by W. Somerset Maugham

THE ROUND DOZEN

One November, in the early 1920s, I was very ill with influenza5. London is always cold and wet in winter. It is not a good place to stay after an illness. To get my strength back, I decided to go and stay for a few weeks at Elsom, a small seaside town in the South of England.

In the summer, lots of holiday-makers come to Elsom. Then the boarding houses⁵ are full and the restaurants and cafes are busy.

It is much quieter in winter, but there are always a few visitors. These are usually elderly people who are looking for peace and quiet and who find the cheaper prices in the winter months very attractive.

Whenever I visited Elsom, I always stayed at the Dolphin, a small hotel on the seafront⁵. I arrived at Elsom in the afternoon. After I had unpacked my case, I went for a walk. Clouds covered the sky and the flat sea was grey and cold.

No one was sitting on the seats on the seafront, but a few people were walking up and down. My heart sank³. Life suddenly seemed dull and empty. I walked back to the hotel, went to my room and sat down to read a book.

I was glad when it was time to go down for dinner. I went into the dining-room. The other guests of the hotel were already seated at their tables. There was a middle-aged lady sitting by herself and two elderly gentlemen at another table.

There were three other people sitting together in the dining-room: an old gentleman and two ladies. One of the ladies was old and probably the gentleman's wife. The other lady was younger and possibly his daughter. The older lady made me smile. She was dressed in the fashion of many years ago - a large black dress and a black bonnet.

The younger lady was sitting with her back to me and I could not see her face. But I noticed that she had long, brown hair which was neatly arranged on the back of her head. She wore a grey dress.

After a few moments, she turned her head and I was able to see her face. I was greatly surprised. She was very, very beautiful. Her nose was small and straight and her chin was perfectly shaped. The careful arrangement of her hair added to the beauty of her face.

When dinner was finished, the three of them stood up. The old lady walked straight out of the room, looking neither to the right nor to the left. The beautiful young lady followed her.

Then I got my greatest surprise. The beautiful lady was not young - she was quite old. She was wearing a simple grey dress which was rather old-fashioned². But it was not the kind of dress worn by an older person. It was the kind of dress worn by a girl. She was tall and graceful⁵. She was not a young woman. But when she was a young woman she must have been remarkably beautiful.

The gentleman stood up and followed the ladies. I had a good look at him. He was a small man, not nearly as tall as his wife. He had lots of curling grey hair. There was nothing unusual about him except his clothes, which were extremely old-fashioned.

When I had finished my dinner, I went out into the hall. I wanted to find out who these old-fashioned people were so I had a look in the visitors' book⁵. I saw their names: Mr and Mrs Edwin St Clair and Miss Porchester.

I asked the manageress who Mr St Clair was. She did not know much about him. She believed Mr St Clair worked in the City. I also learnt that Miss Porchester was their niece and not their daughter.

On my way upstairs to my room, 1 passed through the lounge. The three of them were sitting in a corner of the room. Mrs St Clair was knitting⁵, Miss Porchester was busy with embroidery⁵, and Mr St Clair was reading aloud in a quiet voice. As 1 passed by them, I realised that he was reading from Dickens' Bleak House.

The next day, I went for a walk. On my way back to the Dolphin, I sat down for a rest on one of the seats on the seafront. It was not quite so cold as the day before.

I noticed a man coming towards me. As he came nearer, I saw that he was rather a shabby little man. He wore a thin black coat and a shabby bowler hat. He looked cold and walked with his hands in his pockets.

As he walked past me, he gave me a quick look. He went on a few steps, stopped and turned back. When he came to the seat where I was sitting, he took his hands out of his pockets and greeted me by touching his hat.

I noticed that he was wearing shabby black gloves.

'Excuse me, sir,' he said, 'have you got a match?'

'Certainly.'

He sat down beside me and while I put my hand in my pocket for matches he looked in his pockets for cigarettes. He took out a small paper packet, opened it, and looked dismayed.

'Oh dear! How very annoying! I haven't got a cigarette left.'

'Have one of mine,' I replied, smiling.

I took out my cigarette case and offered him one. Sadly, he looked down at his boots, which were in need of repair. He was a tired-looking man with a long thin nose and pale blue eyes. I was not sure of his age. He could have been any age between thirty-five and sixty.

Although he was poor, he was clean and neat. He was trying hard to look respectable.

'Are you staying here long, sir?' he asked me.

'Ten days or a fortnight.'

'Is this your first visit to Elsom, sir?'

'I have been here before.'

'I know this town well, sir. There are very few seaside towns that I have not visited. Elsom is one of the best, sir. It's a highly respectable place. And I have a very happy memory of Elsom. I was married here in St Martin's Church.

'Really?' I said.

'It was a very happy marriage, sir.'

'I'm glad to hear it,' I replied.

'Nine months, that one lasted,' he said thoughtfully.

I immediately thought that this was a very strange remark. I had not wanted to listen to the sad story of his married life. But this strange remark - 'Nine months, that one lasted' - made me curious³. I waited to hear more. But I was disappointed. He sighed³ and sat staring in front of him without speaking. At last, I broke the silence.

'There aren't many people here,' I said.

'I like it like this. I'm not a person who likes crowds. As I said a moment ago, I've been to almost every seaside town in England. But I never go anywhere in the summer. It's the winter I like.'

'Don't you find it melancholy³?'

He turned towards me and put his black-gloved hand on my arm.

'It is melancholy. And that's what I like about it. Because it's melancholy, people find a little ray of sunshine very welcome.'

I could not understand this remark. It did not seem to make any sense at all so I did not reply. He took his hand away and got up.

'But I musn't keep you, sir. Pleased to have met you.'

He took off his shabby hat and bowed⁵ to me very politely. Then he walked slowly away. It was beginning to get cold so I got up and walked back to the Dolphin.

Later that day, I talked to the manageress and learnt a little more about Mr St Clair, his wife and niece. They stayed by themselves and did not mix with the other guests. I became quite interested in these three strange people who wore such old-fashioned clothes.

When I met them on the stairs, I bowed and received a polite bow in return. But they did not smile and they did not speak. Then one afternoon, when I was sitting in my room, the porter came to see me. Mr St Clair had sent him to ask me for a book. I told the porter to tell Mr St Clair that I was sorry. I did not have the book he wanted.

What a strange way of making a request, I thought. Why had Mr St Clair sent the porter? Why had he not come himself? They were most unusual people.

But this strange request gave me the chance I was looking for. That evening after dinner, I went into the lounge and spoke to Mr St Clair.

'I'm sorry I haven't got the book you wanted,' I said.

Mr St Clair was surprised that I had spoken to him.

'It does not matter,' he said.

But I was able then to start a conversation. We talked about writers and about books. Mr St Clair and his wife believed that things had changed for the worse since they were young. Since those days, people's behaviour had got worse and modern writers wrote improper² books.

This explained why they dressed in such old-fashioned clothes. Their clothes showed how they felt. They believed that people did not behave properly any more. Their clothes were old-fashioned; and so were their beliefs and attitudes².

During the conversation, Miss Porchester said that she had read some books by modern writers. Her aunt and uncle were surprised to hear that.

'But you said I could read any book I liked after I was thirty,' she said.

'Any book you like, my dear,' said Mrs St Clair, 'but not an improper book.'

'There is a difference, my dear Eleanor,' said Mr St Clair, 'between you reading any book you like and you reading a book that we do not approve of.'

I could not see this difference. But I said nothing. Did their niece, Miss Porchester, believe the same things as they did? As they talked, I began to wonder about this.

Next morning, as I was walking through a pretty lane in Elsom, I met Miss Porchester who was taking a walk. I bowed as I passed her and she blushed³. A few yards behind her I saw the funny, shabby little man with gloves. He touched his bowler hat.

'Excuse me, sir, could you let me have a match, please?' he said.

'Certainly,' I replied, 'but I'm afraid I have no cigarettes with me.'

'May I offer you one of mine?' he said, taking out the paper packet. It was empty, as before.

'Oh dear, I haven't got one either. How odd.'

He walked on and seemed to be hurrying. I began to have doubts about him. Was he following Miss Porchester? For a moment, I thought of going after him, but I did not. He was a very polite little man. I was sure he would not try to annoy Miss Porchester.

I saw him again that afternoon. I was sitting on the seafront. He walked towards me with little, short steps. He looked like a dried leaf being pushed along by the wind. This time he sat down beside me straightaway.

I did not wait for him to ask me for a match, but at once offered him a cigarette.

'How very kind of you, sir!'

He lit the cigarette and sat smoking and looking out at the sea. Then he turned to me once more.

'Excuse me, sir,' he said, 'but am I right in thinking that you are the well-known author?'

'I am an author,' I replied. 'But how did you know me?'

'I've seen your photograph in the newspapers,' he said. 'I suppose you don't know me?'

I looked at him again, a shabby little man in neat but shabby black clothes, with a long nose and pale blue eyes.

'I'm afraid I don't,' I said.

'I suppose I have changed a lot,' he sighed. 'There was a time when my photograph was on the front page of every newspaper.' He was silent for a while as he looked out over the cold, grey winter sea. Then he turned again towards me.

'It must be very interesting to be an author, sir,' he said. 'I have often thought that I would try writing myself. I believe I could write a book if I tried.

There are not many people who have lived the life I have lived,' he went on. 'I did write to one of the Sunday newspapers about it once, but they never answered my letter.

'Of course, you don't know who I am, sir, do you?' he continued.

'I'm afraid I don't.'

He sat for a moment, thinking of himself. He was trying to come to a decision. Then he turned to me and said with pride: 'I am the famous Mortimer Ellis.' 'Oh?'

I did not know what to say other than my very weak 'Oh?'. I was sure that I had never heard that name in my life before. I saw that he was deeply disappointed.

'Mortimer Ellis,' he repeated. 'You've never heard of me?' I had to confess that I had never heard of him. 'Fame never lasts,' he said bitterly. 'For weeks I was the most famous man in England. Look at me. You must have seen my photograph in the newspapers. Mortimer Ellis.' 'I'm sorry,' I said, shaking my head.

He paused for a moment to make what he had to say sound more important.

'I'm the well-known bigamist⁴. I've had eleven wives, sir.'

I did not know what to say. What do you say to someone who has just told you that he has been married to eleven women at the same time? I was speechless.

'Yes, I've had eleven wives, sir,' he repeated.

Finally, I managed to ask him the only question I could rhink of.

'But why did you stop at eleven?'

'I knew you would ask me that question,' he said quickly. The moment I saw you I knew that you were intelligent. Three, they say, is a lucky number. And so is nine. Ten is all right. But eleven! There's something wrong with eleven. It doesn't sound complete. That's my one regret in life. I should have liked to have made it twelve. That's the number I would have liked to have made it: the Round Dozen.'

I had to agree with him. There is something incomplete about eleven. In England, we never buy eleven eggs or nine eggs or even ten eggs: we buy eggs by the dozen: a round dozen.

The shabby little man searched in his inside pocket and brought out a thick, very greasy, pocket-book. From this, he took a large bundle of newspaper cuttings⁵. They were creased and dirty.

The cuttings were long. Many of them were from the front pages of the newspapers. He had been famous in his time. One was headed, "A Much Married Man"; another, "Heartless Scoundrel Punished".

I quickly looked through the report I was holding.

'I see you were sent to prison for five years.'

'Disgraceful, it was. It was the judge - he was to blame. But it didn't do him much good. He died a year later.'

'May I read them?' I asked him.

'Of course,' he replied. That's why I gave them to you. I want you to read them. And see what you think after you've read them. I'm sure that you'll agree that I was badly treated.'

As I read the newspaper cuttings, I understood why he knew the seaside towns of England so well. They were his hunting-grounds. He used to go to a seaside town in the winter when it was quiet. He would take a room in one of the empty boarding houses. He would then make friends with a woman who was a widow or a spinster⁴ and who was beginning to grow old. I noticed that all their ages were between thirty-five and fifty.

They had all said in court that they had met him first on the seafront. Within a fortnight of their meeting he had proposed marriage to them and they were married shortly after. Soon after their marriage, he would persuade them to give him any savings they had. Once he had their money, he left them, never to return.

They were all respectable women; one was the daughter of a doctor and another the daughter of a clergyman⁵. Their savings were usually between five hundred and a thousand pounds. And he had robbed them all.

The strange thing was that they all agreed that he had been an excellent husband. Not only did they ask for mercy to be shown to him, but one said that she was willing to have him back again. Quite remarkable!

I looked closely at the shabby little man who was sitting on the bench beside me.

'I hope you won't mind me asking,' I said, 'and I hope you don't think my question rude, but. . . why did they marry you?'

'Because I asked them,' he replied, surprised by my question.

I sat and thought about his strange life. Then I noticed that he was smiling.

'Now I understand what you mean by your question,' he said. 'You think that I am not handsome and women want to marry handsome men. No, no, sir, you're quite wrong. Women may like men with good looks, but they don't want to marry them.

'They think that good-looking men are not serious. What they want is a man who is serious. And the next thing they want is attention. I may not be handsome, but believe me, sir, I've got what every woman wants. And the proof is, I made all of my wives happy.

'Attention, sir, that's what women want. I never went out of the house without giving my wife a kiss. And I never came in without giving her another. And I never forgot to bring her a present - a box of chocolates or a bunch of flowers. I never worried about the expense.'

'Why should you?' I asked. 'It was her money you were spending.'

'And what's wrong with that? It's not the money you've spent on a present that's important, it's the fact that you've remembered to get one. That's what is important with women.'

I looked again at the newspaper cuttings which I was still holding.

'I'll tell you what surprises me,' I said. 'All these women were very respectable, older persons. And yet, after a very short friendship, they married you without finding out anything about you. Isn't that strange?'

'Not at all, sir. The fact is that a respectable middle-aged woman wants to be married. She'll do anything to get married. Eleven times! Why that's nothing. I could have been married thirty times if I'd wanted to.'

I gave him back his newspaper cuttings. He folded them up neatly and put them back in his greasy pocket-book.

'You know, sir, I don't believe I'm a bad man. People shouted and threw things at me when I was taken to prison. But did any of them ever ask themselves what I had done for those women?'

'You took their money.'

'Of course I took their money. I have to have money to live on the same as everybody else. But what did I give them in exchange? I'll tell you what I gave them in exchange. I gave them romance. Look at this place.'

He stretched out his arm and swung it round pointing to the sea, the sky, the boarding houses.

There are a hundred places like this in England. All dull and melancholy. Doesn't it make your heart sink? And think of all those women who come here. They hardly know anyone. They've just enough money to live on and that's all. They live their lives walking along one long seafront that goes on from one dull seaside town to another.

'Even in the summer there's nothing for them. They might as well be dead. And then I come along - a little ray of sunshine. I give them love and attention. I give them romance. I bring them change and excitement. You may think I'm a criminal - you're wrong. It's the opposite. Five years in prison, they gave me! They should have given me a medal for all the good I did for those women.'

He took out his empty cigarette packet and shook it sadly.

'Here, have one of mine,' I said.

He took a cigarette without a word.

'And what have I got out of it?' he went on after a short pause. 'Enough money to pay for a room in a cheap boarding house and some cigarettes. That's all. And now my pockets are empty.'

He looked at me sadly.

'I've never asked anyone for money in my life,' he said. 'But I was wondering if you could lend me a little. A pound would do, sir.' I had enjoyed listening to the bigamist's story. I thought it was worth a pound. I took out my pocket-book and pulled out a bank note.

'I suppose you couldn't make it two pounds, sir?'

I handed him a couple of pounds and he gave a little sigh as he took them.

'There's one thing I'd like you to explain to me,' I said as 1 put my pocket-book away. 'All those women gave you their savings. How did you persuade them to do that?'

'I promised them more, sir. Tell a woman that you know how to double their money, and she'll rush to hand it over to you. Greed, sir. Plain greed.'

One evening a few days later, I was having a drink with Mr St Clair and he told me the story of Miss Porchester. She had been engaged to be married to a nephew of Mr St Clair, a solicitor.

Then there was a scandal. They discovered that he was having an affair with the daughter of his laundress - the woman who washed his clothes.

'It was a terrible business,' said Mr St Clair. 'Terrible. But of course my niece did the right thing. She sent her cousin back the engagement ring, his letters and his photograph. It broke her heart³.'

'Miss Porchester is a remarkably handsome woman,' I said. 'When she was younger, she must have been very beautiful. Why didn't she marry someone else?'

'Yes, Miss Porchester was very beautiful. But she never loved anyone else except her cousin. She never speaks of him and it is now more than thirty years since she last saw him. But I am certain that she still loves him. She will never love another man.'

But Mr St Clair was wrong - quite wrong. You can never tell what a woman will do next. Mr St Clair had known Miss Porchester for many years. When her parents had died, Mr and Mrs St Clair had brought her up as their own child. But what did they really know about her? Very little, I'm afraid - as the rest of this story will make clear.

Two days after Mr St Clair had told me the sad story of Miss Porchester's life - a story that explained why Miss Porchester had never married - something terrible happened.

It was the afternoon and I had been out for a walk. When I returned to the Dolphin, I was met by the manageress who was very excited.

'Mr St Clair would like to see you immediately,' -she said. 'Would you go up to their room, number twenty-seven.'

'Certainly. But why?'

'Oh, something terrible has happened. They'll tell you all about it.'

I knocked at the door. I heard a voice telling me to come in.

I entered the room. Mrs St Clair was lying on the sofa with a handkerchief soaked in eau-de-cologne on her forehead. She was crying. Mr St Clair was standing in front of the fire.

'I'm sorry to have to ask you to come here,' he began. 'But we are in great distress³ and we thought you might be able to help us.' He was very upset.

'What has happened?'

'Our niece, Miss Porchester, has eloped.'

Mrs St Clair gave a loud cry. Mr St Clair went on with his story.

'This morning she told us she had a headache. She asked to be left alone in her room. This afternoon my wife went to see if there was anything she could do for her. The room was empty. All her clothes had gone and so had all her jewellery. There was a letter on the bed telling us what she had done.'

'I'm sorry,' I said. 'But I don't see how I can help you.' 'We thought that you were the only gentleman in Elsom that she knew.' Then I understood his meaning. 'It's not me,' I said. 'I haven't eloped with her.' 'Yes, I can see you haven't eloped with her. At first we thought perhaps . . . but, if it isn't you, who is it?' 'I'm sure I don't know.' 'I will never forgive her,' said Mr St Clair. 'But is there any reason why Miss Porchester should not get married?' I asked.

'At her age?' he answered angrily. 'It's ridiculous. Everyone will laugh at us. Do you know how old she is? She's fifty-one.'

'Fifty-four,' said Mrs St Clair.

'And who is this man she has married?' went on Mr St Clair. 'She must have been meeting him here in Elsom without us knowing anything about it. We don't even know his name. I fear that something terrible has happened to her.'

Suddenly I had an idea. That morning after breakfast, I had gone out to buy cigarettes and I had met Mortimer Ellis. I had not seen him for several days. His boots had been repaired and were shining brightly. His hat was brushed, he was wearing a shirt with a clean collar, and he had new gloves. I thought, at the time, that he had spent my two pounds very wisely.

Then I remembered something else. I remembered the time 1 had seen him walking behind Miss Porchester. Was it possible that they had been walking together and that he had stopped when they saw me? Suddenly I understood it all. 'Did Miss Porchester have some money of her own?' I asked.

'A little. She has three thousand pounds.' Suddenly Mrs St Clair sprang to her feet with a cry. 'Edwin, Edwin, what if he takes her away and doesn't marry her?' That would be a terrible scandal. It would kill me,' he cried. 'Don't be afraid,' I said. 'He'll marry her all right. He always does. He'll marry her in church.'

They must have thought I was mad. But I was certain now that I knew what had happened. Mortimer Ellis had succeeded. He had married Miss Porchester and made the Round Dozen.

Date: 2015-12-24; view: 1950