The Magician - W. Somerset Maugham (good romance books to read .txt) 📗

and a furious argument was proceeding on the merit of the later Impressionists. Arthur sat down, and was hurriedly introduced to a lanky youth, who sat on the other side of Margaret. He was very tall, very thin, very fair. He wore a very high collar and very long hair, and held himself like an exhausted lily.

“He always reminds me of an Aubrey Beardsley that’s been dreadfully smudged,” said Susie in an undertone. “He’s a nice, kind creature, but his name is Jagson. He has virtue and industry. I haven’t seen any of his work, but he has absolutely no talent.”

“How do you know, if you’ve not seen his pictures?” asked Arthur.

“Oh, it’s one of our conventions here that nobody has talent,” laughed Susie. “We suffer one another personally, but we have no illusions about the value of our neighbour’s work.”

“Tell me who everyone is.”

“Well, look at that little bald man in the corner. That is Warren.”

Arthur looked at the man she pointed out. He was a small person, with a pate as shining as a billiard-ball, and a pointed beard. He had protruding, brilliant eyes.

“Hasn’t he had too much to drink?” asked Arthur frigidly.

“Much,” answered Susie promptly, “but he’s always in that condition, and the further he gets from sobriety the more charming he is. He’s the only man in this room of whom you’ll never hear a word of evil. The strange thing is that he’s 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 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 room downstairs 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 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 a while ago romance had played a 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 palefaced 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