Chapter I

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Arthur Burdon and Dr Porhoet walked in silence. They had lunched at arestaurant in the Boulevard Saint Michel, and were sauntering now in thegardens of the Luxembourg. Dr Porhoet walked with stooping shoulders, hishands behind him. He beheld the scene with the eyes of the many painterswho have sought by means of the most charming garden in Paris to expresstheir sense of beauty. The grass was scattered with the fallen leaves,but their wan decay little served to give a touch of nature to theartifice of all besides. The trees were neatly surrounded by bushes,and the bushes by trim beds of flowers. But the trees grew withoutabandonment, as though conscious of the decorative scheme they helped toform. It was autumn, and some were leafless already. Many of the flowerswere withered. The formal garden reminded one of a light woman, no longeryoung, who sought, with faded finery, with powder and paint, to make abrave show of despair. It had those false, difficult smiles of uneasygaiety, and the pitiful graces which attempt a fascination that thehurrying years have rendered vain.Dr Porhoet drew more closely round his fragile body the heavy cloak whicheven in summer he could not persuade himself to discard. The best part ofhis life had been spent in Egypt, in the practice of medicine, and thefrigid summers of Europe scarcely warmed his blood. His memory flashedfor an instant upon those multi-coloured streets of Alexandria; and then,like a homing bird, it flew to the green woods and the storm-beatencoasts of his native Brittany. His brown eyes were veiled with suddenmelancholy.'Let us wait here for a moment,' he said.They took two straw-bottomed chairs and sat near the octagonal waterwhich completes with its fountain of Cupids the enchanting artificialityof the Luxembourg. The sun shone more kindly now, and the trees whichframed the scene were golden and lovely. A balustrade of stone gracefullyenclosed the space, and the flowers, freshly bedded, were very gay. Inone corner they could see the squat, quaint towers of Saint Sulpice, andon the other side the uneven roofs of the Boulevard Saint Michel.The palace was grey and solid. Nurses, some in the white caps of theirnative province, others with the satin streamers of the nounou, marchedsedately two by two, wheeling perambulators and talking. Brightly dressedchildren trundled hoops or whipped a stubborn top. As he watched them, DrPorhoet's lips broke into a smile, and it was so tender that his thinface, sallow from long exposure to subtropical suns, was transfigured.He no longer struck you merely as an insignificant little man with hollowcheeks and a thin grey beard; for the weariness of expression which washabitual to him vanished before the charming sympathy of his smile. Hissunken eyes glittered with a kindly but ironic good-humour. Now passed aguard in the romantic cloak of a brigand in comic opera and a peaked caplike that of an alguacil. A group of telegraph boys in blue stood rounda painter, who was making a sketch--notwithstanding half-frozen fingers.Here and there, in baggy corduroys, tight jackets, and wide-brimmed hats,strolled students who might have stepped from the page of Murger'simmortal romance. But the students now are uneasy with the fear ofridicule, and more often they walk in bowler hats and the neat coatsof the boulevardier.Dr Porhoet spoke English fluently, with scarcely a trace of foreignaccent, but with an elaboration which suggested that he had learned thelanguage 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 today, but I'm going totea at the studio this afternoon, and we want you to dine with us at theChien Noir.''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 talkedsteadily from half past six till midnight.''Or, rather, she talked and you listened with the delighted attention ofa happy lover.'Arthur Burdon had just arrived in Paris. He was a surgeon on the staff ofSt Luke's, and had come ostensibly to study the methods of the Frenchoperators; but his real object was certainly to see Margaret Dauncey. Hewas furnished with introductions from London surgeons of repute, and hadalready spent a morning at the Hotel Dieu, where the operator, warnedthat his visitor was a bold and skilful surgeon, whose reputation inEngland was already considerable, had sought to dazzle him by feats thatsavoured almost of legerdemain. Though the hint of charlatanry in theFrenchman's methods had not escaped Arthur Burdon's shrewd eyes, theaudacious sureness of his hand had excited his enthusiasm. Duringluncheon he talked of nothing else, and Dr Porhoet, drawing upon hismemory, recounted the more extraordinary operations that he had witnessedin Egypt.He had known Arthur Burdon ever since he was born, and indeed had missedbeing present at his birth only because the Khedive Ismail had summonedhim unexpectedly to Cairo. But the Levantine merchant who was Arthur'sfather had been his most intimate friend, and it was with singularpleasure that Dr Porhoet saw the young man, on his advice, enter hisown profession and achieve a distinction which himself had never won.Though too much interested in the characters of the persons whom chancethrew in his path to have much ambition on his own behalf, it pleased himto see it in others. He observed with satisfaction the pride which Arthurtook in his calling and the determination, backed by his confidence andtalent, to become a master of his art. Dr Porhoet knew that a diversityof interests, though it adds charm to a man's personality, tends toweaken 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 himselfwith the graceful trivialities which make a man a good talker. In mixedcompany he was content to listen silently to others, and only somethingvery 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 andGerman, which was published concerning his profession. Whenever he couldsnatch a free day he spent it on the golf-links of Sunningdale, for hewas an eager and a fine player.But at the operating-table Arthur was different. He was no longer theawkward man of social intercourse, who was sufficiently conscious of hislimitations not to talk of what he did not understand, and sincere enoughnot to express admiration for what he did not like. Then, on the otherhand, 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 andhis brain worked in a manner that appeared almost automatic. He neverhesitated, and he had no fear of failure. His success had been no lessthan his courage, and it was plain that soon his reputation with thepublic would equal that which he had already won with the profession.Dr Porhoet had been making listless patterns with his stick upon thegravel, 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 shouldfall so deeply in love with a girl like Margaret Dauncey.'Arthur made no reply, and Dr Porhoet, fearing that his words mightoffend, 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 moredifferent than chalk and cheese. Notwithstanding your birth in the Eastand your boyhood spent amid the very scenes of the Thousand and OneNights, you are the most matter-of-fact creature I have ever comeacross.''I see no harm in your saying insular,' smiled Arthur. 'I confess that Ihave 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. Fortunatelyit is rather a long one.''One of my cherished ideas is that it is impossible to love withoutimagination.'Again Arthur Burdon made no reply, but a curious look came into hiseyes as he gazed in front of him. It was the look which might fill thepassionate eyes of a mystic when he saw in ecstasy the Divine Lady ofhis constant prayers.'But Miss Dauncey has none of that narrowness of outlook which, if youforgive my saying so, is perhaps the secret of your strength. She has adelightful enthusiasm for every form of art. Beauty really means as muchto her as bread and butter to the more soberly-minded. And she takes apassionate interest in the variety of life.''It is right that Margaret should care for beauty, since there is beautyin every inch of her,' answered Arthur.He was too reticent to proceed to any analysis of his feelings; buthe knew that he had cared for her first on account of the physicalperfection which contrasted so astonishingly with the countlessdeformities in the study of which his life was spent. But one phraseescaped him almost against his will.'The first time I saw her I felt as though a new world had opened to myken.'The divine music of Keats's lines rang through Arthur's remark, and tothe Frenchman's mind gave his passion a romantic note that forebodedfuture tragedy. He sought to dispel the cloud which his fancy had castupon the most satisfactory of love affairs.'You are very lucky, my friend. Miss Margaret admires you as much as youadore her. She is never tired of listening to my prosy stories of yourchildhood in Alexandria, and I'm quite sure that she will make you themost 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 hisheart, and he was confident in her great affection for him. It wasimpossible that anything should arise to disturb the pleasant lifewhich they had planned together. His love cast a glamour upon hiswork, 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 buyingfurniture already.''I think only English people could have behaved so oddly as you, inpostponing your marriage without reason for two mortal years.''You see, Margaret was ten when I first saw her, and only seventeen whenI asked her to marry me. She thought she had reason to be grateful to meand would have married me there and then. But I knew she hankered afterthese two years in Paris, and I didn't feel it was fair to bind her to metill she had seen at least something of the world. And she seemed hardlyready for marriage, she was growing still.''Did I not say that you were a matter-of-fact young man?' smiled DrPorhoet.'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 towait.'At that moment a man strolled past them, a big stout fellow, showilydressed in a check suit; and he gravely took off his hat to Dr Porhoet.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 whenreferring 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 gettingtogether the material for my little book on the old alchemists I read agreat deal at the library of the Arsenal, which, you may have heard, issingularly rich in all works dealing with the occult sciences.'Burden's face assumed an expression of amused disdain. He could notunderstand why Dr Porhoet occupied his leisure with studies soprofitless. He had read his book, recently published, on the morefamous of the alchemists; and, though forced to admire the profoundknowledge upon which it was based, he could not forgive the waste oftime which his friend might have expended more usefully on topics ofpressing moment.'Not many people study in that library,' pursued the doctor, 'and Isoon knew by sight those who were frequently there. I saw this gentlemanevery day. He was immersed in strange old books when I arrived early inthe morning, and he was reading them still when I left, exhausted.Sometimes it happened that he had the volumes I asked for, and Idiscovered that he was studying the same subjects as myself. Hisappearance was extraordinary, but scarcely sympathetic; so, though Ifancied that he gave me opportunities to address him, I did not availmyself of them. One day, however, curiously enough, I was looking upsome point upon which it seemed impossible to find authorities. Thelibrarian could not help me, and I had given up the search, when thisperson brought me the very book I needed. I surmised that the librarianhad told him of my difficulty. I was very grateful to the stranger. Weleft together that afternoon, and our kindred studies gave us a commontopic of conversation. I found that his reading was extraordinarily wide,and he was able to give me information about works which I had nevereven heard of. He had the advantage over me that he could apparentlyread, Hebrew as well as Arabic, and he had studied the Kabbalah in theoriginal.''And much good it did him, I have no doubt,' said Arthur. 'And what is heby profession?'Dr Porhoet gave a deprecating smile.'My dear fellow, I hardly like to tell you. I tremble in every limb atthe thought of your unmitigated scorn.''Well?''You know, Paris is full of queer people. It is the chosen home of everykind of eccentricity. It sounds incredible in this year of grace, but myfriend Oliver Haddo claims to be a magician. I think he is quiteserious.''Silly ass!' answered Arthur with emphasis.