The Magician. Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

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      Oliver Haddo slowly turned his glance to the painter.

      “I grieve to see, oh most excellent Warren, that the ripe juice of the aperitif has glazed your sparkling eye.”

      “Do you mean to say I’m drunk, sir?”

      “In one gross, but expressive, word, drunk.”

      The painter grotesquely flung himself back in his chair as though he had been struck a blow, and Haddo looked steadily at Clayson.

      “How often have I explained to you, O Clayson, that your deplorable lack of education precludes you from the brilliancy to which you aspire?”

      For an instant Oliver Haddo resumed his effective pose; and Susie, smiling, looked at him. He was a man of great size, two or three inches more than six feet high; but the most noticeable thing about him was a vast obesity. His paunch was of imposing dimensions. His face was large and fleshy. He had thrown himself into the arrogant attitude of Velasquez’s portrait of Del Borro in the Museum of Berlin; and his countenance bore of set purpose the same contemptuous smile. He advanced and shook hands with Dr. Porhoët.

      ​“Hail, brother wizard! I greet in you, if not a master, at least a student not unworthy of my esteem.”

      Susie was convulsed with laughter at his pompousness, and he turned to her with the utmost gravity.

      “Madam, your laughter is more soft in mine ears than the singing of Bulbul in a Persian garden.”

      Dr. Porhoët interposed with introductions. The magician bowed solemnly as he was in turn made known to Susie Boyd, and Margaret, and Arthur Burdon. He held out his hand to the grim Irish painter.

      “Well, my O’Brien, have you been mixing as usual the waters of bitterness with the thin claret of Bordeaux?”

      “Why don’t you sit down and eat your dinner?” returned the other, gruffly.

      “Ah, my dear fellow, I wish I could drive the fact into this head of yours that rudeness is not synonymous with wit. I shall not have lived in vain if I teach you in time to realise that the rapier of irony is more effective an instrument than the bludgeon of insolence.”

      O’Brien reddened with anger, but could not at once find a retort, and Haddo passed on to that faded, harmless youth who sat next to Margaret.

      “Do my eyes deceive me, or is this the Jagson whose name in its inanity is so appropriate to the bearer? I am eager to know if you still devote upon the ungrateful arts talents which were more profitably employed upon haberdashery.”

      ​The unlucky creature, thus brutally attacked, blushed feebly without answering, and Haddo went on to the Frenchman, Meyer, as more worthy of his mocking.

      “I’m afraid my entrance interrupted you in a discourse. Was it the celebrated harangue on the greatness of Michael Angelo, or was it the searching analysis of the art of Wagner?”

      “We were just going,” said Meyer, getting up with a frown.

      “I am desolated to lose the pearls of wisdom that habitually fall from your cultivated lips,” returned Haddo, as he politely withdrew Madame Meyer’s chair.

      He sat down with a smile.

      “I saw the place was crowded, and with Napoleonic instinct decided that I could only make room by insulting somebody. It is cause for congratulation that my gibes, which Raggles, a foolish youth, mistakes for wit, have caused the disappearance of a person who lives in open sin; thereby vacating two seats, and allowing me to eat a humble meal with ample room for my elbows.”

      Marie brought him the bill of fare, and he looked at it gravely.

      “I will have a vanilla ice, oh well-beloved, and the wing of a tender chicken, a fried sole, and some excellent pea-soup.”

      “Bien, un potage, une sole, one chicken, and an ice.”

      “But why should you serve them in that order rather than in the order I gave you?”

      ​Marie and the two Frenchwomen who were still in the room, broke into exclamations at this extravagance, but Oliver Haddo waved his fat hand.

      “I shall start with the ice, O Marie, to cool the passion with which your eyes inflame me, and then without hesitation I will devour the wing of a chicken in order to sustain myself against your smile. I shall then proceed to a fresh sole, and with the pea-soup I will finish a not unsustaining meal.”

      Having succeeded in capturing the attention of everyone in the room, Oliver Haddo proceeded to eat these dishes in the order he had named. Margaret and Burdon watched him with scornful eyes, but Susie, who was not revolted by the vanity which sought to attract notice, looked at him curiously. He was clearly not old, though his corpulence added to his apparent age. His features were good, his ears small, and his nose delicately shaped. He had big teeth, but they were white and even. His mouth was large, with heavy, moist lips. He had the neck of a bullock. His dark, curling hair had retreated from the forehead and temples in such a way as to give his clean-shaven face a disconcerting nudity. The baldness of his crown was vaguely like a tonsure. He had the look of a very wicked, sensual priest. Margaret, stealing a glance at him as he ate, on a sudden violently shuddered; he affected her with an uncontrollable dislike. He lifted his eyes slowly, and she looked away, blushing as though she had been taken in some indiscretion. These eyes were the most curious thing about him. They were not large, but of an exceedingly pale blue, and they ​looked at you in a way that was singularly embarrassing. At first Susie could not discover in what precisely their peculiarity lay, but in a moment she found out: the eyes of most persons converge when they look at you, but Oliver Haddo’s, naturally or by a habit he had acquired for effect, remained parallel. It gave the impression that he looked straight through you and saw the wall beyond. It was quite uncanny. But another strange thing about him was the impossibility of telling whether he was serious. There was a mockery in that queer glance, a sardonic smile upon the mouth, which made you hesitate how to take his outrageous utterances. It was irritating to be uncertain whether, while you were laughing at him, he was not really enjoying an elaborate joke at your expense.

      His presence cast an unusual chill upon the party. The French members got up and left. Warren reeled out with O’Brien, whose uncouth sarcasms were no match for Haddo’s bitter gibes. Raggles put on his coat with the scarlet lining and went out with the tall Jagson, who smarted still under Haddo’s insolence. The American sculptor paid his bill silently. When he was at the door Haddo stopped him.

      “You have modelled lions at the Jardin des Plantes, my dear Clayson. Have you ever hunted them on their native plains?”

      “No, I haven’t.”

      Clayson did not know why Haddo asked the question, but he bristled with incipient wrath.

      “Then you have not seen the jackals, gnawing ​at a dead antelope, scamper away in terror when the King of Beasts stalked down to make his meal.”

      Clayson slammed the door behind him. Haddo was left with Margaret, and Arthur Burdon, Dr. Porhoët, and Susie. He smiled quietly.

      “By the way, are you a lion-hunter?” asked Susie flippantly.

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