The Magician by W. Somerset Maugham (ebook reader macos TXT) 📕

“Not a word,” answered Dr. Porhoët, with a smile. “Criticism has shown that Zohar is of modern origin. With singular effrontery, it cites an author who is known to have lived during the eleventh century, mentions the Crusades, and records events which occurred in the year of Our Lord 1264. It was some time before 1291 that copies of Zohar began to be circulated by a Spanish Jew named Moses de Leon, who claimed to possess an autograph manuscript by the reputed author Schimeon ben Jochai. But when Moses de Leon was gathered to the bosom of his father Abraham, a wealthy Hebrew, Joseph de Avila, promised the scribe’s widow, who had been left destitute, that his son should marry her daughter, to whom he would pay a handsome dowry, if she would give him the original manuscript from which these copies were made. But the widow (one can imagine with what gnashing of teeth) was obliged to confess that she had no such manuscript, for Moses de Leon had composed Zohar out of his own head, and written it with his own right hand.”

Arthur got up to stretch his legs. He gave a laugh.

“I never know how much you really believe of all these things you tell us. You speak with such gravity that we are all taken in, and then it turns out that you’ve been laughing at us.”

“My dear friend, I never know myself how much I believe,” returned Dr. Porhoët.

“I wonder if it is for the same reason that Mr. Haddo puzzles us so much,” said Susie.

“Ah, there you have a case that is really interesting,” replied the doctor. “I assure you that, though I know him fairly intimately, I have never been able to make up my mind whether he is an elaborate practical joker, or whether he is really convinced he has the wonderful powers to which he lays claim.”

“We certainly saw things last night that were not quite normal,” said Susie. “Why had that serpent no effect on him though it was able to kill the rabbit instantaneously? And how are you going to explain the violent trembling of that horse, Mr. Burdon?”

“I can’t explain it,” answered Arthur, irritably, “but I’m not inclined to attribute to the supernatural everything that I can’t immediately understand.”

“I don’t know what there is about him that excites in me a sort of horror,” said Margaret. “I’ve never taken such a sudden dislike to anyone.”

She was too reticent to say all she felt, but she had been strangely affected last night by the recollection of Haddo’s words and of his acts. She had awakened more than once from a nightmare in which he assumed fantastic and ghastly shapes. His mocking voice rang in her ears, and she seemed still to see that vast bulk and the savage, sensual face. It was like a spirit of evil in her path, and she was curiously alarmed. Only her reliance on Arthur’s common sense prevented her from giving way to ridiculous terrors.

“I’ve written to Frank Hurrell and asked him to tell me all he knows about him,” said Arthur. “I should get an answer very soon.”

“I wish we’d never come across him,” cried Margaret vehemently. “I feel that he will bring us misfortune.”

“You’re all of you absurdly prejudiced,” answered Susie gaily. “He interests me enormously, and I mean to ask him to tea at the studio.”

“I’m sure I shall be delighted to come.”

Margaret cried out, for she recognized Oliver Haddo’s deep bantering tones; and she turned round quickly. They were all so taken aback that for a moment no one spoke. They were gathered round the window and had not heard him come in. They wondered guiltily how long he had been there and how much he had heard.

“How on earth did you get here?” cried Susie lightly, recovering herself first.

“No well-bred sorcerer is so dead to the finer feelings as to enter a room by the door,” he answered, with his puzzling smile. “You were standing round the window, and I thought it would startle you if I chose that mode of ingress, so I descended with incredible skill down the chimney.”

“I see a little soot on your left elbow,” returned Susie. “I hope you weren’t at all burned.”

“Not at all, thanks,” he answered, gravely brushing his coat.

“In whatever way you came, you are very welcome,” said Dr. Porhoët, genially holding out his hand.

But Arthur impatiently turned to his host.

“I wish I knew what made you engage upon these studies,” he said. “I should have thought your medical profession protected you from any tenderness towards superstition.”

Dr. Porhoët shrugged his shoulders.

“I have always been interested in the oddities of mankind. At one time I read a good deal of philosophy and a good deal of science, and I learned in that way that nothing was certain. Some people, by the pursuit of science, are impressed with the dignity of man, but I was only made conscious of his insignificance. The greatest questions of all have been threshed out since he acquired the beginnings of civilization and he is as far from a solution as ever. Man can know nothing, for his senses are his only means of knowledge, and they can give no certainty. There is only one subject upon which the individual can speak with authority, and that is his own mind, but even here he is surrounded with darkness. I believe that we shall always be ignorant of the matters which it most behoves us to know, and therefore I cannot occupy myself with them. I prefer to set them all aside, and, since knowledge is unattainable, to occupy myself only with folly.”

“It is a point of view I do not sympathize with,” said Arthur.

“Yet I cannot be sure that it is all folly,” pursued the Frenchman reflectively. He looked at Arthur with a certain ironic gravity. “Do you believe that I should lie to you when I promised to speak the truth?”

“Certainly not.”

“I