The Magician. Уильям Сомерсет Моэм
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 petits fours stood in readiness on a model stand. Susie looked forward to the meeting with interest. She had heard a good deal of the young man, and knew that the connection between him and Margaret was not lacking in romance. For years Susie had led the monotonous life of a mistress in a school for young ladies, and had resigned herself to its dreariness for the rest of her days, when a legacy from a distant relative gave her sufficient income to live modestly upon her means. When Margaret, who had been her pupil, came, soon after this, to announce her intention of spending a couple of years in Paris to study art, Susie willingly agreed to accompany her. Since then she had worked industriously at Colarossi’s Academy, by no means under the delusion that she had talent, but merely to amuse herself. She refused to surrender the pleasing notion that her environment was slightly wicked. After the toil of many years it relieved her to be earnest in nothing; and she found infinite satisfaction in watching the lives of those around her.
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 belle laide, and, far from denying the justness of his observation, she had been almost flattered. Her mouth was large, and she had little round bright eyes. Her skin was colourless and much disfigured by freckles. Her nose was long and thin. But her face was so kindly, her vivacity so attractive that no one after ten minutes thought of her ugliness. You noticed then that her hair, though sprinkled with white, was abundant, and that her figure was exceedingly neat. Her teeth were exquisite. She had wonderful hands, very white and admirably formed, which she waved continually in the fervour of her gesticulation. Now that her means were adequate she took great pains with her dress, and her clothes, though they cost much more than she could afford, were always beautiful. Her taste was so great, her tact so sure that she was able to make the most of herself. She