The Magician. Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 aperitifs, he will sit down in a café to do a sketch, with his hand so shaky that he can hardly hold a brush; he has to wait for a favourable moment, and then he makes a jab at the panel. And the immoral thing is that each of these little jabs is lovely. He’s the most delightful interpreter of Paris I know, and when you’ve seen his sketches—he’s done hundreds of unimaginable grace and feeling and distinction—you can never see Paris in the same way again.”

      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 poule au riz.”

      “Oh, but give me one moment, monsieur,” said the maid.

      “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.

      “Mais si, je vous aime, Monsieur Warren,” she cried, laughing, “Je vous aime tous, tous.”

      She ran downstairs, amid the shouts of men and women, to give her orders.

      “The other day the Chien Noir was the scene of a tragedy,” said Susie. “Marie broke off relations with her lover, who is a waiter at Lavenue’s, and would have no reconciliation. He waited till he had a free evening, and then came to the next room and ordered dinner. Of course, she was obliged to wait on him, and as she brought him each dish he expostulated with her, and they mingled their tears.”

      “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 La Semaine. At first it rather tickled me that the old lady should call him mon gendre, my son-in-law, and take the irregular union of her daughter with such a noble unconcern for propriety; but now it seems quite natural.”

      ​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 Chien Noir. He was very smartly dressed in ​a horsey way, and he walked with bow-legs, as though he spent most of his time in the saddle. He alone used scented pomade upon his neat smooth hair. His chief distinction was a greatcoat he wore, with a scarlet lining; and Warren, whose memory for names was defective, could only recall him by that peculiarity. But it was understood that he knew duchesses in fashionable streets, and occasionally he dined with them in solemn splendour.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ