescend to take my advice, you'd bring the man along quickly; that's what the novel reader wants."

"Pardon me," I said, "I must have the aristocratic aunt in first. 'Hippolita was staying with her aunt, the Dowager-Marchioness of Camberwell. This lady had in her veins some of the bluest blood in England; she was, in fact, a direct descendant of Charles. ll.' "

"I'm not sure if that's quite proper," said Fanny.

"For heaven's sake don't interrupt," T cried, "or I shall never get to the end of the third volume. 'And she was one of the few peeresses remain-

;,iag jtp. keep^a proper sensepf her own dignity. , v She wifts an aristocrat to the backbone, and even to the. most insignificant details of life she\carried her padbidh for distinction. Sh^ could not suffer anything menial, and her servants were nojt „ ordinary _ domestics, but lady's helps — her cook was the daughter of a clergyman in the Church of England.' "

"Do you know what you're talking* about?'/ asked Fanny. "Have you ever had dinner in a clergyman's house?" ; x , , "Frequently," I replied*, "for my sins. But you must recollect, that in very noble houses the cooking is always vile."

"Perhaps you are right in that," said Fanny, with an air as if she was in the habit of frequently dining with, duchesses.

" 'Imagine now- the distress of Lady Hippolita. She was in love, and her lover was only a common captain in the army.* "

This aroused Fanny's new Imperialism.

"I don't know why you call him a common captain; if he's in the army he must be a gentleman."

I took no notice of the interruption.

" 'But he hadn't a penny in the' world, and how could she listen to his advances? She had looked through Burke and the Landed Gentry, and his name was not to be found. 0, the humiliation of it! With her dainty jewelled hands she drew from -her pocket an exquisite cambric handkerchief and wiped away the tears that coursed down her cheeks liks transparent pearls.' " I saw that Fanny was rather touched, and I vowed that if she only gave me time the heroine and the noble aunt should weep gallons of tears upon one another's bosoms.

" 'The bells rang out across the pure summer air and reminded Hippolita that she must get ready for church; but she reproached herself bitterly for her frame of mind, she knew that she did not go to the peaceful and rustic church to hear the dear old rector preach one of his well-known sermons; he was a distant relative of hers and fifth son of Lord Peckham. Ah! she went only to see the love of her heart. But who was he? Brown! Brown — she had never heard the name. Awful! At that moment a lady's help stepped across the wellkept lawn and landed her a letter. It was from him. "Ravishing Hippolita," it began, "forgive me if I do not come to church this afternoon, but I have just had a letter from my consin, Lord Brixton/' Hippolita read no further — a piercing shriek issued from her ruby lips and rang through the pure air of the summer. She seized the Burke which was lying by her side.' "

Here I stood up, find with a magnificent gesture took, hold of the Blue Book.

" 'She rapidly turned the pages — she could hardly breathe.' " I acted the part with great effect. " 'Ash, heaven help me!' she cried. 'BrixtonBrown! I had forgotten the Brixtons were Browns. Thank heaven! then I am not disgraced; he's second cousin to an earl!' "

I paused for a mimite for effect; then I said: "That is the end of the first chapter."

But Fanny .had been looking at me for some minutes wi-fch a stony stare.

"Have you been laughing at me all the time?" she asked.

"Laughing at you! My dear Fanny, how can you imagine such a thing?"

"Yes, you have," she said with some temper. "You've simply been laughing at me."

"When did you find it out?" I inquired.

"I suppose you think you've been funnj'. You think it very clever to make an utter fool of me. You've trifled with all my temlerest emotion. You've sneered at tht House of Lords. You've laughed at the British army."

"Never!" I said.

Fanny's eyes passed to a portrait of Mr Rudyard Kipling which hung upon the wall, and she looked at it for encouragement.

"You've made insinvrs*«ms about the Church of England," she went on, indignantly.

"ISo, ho," I saifl; "oniy iibout its cooking, and you agreed with, me."

"I suppose you fhink yourself very clever."

"My dear Fanny :

-" I began.

"Don't try and excuse yourself. I'll never forgive you, and I shall never ask you here again. If you want my candid opinion I think the best thing you can do is ±o emigrate. I'm sure you're not wanted in England, and I think you are utterly immoral."

As a matter of fact, I did not at the moment greatly care what Fanny thought of me; my view of the matter was that I had distinctly the best of the argument. However, I sent her a box of marrous gkices, which she condescended to eat, notwithstanding the fact that they came from Paris, and shortly afterward she sent me full pardon for all my offences, and a piteous supplication to come t,o dinner in place of a man who had suddenly fallen ill.

I know the gentle reader expects me now delicately to hint that Fanny will shortly become my wedded wife, and I feel that some apology is due. to him for neglecting so obvious a conclusion. But the fact is that Fanny would never have married me even if I had asked her, and I couldn't do that because she has already one able-bodied .and very healthy husband. — "Black and White."