The MagicianMaugham, W. Somerset (William Somerset)
General
The Magician
Maugham, W. Somerset (William Somerset)
Magic -- Fiction; Paris (France) -- Fiction
The day, the long summer day, passed slowly. There was a hard
brilliancy in the sky that reminded the Frenchman of those Egyptian
heavens when the earth seemed crushed beneath a bowl of molten fire.
Arthur was too restless to remain indoors and left the others to their
own devices. He walked without aim, as fast as he could go; he felt no
weariness. The burning sun beat down upon him, but he did not know it.
The hours passed with lagging feet. Susie lay on her bed and tried to
read. Her nerves were so taut that, when there was a sound in the
courtyard of a pail falling on the cobbles, she cried out in terror.
The sun rose, and presently her window was flooded with quivering rays
of gold. It was midday. The day passed, and it was afternoon. The
evening came, but it brought no freshness. Meanwhile Dr Porhoët sat in
the little parlour, with his head between his hands, trying by a great
mental effort to bring back to his memory all that he had read. His
heart began to beat more quickly. Then the night fell, and one by one
the stars shone out. There was no wind. The air was heavy. Susie came
downstairs and began to talk with Dr Porhoët. But they spoke in a low
tone, as if they were afraid that someone would overhear. They were
faint now with want of food. The hours went one by one, and the
striking of a clock filled them each time with a mysterious
apprehension. The lights in the village were put out little by little,
and everybody slept. Susie had lighted the lamp, and they watched
beside it. A cold shiver passed through her.
“I feel as though someone were lying dead in the room,” she said.
“Why does not Arthur come?”
They spoke inconsequently, and neither heeded what the other said. The
window was wide open, but the air was difficult to breathe. And now the
silence was so unusual that Susie grew strangely nervous. She tried to
think of the noisy streets in Paris, the constant roar of traffic, and
the shuffling of the crowds toward evening as the work people returned
to their homes. She stood up.
“There’s no air tonight. Look at the trees. Not a leaf is moving.”
“Why does not Arthur come?” repeated the doctor.
“There’s no moon tonight. It will be very dark at Skene.”
“He’s walked all day. He should be here by now.”
Susie felt an extraordinary oppression, and she panted for breath. At
last they heard a step on the road outside, and Arthur stood at the
window.
“Are you ready to come?” he said.
“We’ve been waiting for you.”
They joined him, bringing the few things that Dr Porhoët had said were
necessary, and they walked along the solitary road that led to Skene.
On each side the heather stretched into the dark night, and there was a
blackness about it that was ominous. There was no sound save that of
their own steps. Dimly, under the stars, they saw the desolation with
which they were surrounded. The way seemed very long. They were utterly
exhausted, and they could hardly drag one foot after the other.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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