The Magician. Уильям Сомерсет Моэм
Margaret was arrayed always in the latest mode. The girl’s taste inclined to be artistic, and her sense of colour was apt to run away with her discretion. Except for the display of Susie’s firmness, she would scarcely have resisted her desire to wear nondescript garments of violent hue. But the older woman expressed herself with decision.
“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 Chien Noir, you must leave us now, so that we can make ourselves tidy.”
“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