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William Somerset Maugham
The Magician
Published by Good Press, 2020
EAN 4064066071028
Table of Contents
Chapter I
ARTHUR BURDON and Dr. Porhoët walked in silence. They had lunched at a restaurant in the Boulevard Saint Michel, and were sauntering now in the gardens of the Luxembourg. Dr. Porhoët walked with stooping shoulders, his hands behind him. He beheld the scene with the eyes of the many painters who have sought by means of the most charming garden in Paris to express their sense of beauty. The grass was scattered with the fallen leaves, but their wan decay served not to give a touch of nature to the artifice of all besides. The trees were neatly surrounded by bushes, and the bushes by trim beds of flowers. But the trees grew without abandonment, as though conscious of the decorative scheme they helped to form. It was autumn, and some were red and brown; but others were leafless already. Many of the flowers were withered. The garden, half desolate and half pretentious, reminded one of a light woman, no longer young, who sought, with faded finery, with powder and paint, to make a brave show of despair. It had those false, difficult smiles of uneasy gaiety, and the pitiful graces which attempt a fascination that the hurrying years have rendered vain.
Dr. Porhoët drew more closely round his fragile body the heavy cloak which even in summer he could not persuade himself to discard. The best part of his life had been spent in Egypt, in the practice of medicine, and the frigid summers of Europe scarcely warmed his blood. His memory flashed for an instant upon those multi-coloured streets of Alexandria; and then, like a homing bird, it flew to the green woods and the storm-beaten coasts of his native Brittany. His brown eyes were veiled with sudden melancholy.
“Let us wait here for a moment,” he said.
They took two straw-bottomed chairs and sat near the octagonal water which completes with its fountain of Cupids the enchanting artificiality of the Luxembourg. The sun shone more kindly now, and the trees which framed the scene were golden and lovely. A balustrade of stone gracefully enclosed the space, and the flowers, freshly bedded, were very gay. In one corner they could see the squat, quaint towers of Saint Sulpice, and on the other side the uneven roofs of the Boulevard Saint Michel.
The palace was grey and solid. Nurses, some in the white caps of their native province, others with the satin streamers of the
Dr. Porhoët spoke English fluently, with scarcely a trace of foreign accent, but with an elaboration which suggested that he had learned the language as much from study of the English classics as from conversation.
“And how is Miss Dauncey?” he asked, turning to his friend.
Arthur Burdon smiled.
“Oh, I expect she’s all right. I’ve not seen her to-day, but I’m going to tea at the studio this afternoon, and we want you to dine with us at the
“I shall be much pleased. But do you not wish to be by yourselves?”
“She met me at the station yesterday, and we dined together. We talked steadily from half-past six till midnight.”
“Or, rather, she talked and you listened with the delighted attention of a happy lover.”
Arthur Burdon had just arrived in Paris. He was a surgeon on the staff of St. Luke’s, and had come ostensibly to study the methods of the French operators; but his real object was certainly to see Margaret Dauncey. He was furnished with introductions from London surgeons of repute, and had already spent a morning at the Hôtel Dieu, where the operator, warned that his visitor was a bold and skilful surgeon, whose reputation in England was already considerable, had sought to dazzle him by feats that savored almost of legerdemain. Surgery was the only topic upon which Arthur Burdon could discourse with brilliancy. He was quick to discern another’s merit, and, though the hint of charlatanry in the Frenchman’s methods had not escaped his shrewd eyes, the audacious sureness of his hand had excited his enthusiasm. During luncheon he talked of nothing else, and Dr. Porhoët, drawing upon his memory, recounted the more extraordinary operations that he had witnessed in Egypt.
He had known Arthur Burdon ever since he was born, and indeed had missed being present at his birth only because the Khedive Ismail had summoned him unexpectedly to Cairo. But the Levantine merchant who was Arthur’s father had been his most intimate friend, and it was with singular pleasure that Dr. Porhoët saw the young man, on his advice, enter his own profession and achieve distinctions already which himself had never won.
Though too much interested in the characters of the persons whom chance threw in his path to have much ambition on his own behalf, it pleased him to see it in others. He observed with satisfaction the pride which Arthur took in his calling and the determination, backed by confidence and talent, to become a master of his art. Dr. Porhoët knew that a diversity of interests, though it adds charm to a man’s personality, tends to weaken him. To excel one’s fellows it is needful to be circumscribed. He did not regret, therefore, that Arthur in many ways was narrow. Letters and the arts meant little to him. Nor would he trouble himself with the graceful trivialities which make a man a good talker. In mixed company he was content to listen silently to others, and only something very definite to say could tempt him to join in the general conversation. He worked very hard, operating, dissecting, or lecturing at his hospital, and took pains to read every word, not only in English, but in French and German, which was published concerning his profession. Whenever he could snatch a free day he spent it on the golf-links of Sunningdale, for he was an eager and a fine player.
But at the operating-table Arthur was different. He was no longer the awkward man of social intercourse, who was sufficiently conscious of his limitations not to talk of what he did not understand, and sincere enough not to express admiration for what he did not like. Then, on the other hand, a singular exhilaration filled him; he was conscious of his power, and he rejoiced in it. No unforeseen accident was able to confuse him. He seemed to have a positive instinct for operating, and his hand and his brain worked in a manner that appeared almost automatic. He never hesitated, and he had no fear of failure. His success had been no less than his courage, and it was plain that soon his reputation with the public would equal that which he had already with the profession.
Dr. Porhoët had been making listless patterns with his stick upon the gravel, and now, with that charming smile of his, turned to Arthur.
“I never cease to be astonished at the unexpectedness of human nature,” he remarked. “It is really very surprising that a man like you should fall so deeply in love with a girl like Margaret Dauncey.”
Arthur made no reply, and Dr. Porhoët, fearing that his words might offend, hastened to explain.
“You know as well as I do that I think her a very charming young person. She has beauty and grace and sympathy. But your characters are more different than chalk and cheese. Notwithstanding your birth in the East and your boyhood spent amid the very scenes of the
“I see no harm in your saying insular,” smiled Arthur. “I confess that I have no imagination and no sense of humour. I am a plain, practical man, but I can see to the end of my nose with extreme clearness. Fortunately it is rather a long one.”
“One of my cherished ideas is that it is impossible to love without imagination.”
Again Arthur Burdon made no reply, but a curious look came into his eyes as he gazed in front of him. It was the look which might fill the passionate eyes of a mystic when he saw in ecstasy the Divine Lady of his constant prayers.
“But Miss Dauncey has none of that narrowness of outlook which, if you will forgive my saying so, is perhaps the secret of your strength. She has a delightful enthusiasm for every form of art. Beauty really means as much to her as bread and butter to the more soberly-minded. And she takes a passionate interest in the variety of life.”
“It is right that Margaret should care for beauty, since there is beauty in every inch of her,” answered Arthur.
He was too reticent to proceed to any analysis of his feelings; but he knew that he had cared for her first on account of that physical perfection which contrasted so astonishingly with the countless deformities in the study of which his life was spent. But one phrase escaped him almost against his will.
“The first time I saw her I felt as though a new world had opened to my ken.”
The divine music of Keats’s lines rang through Arthur’s remark, and to the Frenchman’s mind gave his passion a romantic note that foreboded future tragedy. He sought to dispel the cloud which his fancy had cast upon the most satisfactory of love affairs.
“You are very lucky, my friend. Miss Margaret admires you as much as you adore her. She is never tired of listening to my prosy stories of your childhood in Alexandria, and I’m quite sure that she will make you the most admirable of wives.”
“You can’t be more sure than I am,” laughed Arthur.
He looked upon himself as a happy man. He loved Margaret with all his heart, and he was confident in her great affection for him. It was impossible that anything should arise to disturb the pleasant life which they had planned together. His love cast a glamour upon his work, and his work, by contrast, made love the more entrancing.
“We’re going to fix the date of our marriage now,” he said. “I’m buying furniture already.”
“I think only English people could have behaved so oddly as you, in postponing your marriage without reason for two mortal years.”
“You see, Margaret was ten when I first saw her, and only seventeen when I asked her to marry me. She thought she had reason to be grateful to me and would have married me there and then. But I knew she hankered after these two years in Paris, and I didn’t feel it was fair to bind her to me till she had seen at least something of the world. And she seemed hardly ready for marriage; she was growing still.”
“Did I not say that you were a matter-of-fact young man?” smiled Dr. Porhoët.
“And it’s not as if there had been any doubt about our knowing our minds. We both cared, and we had a long time before us. We could afford to wait.”
At that moment a man strolled past them, a big stout fellow, showily dressed in a check suit; and he gravely took off his hat to Dr. Porhoët. The doctor smiled and returned the salute.
“Who is your fat friend?” asked Arthur.
“That is a compatriot of yours. His name is Oliver Haddo.”
“Art-student?” inquired Arthur, with the scornful tone he used when referring to those whose walk in life was not so practical as his own.
“Not exactly. I met him a little while ago by chance. When I was getting together the material for my little book on the old alchemists I read a great deal at the library of the Arsenal, which, you may have heard, is singularly rich in all works dealing with the occult sciences.”
Burdon’s face assumed an expression of amused disdain. He could not understand why Dr. Porhoët occupied his leisure with studies so profitless. He had read his book, recently published, on the more famous of the alchemists; and, though forced to admire the profound knowledge upon which it was based, he could not forgive the waste of time which his friend might have expended more usefully on topics of pressing moment.
“Not many people study in that library,” pursued the doctor, “and I soon knew by sight those who were frequently there. I saw this gentleman every day. He was immersed in strange old books when I arrived early in the morning, and he was reading them still when I left, exhausted. Sometimes it happened that he had the volumes I asked for, and I discovered that he was studying the same subjects as myself. His appearance was extraordinary, but scarcely sympathetic; so, though I fancied that he gave me opportunities to address him, I did not avail myself of them. One day, however, curiously enough, I was looking up some point upon which it seemed impossible to find authorities. The librarian could not help me, and I had given up the search, when this person brought me the very book I needed. I surmised that the librarian had told him of my difficulty. I was very grateful to the stranger. We left together that afternoon, and our kindred studies gave us a common topic of conversation. I found that his reading was extraordinarily wide, and he was able to give me information about works which I had never even heard of. He had the advantage over me that he could apparently read Hebrew as well as Arabic, and he had studied the Kabbalah in the original.”
“And much good it did him, I have no doubt,” said Arthur. “And what is he by profession?”
Dr. Porhoët gave a deprecating smile.
“My dear fellow, I hardly like to tell you. I tremble in every limb at the thought of your unmitigated scorn.”
“Well?”
“You know, Paris is full of queer people. It is the chosen home of every kind of eccentricity. It sounds incredible in this year of grace, but my friend Oliver Haddo claims to be a magician. I think he is quite serious.”
“Silly ass!” answered Arthur with emphasis.
Chapter II
MARGARET shared a flat near the Boulevard du Montparnasse with Susie Boyd; and it was to meet her that Arthur Burdon had arranged to come to tea that afternoon. The young women waited for him in the studio. The kettle was boiling on the stove; cups and
She had a great affection for Margaret, and though her own stock of enthusiasms was run low, she could enjoy thoroughly Margaret’s young enchantment in all that was exquisite. She was a plain woman; but there was no envy in her, and she took the keenest pleasure in Margaret’s comeliness. It was almost with maternal pride that she watched each year add a new grace to that exceeding beauty. But her common sense was sound, and she took care by good-natured banter to temper the praises which extravagant admirers at the drawing-class lavished upon the handsome girl both for her looks and for her talent. She was proud to think that she would hand over to Arthur Burdon a woman whose character she had helped to form, and whose loveliness she had cultivated with a delicate care.
Susie knew, partly from fragments of letters which Margaret read to her, partly from her conversation, how passionately he adored his bride; and it pleased her to see that Margaret loved him in return with a grateful devotion. The story of this visit to Paris touched her imagination. Margaret was the daughter of a country barrister, with whom Arthur had been in the habit of staying; and when he died, many years after his wife, Arthur found himself the girl’s guardian and executor. He sent her to school; saw that she had everything she could possibly want; and when, at seventeen, she told him of her wish to go to Paris and learn drawing, he at once consented. But though he never sought to assume authority over her, he suggested that she should not live alone, and it was on this account that she went to Susie. The preparations for the journey were scarcely made when Margaret discovered by chance that her father had died penniless, and she had lived ever since at Arthur’s entire expense. When she went to see him with tears in her eyes, and told him what she knew, Arthur was so embarrassed that it was quite absurd.
“But why did you do it?” she asked him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think it fair to put you under any obligation to me, and I wanted you to feel quite free.”
She could no longer restrain her tears. She was quite overwhelmed.
“Don’t be so silly,” he laughed. “You owe me nothing at all. I’ve done very little for you, and what I have done has given me a great deal of pleasure.”
“I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”
“Oh, don’t say that,” he cried. “It makes it so much harder for me to say what I want to.”
She looked at him quickly and reddened. Her deep blue eyes were veiled with tears.
“Don’t you know that I’d do anything in the world for you?” she cried.
“I don’t want you to be grateful to me, because I was hoping—I might ask you to marry me some day.”
Margaret laughed charmingly as she held out her hands.
“You must know that I’ve been wanting you to do that ever since I was ten.”
She was quite willing to give up her idea of Paris and be married without delay, but Arthur pressed her not to change her plans. At first Margaret vowed it was impossible to go, for she knew now that she had no money, and she could not let her lover pay.
“But what does it matter?” he said. “It’ll give me such pleasure to go on with the small allowance I’ve been making you. After all, I’m pretty well-to-do. My father left me a moderate income, and I’m making a good deal already by operating.”
“Yes, but it’s different now. I didn’t know before. I thought I was spending my own money.”
“If I died to-morrow every penny I have would be yours. We shall be married in two years, and we’ve known one another much too long to change our minds. I think that our lives are quite irrevocably united.”
Margaret wished very much to spend this time in Paris, and Arthur had made up his mind that in fairness to her they could not marry till she was nineteen. She consulted Susie Boyd, whose common-sense prevented her from paying much heed to romantic notions of false delicacy.
“My dear, you’d take his money without scruple if you’d signed your names in a church vestry, and as there’s not the least doubt that you’ll marry, I don’t see why you shouldn’t now. Besides, you’ve got nothing whatever to live on, and you’re equally unfitted to be a governess or a typewriter. So it’s Hobson’s choice, and you’d better put your exquisite sentiments in your pocket.”
Miss Boyd, by one accident after another, had never seen Arthur, but she had heard so much that she looked upon him already as an old friend. She admired him for his talent and strength of character as much as for his loving tenderness to Margaret. She had seen portraits of him, but Margaret said he did not photograph well. She had asked if he was good-looking.
“No, I don’t think he is,” answered Margaret, “but he’s very paintable.”
“That is an answer which has the advantage of sounding well and meaning nothing,” smiled Susie.
She believed privately that Margaret’s passion for the arts was a not unamiable pose which would disappear when she was happily married. To have half a dozen children was in her mind much more important than to paint pictures. Margaret’s talent was by no means despicable, but Susie was not convinced that callous masters would have been so enthusiastic if Margaret had been as plain and as old as herself.
Miss Boyd was thirty. Her busy life had not caused the years to pass easily, and she looked older. But she was one of those plain women whose plainness does not matter. A gallant Frenchman had to her face called her a
“My dear, you won’t draw any the worse for wearing a well-made corset, and to surround your body with bands of grey flannel will certainly not increase your talent.”
“But the fashion is so hideous,” smiled Margaret.
“Fiddlesticks! The fashion is always beautiful. Last year it was beautiful to wear a hat like a pork-pie tipped over your nose; and next year, for all I know, it will be beautiful to wear a bonnet like a sitz-bath at the back of your head. Art has nothing to do with a smart frock, and whether a high-heeled pointed shoe commends itself or not to the painters in the quarter, it’s the only thing in which a woman’s foot looks really nice.”
Susie Boyd vowed that she would not live with Margaret at all unless she let her see to the buying of her things.
“And when you’re married, for heaven’s sake ask me to stay with you four times a year, so that I can see after your clothes. You’ll never keep your husband’s affection if you trust to your own judgment.”
Miss Boyd’s reward had come the night before, when Margaret, coming home from dinner with Arthur, had repeated an observation of his.
“How beautifully you’re dressed!” he had said. “I was rather afraid you’d be wearing art-serges.”
“Of course you didn’t tell him that I insisted on buying every stitch you’d got on,” cried Susie.
“Yes, I did,” answered Margaret simply. “I told him I had no taste at all, but that you were responsible for everything.”
“That was the least you could do,” answered Miss Boyd.
But her heart went out to Margaret, for the trivial incident showed once more how frank the girl was. She knew quite well that few of her friends, though many took advantage of her matchless taste, would have made such an admission to the lover who congratulated them on the success of their costume.
There was a knock at the studio door, and Arthur came in.
“This is the fairy-prince,” said Margaret, bringing him to her friend.
“I’m glad to see you in order to thank you for all you’ve done for Margaret,” he smiled, taking the proffered hand.
Susie remarked that he looked upon her with friendliness, but with a certain vacancy, as though too much engrossed in his beloved really to notice anyone else: and she wondered how to make conversation with a man who was so manifestly absorbed. While Margaret busied herself with the preparations for tea, his eyes followed her movements with a doglike, touching devotion. They travelled from her smiling mouth to her deft hands. It seemed that he had never seen anything so ravishing as the way in which she bent over the kettle. Margaret felt that he was looking at her, and turned round. Their eyes met, and they stood for an appreciable time gazing at one another silently.
“Don’t be a pair of perfect idiots,” cried Susie gaily. “I’m dying for my tea.”
The lovers laughed and reddened. It struck Arthur that he should say something polite.
“I hope you’ll show me your sketches afterwards, Miss Boyd. Margaret says they’re awfully good.”
“You really needn’t think it in the least necessary to show any interest in me,” she replied bluntly.
“She draws the most delightful caricatures,” said Margaret. “I’ll bring you a horror of yourself, which she’ll do the moment you go out of the room.”
“Don’t be so spiteful, Margaret.”
Miss Boyd could not help thinking all the same that Arthur Burdon would caricature very well. Margaret was right when she said that he was not handsome, but his clean-shaven face was full of interest to so passionate an observer of her kind. The lovers were silent, and Susie had the conversation to herself. She chatted without pause and had the satisfaction presently of capturing their attention. Arthur seemed to become aware of her presence, and laughed heartily at her burlesque account of their fellow-students at Colarossi’s. Meanwhile Susie examined him. He was very tall and very thin. His frame had a Yorkshireman’s solidity, and his bones were massive. He missed being ungainly only through the serenity of his self-reliance. He had high cheek-bones and a long, lean face. His nose and his mouth were large, and his skin was sallow. But there were two characteristics which fascinated her, an imposing strength of purpose and a singular capacity for suffering. This was a man who knew his mind and was determined to achieve his desire; it refreshed her vastly after the extreme weakness of the young painters with whom of late she had mostly consorted. But those quick dark eyes were able to express an anguish that was hardly tolerable, and the mobile mouth had a nervous intensity which suggested that he might easily suffer the very agonies of woe.
Tea was ready, and Arthur stood up to receive his cup.
“Sit down,” said Margaret. “I’ll bring you everything you want, and I know exactly how much sugar to put in. It pleases me to wait on you.”
With the exquisite grace that marked all her movements she walked across the studio, the filled cup in one hand and the plate of cakes in the other. To Susie it seemed that he was overwhelmed with gratitude by Margaret’s condescension. His eyes were soft with indescribable tenderness as he took the sweetmeats she gave him. Margaret smiled with happy pride. For all her good-nature, Susie could not prevent the pang that wrung her heart; for she too was capable of love. There was in her a wealth of passionate affection that none had sought to find. None had ever whispered in her ears the charming nonsense that she read in books. She recognized that she had no beauty to help her, but once she had at least the charm of vivacious youth. That was gone now, and the freedom to go into the world had come too late; yet her instinct told her that she was made to be a decent man’s wife and the mother of children. She stopped in the middle of her bright chatter, fearing to trust her voice, but Margaret and Arthur were too much occupied to notice that she had ceased to speak. They sat side by side and enjoyed the happiness of one another’s company.
“What a fool I am!” thought Susie.
She had learnt long ago that common-sense, intelligence, good-nature, and strength of character were unimportant in comparison with a pretty face. She shrugged her shoulders.
“I don’t know if you young things realise that it’s growing late. If you want us to dine at the
“Very well,” said Arthur, getting up. “I’ll go back to my hotel and have a wash. We’ll meet at half-past seven.”
When Margaret had closed the door on him, she turned to her friend.
“Well, what do you think?” she asked, smiling.
“You can’t expect me to form a definite opinion of a man whom I’ve seen for so short a time.”
“Nonsense!” said Margaret.
Susie hesitated for a moment.
“I think he has an extraordinarily good face,” she said at last gravely. “I’ve never seen a man whose honesty of purpose was so transparent.”
Susie Boyd was so lazy that she could never be induced to occupy herself with household matters, and, while Margaret put the tea things away, she began to draw the caricature which every new face suggested to her. She made a little sketch of Arthur, abnormally lanky, with a colossal nose, with the wings and the bow and arrow of the God of Love, but it was not half done before she thought it silly. She tore it up with impatience. When Margaret came back into the studio she turned round and looked at her steadily.
“Well?” said the girl, smiling under the scrutiny.
She stood in the middle of the lofty studio. Half-finished canvases leaned with their faces against the wall; pieces of stuff were hung here and there, and photographs of well-known pictures. She had fallen unconsciously into a wonderful pose, and her beauty gave her, notwithstanding her youth, a rare dignity. Susie smiled mockingly.
“You look like a Greek goddess in a Paris frock,” she said.
“What have you to say to me?” asked Margaret, divining from the searching look that something was in her friend’s mind.
Susie stood up and went to her.
“You know, before I’d seen him I hoped with all my heart that he’d make you happy. Notwithstanding all you’d told me of him, I was afraid. I knew he was much older than you. He was the first man you’d ever known. I could scarcely bear to entrust you to him in case you were miserable.”
“I don’t think you need have any fear.”
“But now I hope with all my heart that you’ll make
Margaret did not answer; she could not understand what Susie meant.
“I’ve never seen anyone with such a capacity for wretchedness as that man has. I don’t think you can conceive how desperately he might suffer. Be very careful, Margaret, and be very good to him, for you have the power to make him more unhappy than any human being should be.”
“Oh, but I want him to be happy,” cried Margaret vehemently. “You know that I owe everything to him. I’d do all I could to make him happy, even if I had to sacrifice myself. But I can’t sacrifice myself, because I love him so much that all I do is pure delight.”
Her eyes filled with tears and her voice broke. Susie, with a little laugh that was half hysterical, kissed her.
“My dear, for heaven’s sake don’t cry! You know I can’t bear people who weep, and if he sees your eyes red, he’ll never forgive me.”
Chapter III
THE
The room was full when Arthur Burdon entered, but Margaret had kept him an empty seat between herself and Miss Boyd. Everyone was speaking at once, in French, at the top of his voice, and a furious argument was proceeding on the merit of the later impressionists. Arthur sat down, and was hurriedly introduced to a lanky youth, who sat on the other side of Margaret. He was very tall, very thin, very fair. He wore a very high collar and very long hair, and held himself like an exhausted lily.
“He always reminds me of an Aubrey Beardsley that’s been dreadfully smudged,” said Susie in an undertone. “He’s a nice, kind creature, but his name is Jagson. He has virtue and industry. I haven’t seen any of his work, but he has absolutely no talent.”
“How do you know, if you’ve not seen his pictures?” asked Arthur.
“Oh, it’s one of our conventions here that nobody has talent,” laughed Susie. “We suffer one another personally, but we have no illusions about the value of our neighbor’s work.”
“Tell me who everyone is.”
“Well, look at the little bald man in the corner. That is Warren.”
Arthur looked at the man she pointed out. He was a small person, with a pate as shining as a billiard-ball, and a pointed beard. He had protruding, brilliant eyes.
“Hasn’t he had too much to drink?” asked Arthur frigidly.
“Much,” answered Susie promptly; “but he’s always in that condition, and the further he gets from sobriety the more charming he is. He’s the only man in this room of whom you’ll never hear a word of evil. The strange thing is that he’s very nearly a great painter. He has the most fascinating sense of colour in the world, and the more intoxicated he is, the more delicate and beautiful is his painting. Sometimes, after more than the usual number of
The little maid who looked busily after the varied wants of the customers stood in front of them to receive Arthur’s order. She was a hard-visaged creature of mature age, but she looked neat in her black dress and white cap; and she had a motherly way of attending to these people, with a capacious smile of her large mouth which was full of charm.
“I don’t mind what I eat,” said Arthur. “Let Margaret order my dinner for me.”
“It would have been just as good as if I had ordered it,” laughed Susie.
They began a lively discussion with Marie as to the merits of the various dishes, and it was only interrupted by Warren’s hilarious expostulations.
“Marie, I precipitate myself at your feet, and beg you to bring me a
“Oh, but give me one moment,
“Do not pay any attention to that gentleman. His morals are detestable, and he only seeks to lead you from the narrow path of virtue.”
Arthur protested that on the contrary the passion of hunger occupied at that moment his heart to the exclusion of all others.
“Marie, you no longer love me,” cried Warren. “There was a time when you did not look so coldly upon me when I ordered a bottle of white wine.”
The rest of the party took up his complaint, and all besought her not to show too hard a heart to the bald and rubicund painter.
“
She ran downstairs, amid the shouts of men and women, to give her orders.
“The other day the
“She wept in floods,” interrupted a youth, with neatly brushed hair and a fat nose. “She wept all over our food, and we ate it salt with tears. We besought her not to yield; except for our encouragement she would have gone back to him; and he beats her.”
Marie appeared again, with no signs now that so short awhile ago romance had played at game with her, and brought the dishes that had been ordered. Susie seized once more upon Arthur Burdon’s attention.
“Now please look at the man who is sitting next to Mr. Warren.”
Arthur saw a tall, dark fellow with strongly-marked features, untidy hair, and a ragged black moustache.
“That is Mr. O’Brien, who is an example of the fact that strength of will and an earnest purpose cannot make a painter. He’s a failure and he knows it, and the bitterness has warped his soul. If you listen to him you’ll hear every painter of eminence come under his lash. He can forgive nobody who’s successful, and he never acknowledges merit in anyone till he’s safely dead and buried.”
“He must be a cheerful companion,” answered Arthur. “And who is the stout old lady by his side, with the flaunting hat?”
“That is the mother of Madame Rouge, the little pale-faced woman sitting next to her. She is the mistress of Rouge, who does all the illustrations for
The mother of Madame Rouge had the remains of beauty, and she sat bolt upright, picking the leg of a chicken with a dignified gesture. Arthur looked away quickly, for, catching his eye, she gave him an amorous glance. Rouge had more the appearance of a prosperous tradesman than of an artist; but he carried on with O’Brien, whose French was perfect, an argument on the merits of Cézanne. To one he was a great master and to the other an impudent charlatan. Each hotly repeated his opinion, as though the mere fact of saying the same thing several times made it much more convincing.
“Next to me is Madame Meyer,” proceeded Susie. “She was a governess in Poland, but she was much too pretty to remain one, and now she lives with the landscape painter who is by her side.”
Arthur’s eyes followed her words and rested on a clean-shaven man with a large quantity of grey, curling hair. He had a handsome face of a deliberately aesthetic type and was very elegantly dressed. His manner and his conversation had the flamboyance of the romantic thirties. He talked in flowing periods with an air of finality, and what he said was no less just than obvious. The gay little lady who shared his fortunes listened to his wisdom with a profound admiration that plainly flattered him.
Miss Boyd had described everyone to Arthur except young Raggles, who painted still life with a certain amount of skill, and Clayson, the American sculptor. Raggles stood for rank and fashion at the
Clayson had a vinous nose and a tedious habit of saying brilliant things. With his twinkling eyes, red cheeks, and fair, pointed beard, he looked exactly like a Franz Hals; but he was dressed like the caricature of a Frenchman in a comic paper. He spoke English with a Parisian accent.
Miss Boyd was beginning to tear him gaily limb from limb, when the door was flung open, and a large person entered. He threw off his cloak with a dramatic gesture.
“Marie, disembarrass me of this coat of frieze. Hang my sombrero upon a convenient peg.”
He spoke execrable French, but there was a grandiloquence about his vocabulary which set everyone laughing.
“Here is somebody I don’t know,” said Susie.
“But I do, at least, by sight,” answered Burdon. He leaned over to Dr. Porhoët, who was sitting opposite, quietly eating his dinner and enjoying the nonsense which everyone talked. “Is not that your magician?”
“Oliver Haddo,” said Dr. Porhoët, with a little nod of amusement.
The new arrival stood at the end of the room with all eyes upon him. He threw himself into an attitude of command and remained for a moment perfectly still.
“You look as if you were posing, Haddo,” said Warren huskily.
“He couldn’t help doing that if he tried,” laughed Clayson.
Oliver Haddo slowly turned his glance to the painter.
“I grieve to see, oh most excellent Warren, that the ripe juice of the
“Do you mean to say I’m drunk, sir?”
“In one gross, but expressive, word, drunk.”
The painter grotesquely flung himself back in his chair as though he had been struck a blow, and Haddo looked steadily at Clayson.
“How often have I explained to you, O Clayson, that your deplorable lack of education precludes you from the brilliancy to which you aspire?”
For an instant Oliver Haddo resumed his effective pose; and Susie, smiling, looked at him. He was a man of great size, two or three inches more than six feet high; but the most noticeable thing about him was a vast obesity. His paunch was of imposing dimensions. His face was large and fleshy. He had thrown himself into the arrogant attitude of Velasquez’s portrait of Del Borro in the Museum of Berlin; and his countenance bore of set purpose the same contemptuous smile. He advanced and shook hands with Dr. Porhoët.
“Hail, brother wizard! I greet in you, if not a master, at least a student not unworthy of my esteem.”
Susie was convulsed with laughter at his pompousness, and he turned to her with the utmost gravity.
“Madam, your laughter is more soft in mine ears than the singing of Bulbul in a Persian garden.”
Dr. Porhoët interposed with introductions. The magician bowed solemnly as he was in turn made known to Susie Boyd, and Margaret, and Arthur Burdon. He held out his hand to the grim Irish painter.
“Well, my O’Brien, have you been mixing as usual the waters of bitterness with the thin claret of Bordeaux?”
“Why don’t you sit down and eat your dinner?” returned the other, gruffly.
“Ah, my dear fellow, I wish I could drive the fact into this head of yours that rudeness is not synonymous with wit. I shall not have lived in vain if I teach you in time to realise that the rapier of irony is more effective an instrument than the bludgeon of insolence.”
O’Brien reddened with anger, but could not at once find a retort, and Haddo passed on to that faded, harmless youth who sat next to Margaret.
“Do my eyes deceive me, or is this the Jagson whose name in its inanity is so appropriate to the bearer? I am eager to know if you still devote upon the ungrateful arts talents which were more profitably employed upon haberdashery.”
The unlucky creature, thus brutally attacked, blushed feebly without answering, and Haddo went on to the Frenchman, Meyer, as more worthy of his mocking.
“I’m afraid my entrance interrupted you in a discourse. Was it the celebrated harangue on the greatness of Michael Angelo, or was it the searching analysis of the art of Wagner?”
“We were just going,” said Meyer, getting up with a frown.
“I am desolated to lose the pearls of wisdom that habitually fall from your cultivated lips,” returned Haddo, as he politely withdrew Madame Meyer’s chair.
He sat down with a smile.
“I saw the place was crowded, and with Napoleonic instinct decided that I could only make room by insulting somebody. It is cause for congratulation that my gibes, which Raggles, a foolish youth, mistakes for wit, have caused the disappearance of a person who lives in open sin; thereby vacating two seats, and allowing me to eat a humble meal with ample room for my elbows.”
Marie brought him the bill of fare, and he looked at it gravely.
“I will have a vanilla ice, oh well-beloved, and the wing of a tender chicken, a fried sole, and some excellent pea-soup.”
“
“But why should you serve them in that order rather than in the order I gave you?”
Marie and the two Frenchwomen who were still in the room, broke into exclamations at this extravagance, but Oliver Haddo waved his fat hand.
“I shall start with the ice, O Marie, to cool the passion with which your eyes inflame me, and then without hesitation I will devour the wing of a chicken in order to sustain myself against your smile. I shall then proceed to a fresh sole, and with the pea-soup I will finish a not unsustaining meal.”
Having succeeded in capturing the attention of everyone in the room, Oliver Haddo proceeded to eat these dishes in the order he had named. Margaret and Burdon watched him with scornful eyes, but Susie, who was not revolted by the vanity which sought to attract notice, looked at him curiously. He was clearly not old, though his corpulence added to his apparent age. His features were good, his ears small, and his nose delicately shaped. He had big teeth, but they were white and even. His mouth was large, with heavy, moist lips. He had the neck of a bullock. His dark, curling hair had retreated from the forehead and temples in such a way as to give his clean-shaven face a disconcerting nudity. The baldness of his crown was vaguely like a tonsure. He had the look of a very wicked, sensual priest. Margaret, stealing a glance at him as he ate, on a sudden violently shuddered; he affected her with an uncontrollable dislike. He lifted his eyes slowly, and she looked away, blushing as though she had been taken in some indiscretion. These eyes were the most curious thing about him. They were not large, but of an exceedingly pale blue, and they looked at you in a way that was singularly embarrassing. At first Susie could not discover in what precisely their peculiarity lay, but in a moment she found out: the eyes of most persons converge when they look at you, but Oliver Haddo’s, naturally or by a habit he had acquired for effect, remained parallel. It gave the impression that he looked straight through you and saw the wall beyond. It was quite uncanny. But another strange thing about him was the impossibility of telling whether he was serious. There was a mockery in that queer glance, a sardonic smile upon the mouth, which made you hesitate how to take his outrageous utterances. It was irritating to be uncertain whether, while you were laughing at him, he was not really enjoying an elaborate joke at your expense.
His presence cast an unusual chill upon the party. The French members got up and left. Warren reeled out with O’Brien, whose uncouth sarcasms were no match for Haddo’s bitter gibes. Raggles put on his coat with the scarlet lining and went out with the tall Jagson, who smarted still under Haddo’s insolence. The American sculptor paid his bill silently. When he was at the door Haddo stopped him.
“You have modelled lions at the Jardin des Plantes, my dear Clayson. Have you ever hunted them on their native plains?”
“No, I haven’t.”
Clayson did not know why Haddo asked the question, but he bristled with incipient wrath.
“Then you have not seen the jackals, gnawing at a dead antelope, scamper away in terror when the King of Beasts stalked down to make his meal.”
Clayson slammed the door behind him. Haddo was left with Margaret, and Arthur Burdon, Dr. Porhoët, and Susie. He smiled quietly.
“By the way, are
He turned on her his straight uncanny glance.
“I have no equal with big game. I have shot more lions than any man alive. I think Jules Gérard, whom the French of the nineteenth century called
This statement, made with the greatest calm, caused a moment of silence. Margaret stared at him with amazement.
“You suffer from no false modesty,” said Arthur Burdon.
“False modesty is a sign of ill-breeding, from which my birth amply protects me.”
Dr. Porhoët looked up with a smile of irony.
“I wish Mr. Haddo would take this opportunity to disclose to us the mystery of his birth and family. I have a suspicion that, like the immortal Cagliostro, he was born of unknown but noble parents, and educated secretly in Eastern palaces.”
“In my origin I am more to be compared with Denis Zachaire or with Raymond Lully. My ancestor, George Haddo, came to Scotland in the suite of Anne of Denmark, and when James I., her consort, ascended the English throne, he was granted the estates in Staffordshire which I still possess. My family has formed alliances with the most noble blood of England, and the Merestons, the Parnabys, the Hollingtons, have been proud to give their daughters to my house.”
“Those are facts which can be verified in works of reference,” said Arthur dryly.
“They can,” said Oliver.
“And the Eastern palaces in which your youth was spent, and the black slaves who waited on you, and the bearded sheikhs who imparted to you secret knowledge?” cried Dr. Porhoët.
“I was educated at Eton, and I left Oxford in 1896.”
“Would you mind telling me at what college you were?” said Arthur.
“I was at the House.”
“Then you must have been there with Frank Hurrell.”
“Now assistant physician at St. Luke’s Hospital. He was one of my most intimate friends.”
“I’ll write and ask him about you.”
“I’m dying to know what you did with all the lions you slaughtered,” said Susie Boyd.
The man’s effrontery did not exasperate her as it obviously exasperated Margaret and Arthur. He amused her, and she was anxious to make him talk.
“They decorate the floors of Skene, which is the name of my place in Staffordshire.” He paused for a moment to light a cigar. “I am the only man alive who has killed three lions with three successive shots.”
“I should have thought you could have demolished them by the effects of your oratory,” said Arthur.
Oliver leaned back and placed his two large hands on the table.
“Burkhardt, a German with whom I was shooting, was down with fever and could not stir from his bed. I was awakened one night by the uneasiness of my oxen, and I heard the roaring of lions close at hand. I took my carbine and came out of my tent. There was only the meagre light of the moon. I walked alone, for I knew natives could be of no use to me. Presently I came upon the carcass of an antelope, half-consumed, and I made up my mind to wait for the return of the lions. I hid myself among the boulders twenty paces from the prey. All about me was the immensity of Africa and the silence. I waited, motionless, hour after hour, till the dawn was nearly at hand. At last three lions appeared over a rock. I had noticed, the day before, spoor of a lion and two females.”
“May I ask how you could distinguish the sex?” asked Arthur, incredulously.
“The prints of a lion’s fore feet are disproportionately larger than those of the hind feet. The fore feet and hind feet of the lioness are nearly the same size.”
“Pray go on,” said Susie.
“They came into full view, and in the dim light, as they stood chest on, they appeared as huge as the strange beasts of the Arabian tales. I aimed at the lioness which stood nearest to me and fired. Without a sound, like a bullock felled at one blow, she dropped. The lion gave vent to a sonorous roar. Hastily I slipped another cartridge in my rifle. Then I became conscious that he had seen me. He lowered his head, and his crest was erect. His lifted tail was twitching, his lips were drawn back from the red gums, and I saw his great white fangs. Living fire flashed from his eyes, and he growled incessantly. Then he advanced a few steps, his head held low; and his eyes were fixed on mine with a look of rage. Suddenly he jerked up his tail, and when a lion does this he charges. I got a quick sight of his chest and fired. He reared up on his hind legs, roaring loudly and clawing at the air, fell back dead. One lioness remained, and through the smoke I saw her spring to her feet and rush towards me. Escape was impossible, for behind me were high boulders that I could not climb. She came on with hoarse, coughing grunts, and with desperate courage I fired my remaining barrel. I missed her clean. I took one step backwards in the hope of getting a cartridge into my rifle, and fell, scarcely two lengths in front of the furious beast. She missed me. I owed my safety to that fall. And then suddenly I found that she had collapsed. I had hit her after all. My bullet went clean through her heart, but the spring had carried her forwards. When I scrambled to my feet I found that she was dying. I walked back to my camp and ate a capital breakfast.”
Oliver Haddo’s story was received with astonished silence. No one could assert that it was untrue, but he told it with a grandiloquence that carried no conviction. Arthur would have wagered a considerable sum that there was no word of truth in it. He had never met a person of this kind before, and could not understand what pleasure there might be in the elaborate invention of improbable adventures.
“You are evidently very brave,” he said.
“To follow a wounded lion into thick cover is probably the most dangerous proceeding in the world,” said Haddo calmly. “It calls for the utmost coolness and for iron nerve.”
The answer had an odd effect on Arthur. He gave Haddo a rapid glance, and was seized suddenly with uncontrollable laughter. He leaned back in his chair and roared. His hilarity affected the others, and they broke into peal upon peal of laughter. Oliver watched them gravely. He seemed neither disconcerted nor surprised. When Arthur recovered himself, he found Haddo’s singular eyes fixed on him.
“Your laughter reminds me of the crackling of thorns under a pot,” he said.
Haddo looked round at the others. Though his gaze preserved its fixity, his lips broke into a queer, sardonic smile.
“It must be plain even to the feeblest intelligence that a man can only command the elementary spirits if he is without fear. A capricious mind can never rule the sylphs, nor a fickle disposition the undines.”
Arthur stared at him with amazement. He did not know what on earth the man was talking about. Haddo paid no heed.
“But if the adept is active, pliant, and strong, the whole world will be at his command. He will pass through the storm and no rain shall fall upon his head. The wind will not displace a single fold of his garment. He will go through fire and not be burned.”
Dr. Porhoët ventured upon an explanation of these cryptic utterances.
“These ladies are unacquainted with the mysterious beings of whom you speak,
“I didn’t know that you spoke figuratively,” said Arthur to Oliver Haddo.
The other shrugged his shoulders.
“What else is the world than a figure? Life itself is but a symbol. You must be a wise man if you can tell us what is reality.”
“When you begin to talk of magic and mysticism I confess that I am out of my depth.”
“Yet magic is no more than the art of employing consciously invisible means to produce visible effects. Will, love, and imagination are magic powers that everyone possesses; and whoever knows how to develop them to their fullest extent is a magician. Magic has but one dogma, namely, that the seen is the measure of the unseen.”
“Will you tell us what the powers are that the adept possesses?”
“They are enumerated in a Hebrew manuscript of the sixteenth century, which is in my possession. The privileges of him who holds in his right hand the Keys of Solomon and in his left the Branch of the Blossoming Almond, are twenty-one. He beholds God face to face without dying, and converses intimately with the Seven Genii who command the celestial army. He is superior to every affliction and to every fear. He reigns with all heaven and is served by all hell. He holds the secret of the resurrection of the dead, and the key of immortality.”
“If you possess even these you have evidently the most varied attainments,” said Arthur ironically.
“Everyone can make game of the unknown,” retorted Haddo, with a shrug of his massive shoulders.
Arthur did not answer. He looked at Haddo curiously. He asked himself whether he believed seriously these preposterous things, or whether he was amusing himself in an elephantine way at their expense. His manner was earnest, but there was an odd expression about the mouth, a hard twinkle of the eyes, which seemed to belie it. Susie was vastly entertained. It diverted her enormously to hear occult matters discussed with apparent gravity in this prosaic tavern. Dr. Porhoët broke the silence.
“Arago, after whom has been named a neighbouring boulevard, declared that doubt was a proof of modesty, which has rarely interfered with the progress of science. But one cannot say the same of incredulity, and he that uses the word impossible outside of pure mathematics is lacking in prudence. It should be remembered that Lactantius proclaimed belief in the existence of antipodes inane, and Saint Augustine of Hippo added that in any case there could be no question of inhabited lands.”
“That sounds as if you were not quite sceptical, dear doctor,” said Miss Boyd.
“In my youth I believed nothing, for science had taught me to distrust even the evidence of my five senses,” he replied, with a shrug of the shoulders. “But I have seen many things in the East which are inexplicable by the known processes of science. Mr. Haddo has given you one definition of magic, and I will give you another. It may be described merely as the intelligent utilisation of forces which are unknown, contemned, or misunderstood of the vulgar. The young man who settles in the East sneers at the ideas of magic which surround him, but I know not what there is in the atmosphere that saps his unbelief. When he has sojourned for some years among Orientals, he comes insensibly to share the opinion of many sensible men that perhaps there is something in it after all.”
Arthur Burdon made a gesture of impatience.
“I cannot imagine that however much I lived in Eastern countries, I could believe anything that had the whole weight of science against it. If there were a word of truth in anything Haddo says, we should be unable to form any reasonable theory of the universe.”
“For a scientific man you argue with singular fatuity,” said Haddo icily, and his manner had an offensiveness which was intensely irritating. “You should be aware that science, dealing only with the general, leaves out of consideration the individual cases that contradict the enormous majority. Occasionally the heart is on the right side of the body, but you would not on that account ever put your stethoscope in any other than the usual spot. It is possible that under certain conditions the law of gravity does not apply, yet you will conduct your life under the conviction that it does so invariably. Now, there are some of us who choose to deal only with these exceptions to the common run. The dull man who plays at Monte Carlo puts his money on the colours, and generally black or red turns up; but now and then zero appears, and then he loses. But we, who have backed zero all the time, win many times our stake. Here and there you will find men whose imagination raises them above the humdrum of mankind. They are willing to lose their all if only they have chance of a great prize. Is it nothing not only to know the future, as did the prophets of old, but by making it to force the very gates of the unknown?”
Suddenly the bantering gravity with which he spoke fell away from him. A singular light came into his eyes, and his voice was hoarse. Now at last they saw that he was serious.
“What should you know of that lust for great secrets which consumes me to the bottom of my soul!”
“Anyhow, I’m perfectly delighted to meet a magician,” cried Susie gaily.
“Ah, call me not that,” he said, with a flourish of his fat hands, regaining immediately his portentous flippancy. “I would be known rather as the Brother of the Shadow.”
“I should have thought you could be only a very distant relation of anything so unsubstantial,” said Arthur, with a laugh.
Oliver’s face turned red with furious anger. His strange blue eyes grew cold with hatred, and he thrust out his scarlet lips till he had the ruthless expression of a Nero. The gibe at his obesity had caught him on the raw. Susie feared that he would make so insulting a reply that a quarrel must ensue.
“Well, really, if we want to go to the fair we must start,” she said quickly. “And Marie is dying to be rid of us.”
They got up, and clattered down the stairs into the street.
Chapter IV
THEY came down to the busy, narrow street which led into the Boulevard du Montparnasse. Electric trams passed through it with harsh ringing of bells, and people surged along the pavements.
The fair to which they were going was held at the Lion de Belfort, not more than a mile away, and Arthur hailed a cab. Susie told the driver where they wanted to be set down. She noticed that Haddo, who was waiting for them to start, put his hand on the horse’s neck. On a sudden, for no apparent reason, it began violently to tremble. The trembling passed through the body and down its limbs till it shook from head to foot as though it had the staggers. The coachman jumped off his box and held the wretched creature’s head. Margaret and Susie got out of the carriage. It was a horribly painful sight. The horse seemed not to suffer from actual pain, but from an extraordinary fear. Though she knew not why an idea came to Susie.
“Take your hand away, Mr. Haddo,” she said sharply.
He smiled, and did as she bade him. At the same moment the trembling began to decrease, and in a moment the poor old cab-horse was in its usual state. It seemed a little frightened still, but otherwise recovered.
“I wonder what the deuce was the matter with it,” said Arthur.
Oliver Haddo looked at him with the blue eyes that seemed to see right through people, and then, lifting his hat, walked away. Susie turned suddenly to Dr. Porhoët.
“Do you think he could make the horse do that? It came immediately he put his hand on its neck and it stopped as soon as he took it away.”
“Nonsense!” said Arthur.
“It occurred to me that he was playing some trick,” said Dr. Porhoët gravely. “An odd thing happened once when he came to see me. I have two Persian cats, which are the most properly conducted of all their tribe. They spend their days in front of my fire, meditating on the problems of metaphysics. But as soon as he came in they started up and their fur stood right on end. Then they began to run madly round and round the room, as though the victims of uncontrollable terror. I opened the door, and they bolted out. I have never been able to understand exactly what took place.”
Margaret shuddered.
“I’ve never met a man who filled me with such loathing,” she said. “I don’t know what there is about him that frightens me. Even now I feel his eyes fixed strangely upon me. I hope I shall never see him again.”
Arthur gave a little laugh and pressed her hand. She would not let his go, and he felt that she was trembling. Personally he had no doubt about the matter. He would have no trifling with credibility. Either Haddo believed things that none but a lunatic could, or else he was a charlatan who sought to attract attention by his extravagances. In any case he was contemptible. It was certain, at all events, that neither he nor anyone else could work miracles.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Arthur. “If he really knows Frank Hurrell I’ll find out all about him. I’ll drop a note to Hurrell to-night and ask him to tell me anything he can.”
“I wish you would,” answered Susie, “because he interests me enormously. There’s no place like Paris for meeting queer folk. Sooner or later you run across persons who believe in everything. There’s no form of religion, there’s no eccentricity or enormity, that hasn’t its votaries. Just think what a privilege it is to come upon a man in the twentieth century who honestly believes in the occult.”
“Since I have been occupied with these matters I have come across strange people,” said Dr. Porhoët quietly, “but I agree with Miss Boyd that Oliver Haddo is the most extraordinary. For one thing it is impossible to know how much he really believes what he says. Is he an impostor or a madman? Does he deceive himself, or is he laughing up his sleeve at the folly of those who take him seriously? I cannot tell. All I know is that he has travelled widely and is acquainted with many tongues. He has a minute knowledge of alchemical literature, and there is no book I have heard of, dealing with the black arts, which he does not seem to know.” Dr. Porhoët shook his head slowly. “I should not care to dogmatise about this man. I know I shall outrage the feelings of my friend Arthur, but I am bound to confess it would not surprise me to learn that he possessed powers by which he was able to do things seemingly miraculous.”
Arthur was prevented from answering by their arrival at the Lion de Belfort.
The fair was in full swing. The noise was deafening. Steam bands thundered out the popular tunes of the moment, and to their din merry-go-rounds were turning. At the door of booths men vociferously importuned the passers-by to enter. From the shooting saloons came a continual spatter of toy rifles. Linking up these sounds were the voices of the serried crowd that surged along the central avenue, and the shuffle of their myriad feet. The night was lurid with acetylene torches, which flamed with a dull unceasing roar. It was a curious sight, half gay, half sordid. The throng seemed bent with a kind of savagery upon amusement, as though, resentful of the weary round of daily labour, it sought by a desperate effort to be merry.
The English party with Dr. Porhoët, mildly ironic, had scarcely entered before they were joined by Oliver Haddo. He was indifferent to the plain fact that they did not want his company. He attracted attention, for his appearance and his manner were remarkable, and Susie noticed that he was pleased to see people point him out to one another. He wore a Spanish cloak, the
They looked idly at the various shows, resisting the melodramas, the circuses, the exhibitions of eccentricity, which loudly clamoured for their custom. Presently they came to a man who was cutting silhouettes in black paper, and Haddo insisted on posing for him. A little crowd collected and did not spare their jokes at his singular appearance. He threw himself into his favourite attitude of proud command. Margaret wished to take the opportunity of leaving him, but Miss Boyd insisted on staying.
“He’s the most ridiculous creature I’ve ever seen in my life,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t let him out of my sight for worlds.”
When the silhouette was done he presented it with a low bow to Margaret.
“I implore your acceptance of the only portrait now in existence of Oliver Haddo,” he said.
“Thank you,” she answered, frigidly.
She was unwilling to take it, but had not the presence of mind to put him off by a jest, and would not be frankly rude. As though certain she set much store on it, he placed it carefully in an envelope. They walked on and suddenly came to a canvas booth on which was an Eastern name. Roughly painted on sail-cloth was a picture of an Arab charming snakes, and above were certain words in Arabic. At the entrance a native sat cross-legged, listlessly beating a drum. When he saw them stop, he addressed them in bad French.
“Does not this remind you of the turbid Nile, Dr. Porhoët?” said Haddo. “Let us go in and see what the fellow has to show.”
Dr. Porhoët stepped forward and addressed the charmer, who brightened on hearing the language of his own country.
“He is an Egyptian from Assiut,” said the doctor.
“I will buy tickets for you all,” said Haddo.
He held up the flap that gave access to the booth, and Susie went in. Margaret and Arthur Burdon, somewhat against their will, were obliged to follow. The native closed the opening behind them. They found themselves in a dirty little tent, ill-lit by two smoking lamps; a dozen stools were placed in a circle on the bare ground. In one corner sat a fellah woman, motionless, in ample robes of dingy black. Her face was hidden by a long veil, which was held in place by a queer ornament of brass in the middle of the forehead, between the eyes. These alone were visible, large and sombre, and the lashes were darkened with kohl: her fingers were brightly stained with henna. She moved slightly as the visitors entered, and the man gave her his drum. She began to rub it with her hands, curiously, and made a droning sound, which was odd and mysterious. There was a peculiar odour in the place, so that Dr. Porhoët was for a moment transported to the evil-smelling streets of Cairo. It was an acrid mixture of incense, of attar of roses, with every imaginable putrescence. It choked the two women, and Susie asked for a cigarette. The native grinned when he heard the English tongue. He showed a row of sparkling and beautiful teeth.
“My name Mohammed,” he said. “Me show serpents to Sirdar Lord Kitchener. Wait and see. Serpents very poisonous.”
He was dressed in a long blue gabardine, more suited to the sunny banks of the Nile than to a fair in Paris, and its colour could hardly be seen for dirt. On his head was the national tarboosh.
A rug lay at one side of the tent, and from under it he took a goatskin sack. He placed it on the ground in the middle of the circle formed by the seats, and crouched down on his haunches. Margaret shuddered, for the uneven surface of the sack moved strangely. He opened the mouth of it. The woman in the corner listlessly droned away on the drum, and occasionally uttered a barbaric cry. With a leer and a flash of his bright teeth, the Arab thrust his hand into the sack and rummaged as a man would rummage in a sack of corn. He drew out a long, writhing snake. He placed it on the ground and for a moment waited, then he passed his hand over it: it became immediately as rigid as a bar of iron. Except that the eyes, the cruel eyes, were open still there might have been no life in it.
“Look,” said Haddo. “That is the miracle which Moses did before Pharaoh.”
Then the Arab took a reed instrument, not unlike the pipe which Pan in the hills of Greece played to the dryads, and he piped a weird, monotonous tune. The stiffness broke away from the snake suddenly, and it lifted its head and raised its long body till it stood almost on the tip of its tail, and it swayed slowly to and fro.
Oliver Haddo seemed extraordinarily fascinated. He leaned forward with eager face, and his unnatural eyes were fixed on the charmer with an indescribable expression. Margaret drew back in terror.
“You need not be frightened,” said Arthur. “These people only work with animals whose fangs have been extracted.”
Oliver Haddo looked at him before answering. He seemed to consider each time what sort of man this was to whom he spoke.
“A man is only a snake-charmer because, without recourse to medicine, he is proof against the fangs of the most venomous serpents.”
“Do you think so?” said Arthur.
“I saw the most noted charmer of Madras die two hours after he had been bitten by a cobra,” said Haddo. “I had heard many tales of his prowess, and one evening asked a friend to take me to him. He was out when we arrived, but we waited, and presently, accompanied by some friends, he came. We told him what we wanted. He had been at a marriage-feast and was drunk. But he sent for his snakes, and forthwith showed us marvels which this man has never heard of. At last he took a great cobra from his sack and began to handle it. Suddenly it darted at his chin and bit him. It made two marks like pin-points. The juggler started back.
“ ‘I am a dead man,’ he said.
“Those about him would have killed the cobra, but he prevented them.
“ ‘Let the creature live,’ he said. ‘It may be of service to others of my trade. To me it can be of no other use. Nothing can save me.’
“His friends and the jugglers, his fellows, gathered round him and placed him in a chair. In two hours he was dead. In his drunkenness he had forgotten a portion of the spell which protected him, and so he died.”
“You have a marvellous collection of tall stories,” said Arthur. “I’m afraid I should want better proof that these particular snakes are poisonous.”
Oliver turned to the charmer and spoke to him in Arabic. Then he answered Arthur.
“The man has a horned viper, cerastes is the name under which you gentlemen of science know it, and it is the most deadly of all Egyptian snakes. It is commonly known as Cleopatra’s Asp, for that is the serpent which was brought in a basket of figs to the paramour of Caesar in order that she might not endure the triumph of Augustus.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Susie.
He smiled, but did not answer. He stepped forward to the centre of the tent and fell on his knees. He uttered Arabic words, which Dr. Porhoët translated to the others:
“O viper, I adjure you by the great God who is all powerful, to come forth. You are but a snake, and God is greater than all snakes. Obey my call and come.”
A tremor went through the goatskin bag, and in a moment a head was protruded. A lithe body wriggled out. It was a snake of a light grey colour, and over each eye was a horn. It lay slightly curled.
“Do you recognise it?” said Oliver in a low voice to the doctor.
“I do.”
The charmer sat motionless, and the woman in the dim background ceased her weird rubbing of the drum. Haddo seized the snake and opened its mouth. Immediately it fastened on his hand, and the reptile teeth went deep into his flesh. Arthur watched him for signs of pain, but he did not wince. The writhing snake dangled from his hand. He repeated a sentence in Arabic, and, with the peculiar suddenness of a drop of water falling from a roof, the snake fell to the ground. The blood flowed freely. Haddo spat upon the bleeding place three times, muttering words they could not hear, and three times he rubbed the wound with his fingers. The bleeding stopped entirely. He stretched out his hand for Arthur to look at.
“That surely is what a surgeon would call healing by first intention,” he said.
Burdon was astonished, but he was irritated, too, and would not allow that there was anything strange in the cessation of the flowing blood.
“You haven’t yet shown that the snake was poisonous.”
“I have not finished yet,” smiled Haddo.
He spoke again to the Egyptian, who gave an order to his wife. Without a word she rose to her feet and from a box took a white rabbit. She lifted it up by the ears, and it struggled with its four quaint legs. Haddo put it in front of the horned viper. Before anyone could have moved, the snake darted forward, and like a flash of lightning struck the rabbit. The wretched little beast gave a slight scream, a shudder went through it, and it fell dead.
Margaret sprang up with a cry.
“Oh, how cruel! How hatefully cruel!”
“Are you convinced now?” asked Haddo coolly.
The two women hurried to the doorway. They were frightened and disgusted. Oliver Haddo was left alone with the snake-charmer.
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