William Maugham - Theatre

‘I know it doesn’t mean so much as when I was a girl, but after all he was born a gentleman.’

‘Oh, but some very nice people go on the stage nowadays, you know. It’s not like in the old days.’

‘No, I suppose not. I’m so glad he brought you down here. I was a little nervous about it. I thought you’d be made-up and… perhaps a little loud. No one would dream you were on the stage.’

(‘I should damn well think not. Haven’t I been giving a perfect performance of the village maiden for the last forty-eight hours?’)

The Colonel began to make little jokes with her and sometimes he pinched her ear playfully.

‘Now you mustn’t flirt with me, Colonel,’ she cried, giving him a roguish delicious glance. ‘Just because I’m an actress you think you can take liberties with me.’

‘George, George,’ smiled Mrs Gosselyn. And then to Julia: ‘He always was a terrible flirt.’

(‘Gosh, I’m going down like a barrel of oysters.’)

Mrs Gosselyn told her about India, how strange it was to have all those coloured servants, but how nice the society was, only army people and Indian civilians, but still it wasn’t like home, and how glad she was to get back to England.

They were to leave on Easter Monday because they were playing that night, and on Sunday evening after supper Colonel Gosselyn said he was going to his study to write letters; a minute or two later Mrs Gosselyn said she must go and see the cook. When they were left alone Michael, standing with his back to the fire, lit a cigarette.

‘I’m afraid it’s been very quiet down here; I hope you haven’t had an awfully dull time.’

‘It’s been heavenly.’

‘You’ve made a tremendous success with my people. They’ve taken an enormous fancy to you.’

‘God, I’ve worked for it,’ thought Julia, but aloud said: ‘How d’you know?’

‘Oh, I can see it. Father told me you were very ladylike, and not a bit like an actress, and mother says you’re so sensible.’

Julia looked down as though the extravagance of these compliments was almost more than she could bear. Michael came over and stood in front of her. The thought occurred to her that he looked like a handsome young footman applying for a situation. He was strangely nervous. Her heart thumped against her ribs.

‘Julia dear, will you marry me?’

For the last week she had asked herself whether or not he was going to propose to her, and now that he had at last done so, she was strangely confused.

‘Michael!’

‘Not immediately, I don’t mean. But when we’ve got our feet on the ladder. I know that you can act me off the stage, but we get on together like a house on fire, and when we do go into management I think we’d make a pretty good team. And you know I do like you most awfully. I mean, I’ve never met anyone who’s a patch on you.’

(‘The blasted fool, why does he talk all that rot? Doesn’t he know I’m crazy to marry him? Why doesn’t he kiss me, kiss me, kiss me? I wonder if I dare tell him I’m absolutely sick with love for him.’)

‘Michael, you’re so handsome. No one could refuse to marry you!’

‘Darling!’

(I’d better get up. He wouldn’t know how to sit down. God, that scene that Jimmie made him do over and over again!’)

She got on her feet and put up her face to his. He took her in his arms and kissed her lips.

‘I must tell mother.’

He broke away from her and went to the door. ‘Mother, mother!’

In a moment the Colonel and Mrs Gosselyn came in. They bore a look of happy expectancy.

(‘By God, it was a put-up job.’)

‘Mother, father, we’re engaged.’

Mrs Gosselyn began to cry. With her awkward, lumbering gait she came up to Julia, flung her arms round her, and sobbing, kissed her. The Colonel wrung his son’s hand in a manly way and releasing Julia from his wife’s embrace kissed her too. He was deeply moved. All this emotion worked on Julia and, though she smiled happily, the tears coursed down her cheeks. Michael watched the affecting scene with sympathy.

‘What d’you say to a bottle of pop to celebrate?’ he said. ‘It looks to me as though mother and Julia were thoroughly upset.’

‘The ladies, God bless ’em,’ said the Colonel when their glasses were filled.

JULIA now was looking at the photograph of herself in her wedding-dress.

‘Christ, what a sight I looked.’

They decided to keep their engagement to themselves, and Julia told no one about it but Jimmie Langton, two or three girls in the company and her dresser. She vowed them to secrecy and could not understand how within forty-eight hours everyone in the theatre seemed to know all about it. Julia was divinely happy. She loved Michael more passionately than ever and would gladly have married him there and then, but his good sense prevailed. They were at present no more than a couple of provincial actors, and to start their conquest of London as a married couple would jeopardize their chances. Julia showed him as clearly as she knew how, and this was very clearly indeed, that she was quite willing to become his mistress, but this he refused. He was too honourable to take advantage of her.

‘I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honour more,’ he quoted.

He felt sure that when they were married they would bitterly regret it if they had lived together before as man and wife. Julia was proud of his principles. He was a kind and affectionate lover, but in a very short while seemed to take her a trifle for granted; by his manner, friendly but casual, you might have thought they had been married for years. But he showed great good nature in allowing Julia to make love to him. She adored to sit cuddled up to him with his arm round her waist, her face against his, and it was heaven when she could press her eager mouth against his rather thin lips. Though when they sat side by side like that he preferred to talk of the parts they were studying or make plans for the future, he made her very happy. She never tired of praising his beauty. It was heavenly, when she told him how exquisite his nose was and how lovely his russet, curly hair, to feel his hold on her tighten a little and to see the tenderness in his eyes.

‘Darling, you’ll make me as vain as a peacock.’

‘It would be so silly to pretend you weren’t divinely handsome.’

Julia thought he was, and she said it because she liked saying it, but she said it also because she knew he liked to hear it. He had affection and admiration for her, he felt at ease with her, and he had confidence in her, but she was well aware that he was not in love with her. She consoled herself by thinking that he loved her as much as he was capable of loving, and she thought that when they were married, when they slept together, her own passion would excite an equal passion in him. Meanwhile she exercised all her tact and all her self-control. She knew she could not afford to bore him. She knew she must never let him feel that she was a burden or a responsibility. He might desert her for a game of golf, or to lunch with a casual acquaintance, she never let him see for a moment that she was hurt. And with an inkling that her success as an actress strengthened his feeling for her she worked like a dog to play well.

When they had been engaged for rather more than a year an American manager, looking for talent and having heard of Jimmie Langton’s repertory company, came to Middlepool and was greatly taken by Michael. He sent him round a note asking him to come to his hotel on the following afternoon. Michael, breathless with excitement, showed it to Julia; it could only mean that he was going to offer him a part. Her heart sank, but she pretended that she was as excited as he, and went with him next day to the hotel. She was to wait in the lobby while Michael saw the great man.