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

meeting-place deliberately. The crowd of people that surrounded them, the gaiety, the playing of the band, prevented any intimacy of conversation. They were forced to talk of commonplaces. Susie was positively terrified at the change that had taken place in him. He looked ten years older; he had lost flesh, and his hair was sprinkled with white. His face was extraordinarily drawn, and his eyes were weary from lack of sleep. But what most struck her was the change in his expression. The look of pain which she had seen on his face that last evening in the studio was now become settled, so that it altered the lines of his countenance. It was harrowing to look at him. He was more silent than ever, and when he spoke it was in a strange low voice that seemed to come from a long way off. To be with him made Susie curiously uneasy, for there was a strenuousness in him which deprived his manner of all repose. One of the things that had pleased her in him formerly was the tranquillity which gave one the impression that here was a man who could be relied on in difficulties. At first she could not understand exactly what had happened, but in a moment saw that he was making an unceasing effort at self-control. He was never free from suffering and he was constantly on the alert to prevent anyone from seeing it. The strain gave him a peculiar restlessness.

But he was gentler than he had ever been before. He seemed genuinely glad to see her and asked about her travels with interest. Susie led him to talk of himself, and he spoke willingly enough of his daily round. He was earning a good deal of money, and his professional reputation was making steady progress. He worked hard. Besides his duties at the two hospitals with which he was now connected, his teaching, and his private practice, he had read of late one or two papers before scientific bodies, and was editing a large work on surgery.

“How on earth can you find time to do so much?” asked Susie.

“I can do with less sleep than I used,” he answered. “It almost doubles my working-day.”

He stopped abruptly and looked down. His remark had given accidentally some hint at the inner life which he was striving to conceal. Susie knew that her suspicion was well-founded. She thought of the long hours he lay awake, trying in vain to drive from his mind the agony that tortured him, and the short intervals of troubled sleep. She knew that he delayed as long as possible the fatal moment of going to bed, and welcomed the first light of day, which gave him an excuse for getting up. And because he knew that he had divulged the truth he was embarrassed. They sat in awkward silence. To Susie, the tragic figure in front of her was singularly impressive amid that lighthearted throng: all about them happy persons were enjoying the good things of life, talking, laughing, and making merry. She wondered what refinement of self-torture had driven him to choose that place to come to. He must hate it.

When they finished luncheon, Susie took her courage in both hands.

“Won’t you come back to my rooms for half an hour? We can’t talk here.”

He made an instinctive motion of withdrawal, as though he sought to escape. He did not answer immediately, and she insisted.

“You have nothing to do for an hour, and there are many things I want to speak to you about.”

“The only way to be strong is never to surrender to one’s weakness,” he said, almost in a whisper, as though ashamed to talk so intimately.

“Then you won’t come?”

“No.”

It was not necessary to specify the matter which it was proposed to discuss. Arthur knew perfectly that Susie wished to talk of Margaret, and he was too straightforward to pretend otherwise. Susie paused for one moment.

“I was never able to give Margaret your message. She did not write to me.”

A certain wildness came into his eyes, as if the effort he made was almost too much for him.

“I saw her in Monte Carlo,” said Susie. “I thought you might like to hear about her.”

“I don’t see that it can do any good,” he answered.

Susie made a little hopeless gesture. She was beaten.

“Shall we go?” she said.

“You are not angry with me?” he asked. “I know you mean to be kind. I’m very grateful to you.”

“I shall never be angry with you,” she smiled.

Arthur paid the bill, and they threaded their way among the tables. At the door she held out her hand.

“I think you do wrong in shutting yourself away from all human comradeship,” she said, with that good-humoured smile of hers. “You must know that you will only grow absurdly morbid.”

“I go out a great deal,” he answered patiently, as though he reasoned with a child. “I make a point of offering myself distractions from my work. I go to the opera two or three times a week.”

“I thought you didn’t care for music.”

“I don’t think I did,” he answered. “But I find it rests me.”

He spoke with a weariness that was appalling. Susie had never beheld so plainly the torment of a soul in pain.

“Won’t you let me come to the opera with you one night?” she asked. “Or does it bore you to see me?”

“I should like it above all things,” he smiled, quite brightly. “You’re like a wonderful tonic. They’re giving Tristan on Thursday. Shall we go together?”

“I should enjoy it enormously.”

She shook hands with him and jumped into a cab.

“Oh, poor thing!” she murmured. “Poor thing! What can I do for him?”

She clenched, her hands when she thought of Margaret. It was monstrous that she should have caused such havoc in that good, strong man.

“Oh, I hope she’ll suffer for it,” she whispered vindictively. “I hope she’ll suffer all the agony that he has suffered.”

Susie dressed herself for Covent Garden as