The Magician: Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Arthur Burdon and Dr Porho�t 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 Porho�t 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 little served 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 leafless already. Many of the flowers
were withered. The formal garden 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 Porho�t 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 _nounou_, marched
sedately two by two, wheeling perambulators and talking. Brightly dressed
children trundled hoops or whipped a stubborn top. As he watched them, Dr
Porho�t's lips broke into a smile, and it was so tender that his thin
face, sallow from long exposure to subtropical suns, was transfigured.
He no longer struck you merely as an insignificant little man with hollow
cheeks and a thin grey beard; for the weariness of expression which was
habitual to him vanished before the charming sympathy of his smile. His
sunken eyes glittered with a kindly but ironic good-humour. Now passed a
guard in the romantic cloak of a brigand in comic opera and a peaked cap
like that of an _alguacil_. A group of telegraph boys in blue stood round
a 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's
immortal romance. But the students now are uneasy with the fear of
ridicule, and more often they walk in bowler hats and the neat coats
of the _boulevardier_.

Dr Porho�t 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 today, but I'm going to
tea at the studio this afternoon, and we want you to dine with us at the
Chien 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 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 H�tel 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
savoured almost of legerdemain. Though the hint of charlatanry in the
Frenchman's methods had not escaped Arthur Burdon's shrewd eyes, the
audacious sureness of his hand had excited his enthusiasm. During
luncheon he talked of nothing else, and Dr Porho�t, 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 Isma�l 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 Porho�t saw the young man, on his advice, enter his
own profession and achieve a distinction 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 his confidence and
talent, to become a master of his art. Dr Porho�t 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 won with the profession.

Dr Porho�t 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 Porho�t, 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 Thousand and One
Nights, you are the most matter-of-fact creature I have ever come
across.'

'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
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 the 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
Porho�t.

'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 Porho�t.
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.'

Burden's face assumed an expression of amused disdain. He could not
understand why Dr Porho�t 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 Porho�t 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.

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