The Favorite Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham Read Online Free PDF

monotony, irritating to the nerves like the pitiless clamour of the pneumatic drill.
    “This must seem like home to you,” said Dr Macphail, with his thin, difficult smile.
    “Ours are low islands, you know, not like these. Coral. These are volcanic. We’ve got another ten days’ journey to reach them.”
    “In these parts that’s almost like being in the next street at home,” said Dr Macphail facetiously.
    “Well, that’s rather an exaggerated way of putting it, but one does look at distances differently in the South Seas. So far you’re right.”
    Dr Macphail sighed faintly.
    “I’m glad we’re not stationed here,” she went on. “They say this is a terribly difficult place to work in. The steamers’ touching makes the people unsettled; and then there’s the naval station; that’s bad for the natives. In our district we don’t have difficulties like that to contend with. There are one or two traders, of course, but we take care to make them behave, and if they don’t we make the place so hot for them they’re glad to go.”
    Fixing the glasses on her nose she looked at the green island with a ruthless stare.
    “It’s almost a hopeless task for the missionaries here. I can never be sufficiently thankful to God that we are at least spared that.”
    Davidson’s district consisted of a group of islands to the North of Samoa; they were widely separated and he had frequently to go long distances by canoe. At these times his wife remained at their headquarters and managed the mission. Dr Macphail felt his heart sink when he considered the efficiency with which she certainly managed it. She spoke of the depravity of the natives in a voice which nothing could hush, but with a vehemently unctuous horror. Her sense of delicacy was singular. Early in their acquaintance she had said to him:
    “You know, their marriage customs when we first settled in the islands were so shocking that I couldn’t possibly describe them to you. But I’ll tell Mrs Macphail and she’ll tell you.”
    Then he had seen his wife and Mrs Davidson, their deck-chairs close together, in earnest conversation for about two hours. As he walked past them backwards and forwards for the sake of exercise, he had heard Mrs Davidson’s agitated whisper, like the distant flow of a mountain torrent, and he saw by his wife’s open mouth and pale face that she was enjoying an alarming experience. At night in their cabin she repeated to him with bated breath all she had heard.
    “Well, what did I say to you?” cried Mrs Davidson, exultant next morning. “Did you ever hear anything more dreadful? You don’t wonder that I couldn’t tell you myself, do you? Even though you are a doctor.”
    Mrs Davidson scanned his face. She had a dramatic eagerness to see that she had achieved the desired effect.
    “Can you wonder that when we first went there our hearts sank? You’ll hardly believe me when I tell you it was impossible to find a single good girl in any of the villages.”
    She used the word good in a severely technical manner.
    “Mr Davidson and I talked it over, and we made up our minds the first thing to do was to put down the dancing. The natives were crazy about dancing.”
    “I was not averse to it myself when I was a young man,” said Dr Macphail.
    “I guessed as much when I heard you ask Mrs Macphail to have a turn with you last night. I don’t think there’s any real harm if a man dances with his wife, but I was relieved that she wouldn’t. Under the circumstances I thought it better that we should keep ourselves to ourselves.”
    “Under what circumstances?”
    Mrs Davidson gave him a quick look through her pince-nez, but did not answer his question.
    “But among white people it’s not quite the same,” she went on, “though I must say I agree with Mr Davidson, who says he can’t understand how a husband can stand by and see his wife in another man’s arms, and as far as I’m concerned I’ve never danced a step since I