“Yet magic is no more than the art of employing consciously invisible means to produce visible effects."

  ~ W. Somerset Maugham

  Ahhhh. I sighed. Some closure. The MC had triumphed. But it was bittersweet. All unrequited love and whatnot. It wasn’t really a book I would have chosen to read but I felt the richer for it nevertheless.

  W. Somerset Maugham was indeed a master of prose. His characterisations were vivid and engaging, with even the side characters being fleshed out. Straightway I knew this was going to be a tragedy. And, yes while a tragic story, there were sufficient twists which surprised and enriched the drama and most importantly there was that glimmer of hope as the story wound down.

  Life goes on. So many stories just finish. Bang. And that is that. But the characters live on. Even if just in the imaginations of the readers. Providing that whisper of hope at the end was just what I needed.

  To my dismay, it was the antagonist that was the titular Magician. And he was one of the most enthralling and dastardly of villains I had ever encountered. And magic was depicted as being darker and more occultish than I had hoped. That was somewhat depressing. I had however, been totally enthralled with the MC twist. It was wonderful. Unknowable and mysterious. And completely surprising. That was worth reading the book for just in itself.

  My memory of certain phrases the System had highlighted was also intriguing. I could see there were clear parallels with how Magic was described and the Stats of the System. I recalled the phrase that had impressed me the most.

  Memory, intelligence and imagination are magic powers that everyone possesses; and whoever knows how to develop them to their fullest extent is a magician.

  Memory. That recollection of the past. Of experiences of the journey travelled so far. And there was the sense that this extended past that of just the individual. There was the collective memory of the Species. Our combined heritage, so to speak, the gestalt of the weight of Humanese experience distilled from every tribe and tongue and nation. From every age and generation. The scope was breathtaking.

  Ha. And I found myself thinking in Systemese. I really liked this term; Humanese. It encompassed all of us. There were no races, no nationalities or languages to divide and separate and clash. We were so small and insignificant in the scheme of the Multiverse. We were all Humans. And together our combined memories were powerful. They were enabling and empowering. Yes, Memory was important. We could learn lessons from our past. And we were not doomed to repeat them. No, we had agency. Self determination. And our memories were more than powerful. They were a touchstone. I was impressed. I would delve into my memories. Yes, I would develop my Memory to the fullest extent possible.

  I moved on to considering the second attribute. Intelligence. If memory looked back, intelligence was more forward looking. Intelligence was what distinguished us from animal sentience, what made us sapient, why we were called wise. Ha, I knew lots of unwise people. But that was beside the point.

  Intelligence allowed us to take disparate pieces of information, stimuli, from Memory and of the world around us and then draw conclusions. To form opinions, posit hypotheses and then test and refine. Intelligence was so crucial for our vaulted scientific process. With Intelligence we had formed vast civilisations, conquered diseases, ventured into space and extended our lifespans. It was thrilling to consider all we, even as base Tier H humans, had achieved.

  And Intelligence was needed for Magic. Magic was not the antithesis of science. No, Magic was an extension of science. While currently unknowable and mysterious we could now delve into Magic. We could engage our Intelligence and interrogate and extrapolate and explore all that Magic was and all it offered as much or as little as we desired. We were poised on the very edge of a vast and new horizon. One the System had opened up to us. Yes, Intelligence was crucial. This was no dump Stat. No. Magic was not dumb. It was not just waving a wand or mumbling some spell. It was fully engaging. With layers and shades and complexities just crying out to be explored and exploited.

  And then there was Imagination. This was the central Stat. This is what we drew on to enter the mysteries of Magic. Harnessing the power of our Memories and the vision of our Intellect and binding them together in some new and fantastical way. This is why the System had highlighted all those famous fiction authors. Fiction was, at its very essence, an exercising of the imagination, of extending our consciousness into the vast and exciting world of possibilities. Of potential. Of wonder and power.

  And this was real. Rather than dismiss our imaginations as mere flights of fancy, dreams and escapism, our Imagination unlocked Magic. It allowed us to look behind the physical, the mundane, and the known to explore and manipulate the unseen. The hidden fabric and mechanics that formed our reality. What was unseen formed what was seen. This was a truth we knew already, examining the atom, even the subatomic structures of matter. Magic simply took this one step further, manipulating the causation of such invisible phenomena for magical results.

  My Soul was buzzing.

  My Mind was spinning.

  My Stats were spamming. Yay! Blue Boxes!

  [Dings] resounded in my consciousness.

  Fabulous. Reading just one book, and then [Advanced Meditating] on the insights had netted me ten Stat points. Hmmmm. My Memory had underperformed. But, hey that didn’t matter, I could distribute them as I saw fit seeing I had unlocked my Mind Stats.

  Come to think of it, it had been a while since I had checked my Character Sheet. I pulled it up to see how I had grown.

  Oh! Wow! I had gained over 66 Stat points since I last checked. That was much more than I had expected. That was fantastic. Paragon added nearly 30 stats just by itself and I hadn’t even ascended any Levels or Planes.

  I reviewed the Reward that the Paragon Title awarded just to revel in its awesomeness. This was my best Title in terms of Stats.

  This was fantastic. My Black Swan coin had doubled the rewards and as they were percentages this had a massive impact. And as I ascended I would be getting double what everyone else who had received the Title would be getting. Not only that, I had obtained it at Level 1 and on Plane 1. I was guessing this was a serious outlier. If I got to, no, I stopped and corrected myself. When I got to Level 50 it would be +100% to every single Stat. At Level 100, +200%. This was outstanding. I was basically going to get the Level 100 reward at Level 50. This was incredible. I was Captain Tad.

  But this didn’t mean I would relax. No, far from it. I was just getting started. I expanded the individual attribute categories to just familiarise myself with their composition.

  [Body] Stats:

  CON: 1721.07HP

  [Constitution Unlocked]

  [Mind] Stats:

  WIS: 276.29MP [10 unassigned Stats]

  [Wisdom Unlocked]

  [Soul] Stats:

  KAR: 1537.14/1647.14E [4 unassigned Stats]

  [Karma Unlocked]

  Okay. I was pretty pleased with my status. From what I could work out, based on what Nige had told me regarding Levels and Stat caps I was the equivalent of around a Level 15 participant. That was Bronze Tier. I needed to make a plan. What were the pros and cons of leveling up vs just boosting my Stats? Was there any advantage in not assigning the free Stats? Hmmm. Perhaps I will just...

  My musings were interrupted. The kits had finished cooking up all the clams. Say what? I had bought 2 dozen. And they were bakers dozens too. That was like hmmm… I ran some quick calculations; 1040XP.

  I inspected them both. They were Level 2. Okay. Ssrah is going to get a bigger surprise than I thought. We needed to have a sit down and talk about Stat distribution and Character build.

  The twins picked up on my seriousness.

  ~Attentive~

  ~Inquisitive~

  Their big blue eyes followed me intently as I paced. I didn’t want them to spend their points just willy-nilly. But I also did not know enough about their Species strengths and weaknesses. I really wanted Ssrah’s input. As their Aunty I was responsible for them. I was going to do my best.

  A sudden thought struck me.

  “Will your Mum be cross with me helping you level up?”

  ~Denial.~

  ~Overhappyed.~

  Well that is good. I had another thought. “Did you request clams because they were your favourite food or because they would help you level up?”

  ~Yes.~

  Okay. Probably best to keep questions a little simpler.

  The kits sensed I wasn’t overly satisfied with their blanket affirmation.

  ~XP.~

  ~Still like taste too.~

  ~Hot buttered better but.~

  ~Yum.~

  ~You want your ones?~

  Two pairs of hopeful eyes tracked me.

  “You've already cooked them all?”

  ~Affirmation.~

  ~Ours gone.~

  I looked over at the campfire. Huh, there were just three buttered clams sitting there. And yes, I was hungry. I sat down to my repast. The kits had polished off 23 clams already. Unbelievable. And they were watching me eat. I savoured the taste. They had done a really good job. Better than I had in fact. Perhaps it was that food always tastes better when you weren't the one preparing it? They tracked my every move. I sighed, and gave them the last two clams. I was such a sucker for big blue eyes, and despite getting even bigger again with their Level-up, the kits were still super-duper cute.

  I dug into my pack and got out an OSM bar. Somehow this didn’t compare with freshly cooked buttered clam. But hey, it was still nice.

  My favourite even - chocolate.

  Both of the kiddos stopped eating to look at me.

  ~Chocolate?~

  Seb35 for your review.

  clearly marked spoilers [using the crossed out eye in the menu bar above] or PM me with your suspicions so as to not derail other readers.

  www.gutenberg.org

  Title: The Magician

  *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAGICIAN ***

  Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the PG Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

  THE MAGICIAN

  Arthur Burdon and Dr Porho?t walked in silence. They had lunched at a restaurant in the Boulevard Saint Michel, and were sauntering now in the gardens of the Luxembourg. Dr Porho?t walked with stooping shoulders, his hands behind him. He beheld the scene with the eyes of the many painters who have sought by means of the most charming garden in Paris to express their sense of beauty. The grass was scattered with the fallen leaves, but their wan decay little served to give a touch of nature to the artifice of all besides. The trees were neatly surrounded by bushes, and the bushes by trim beds of flowers. But the trees grew without abandonment, as though conscious of the decorative scheme they helped to form. It was autumn, and some were leafless already. Many of the flowers were withered. The formal garden reminded one of a light woman, no longer young, who sought, with faded finery, with powder and paint, to make a brave show of despair. It had those false, difficult smiles of uneasy gaiety, and the pitiful graces which attempt a fascination that the hurrying years have rendered vain.

  nounou, marched sedately two by two, wheeling perambulators and talking. Brightly dressed children trundled hoops or whipped a stubborn top. As he watched them, Dr Porho?t's lips broke into a smile, and it was so tender that his thin face, sallow from long exposure to subtropical suns, was transfigured. He no longer struck you merely as an insignificant little man with hollow cheeks and a thin grey beard; for the weariness of expression which was habitual to him vanished before the charming sympathy of his smile. His sunken eyes glittered with a kindly but ironic good-humour. Now passed a guard in the romantic cloak of a brigand in comic opera and a peaked cap like that of an alguacil. A group of telegraph boys in blue stood round a painter, who was making a sketch—notwithstanding half-frozen fingers. Here and there, in baggy corduroys, tight jackets, and wide-brimmed hats, strolled students who might have stepped from the page of Murger's immortal romance. But the students now are uneasy with the fear of ridicule, and more often they walk in bowler hats and the neat coats of the boulevardier.

  Porho?t.

  2

  Margaret Dauncey shared a flat near the Boulevard du Montparnasse with Susie Boyd; and it was to meet her that Arthur had arranged to come to tea that afternoon. The young women waited for him in the studio. The kettle was boiling on the stove; cups and petits fours stood in readiness on a model stand. Susie looked forward to the meeting with interest. She had heard a good deal of the young man, and knew that the connexion between him and Margaret was not lacking in romance. For years Susie had led the monotonous life of a mistress in a school for young ladies, and had resigned herself to its dreariness for the rest of her life, when a legacy from a distant relation gave her sufficient income to live modestly upon her means. When Margaret, who had been her pupil, came, soon after this, to announce her intention of spending a couple of years in Paris to study art, Susie willingly agreed to accompany her. Since then she had worked industriously at Colarossi's Academy, by no means under the delusion that she had talent, but merely to amuse herself. She refused to surrender the pleasing notion that her environment was slightly wicked. After the toil of many years it relieved her to be earnest in nothing; and she found infinite satisfaction in watching the lives of those around her.

  belle laide, and, far from denying the justness of his observation, she had been almost flattered. Her mouth was large, and she had little round bright eyes. Her skin was colourless and much disfigured by freckles. Her nose was long and thin. But her face was so kindly, her vivacity so attractive, that no one after ten minutes thought of her ugliness. You noticed then that her hair, though sprinkled with white, was pretty, and that her figure was exceedingly neat. She had good hands, very white and admirably formed, which she waved continually in the fervour of her gesticulation. Now that her means were adequate she took great pains with her dress, and her clothes, though they cost much more than she could afford, were always beautiful. Her taste was so great, her tact so sure, that she was able to make the most of herself. She was determined that if people called her ugly they should be forced in the same breath to confess that she was perfectly gowned. Susie's talent for dress was remarkable, and it was due to her influence that Margaret was arrayed always in the latest mode. The girl's taste inclined to be artistic, and her sense of colour was apt to run away with her discretion. Except for the display of Susie's firmness, she would scarcely have resisted her desire to wear nondescript garments of violent hue. But the older woman expressed herself with decision.

  Margaret,' he smiled, taking the proffered hand.

  3

  The Chien Noir, where Susie Boyd and Margaret generally dined, was the most charming restaurant in the quarter. Downstairs was a public room, where all and sundry devoured their food, for the little place had a reputation for good cooking combined with cheapness; and the patron, a retired horse-dealer who had taken to victualling in order to build up a business for his son, was a cheery soul whose loud-voiced friendliness attracted custom. But on the first floor was a narrow room, with three tables arranged in a horse-shoe, which was reserved for a small party of English or American painters and a few Frenchmen with their wives. At least, they were so nearly wives, and their manner had such a matrimonial respectability, that Susie, when first she and Margaret were introduced into this society, judged it would be vulgar to turn up her nose. She held that it was prudish to insist upon the conventions of Notting Hill in the Boulevard de Montparnasse. The young women who had thrown in their lives with these painters were modest in demeanour and quiet in dress. They were model housewives, who had preserved their self-respect notwithstanding a difficult position, and did not look upon their relation with less seriousness because they had not muttered a few words before Monsieur le Maire.

  no talent.'

  apéritifs, 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.'

  poule au riz.'

  monsieur,' said the maid.

  Mais si, je vous aime, Monsieur Warren,' she cried, laughing, 'Je vous aime tous, tous.'

  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.'

  With his twinkling eyes, red cheeks, and fair, pointed beard, he looked

  exactly like a Franz Hals; but he was dressed like the caricature of a

  Frenchman in a comic paper. He spoke English with a Parisian accent.

  aperitif has glazed your sparkling eye.'

  Bulbul in a Persian garden.'

  Haddo passed on to that faded, harmless youth who sat next to Margaret.

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

  Arthur Burdon, Dr Porho?t, and Susie. He smiled quietly.

  you a lion-hunter?' asked Susie flippantly.

  Le Tueur de Lions, may have been fit to compare with me, but I can call to mind no other.'

  Margaret stared at him with amazement.

  Arthur dryly.

  Susie Boyd.

  Margaret and Arthur. He amused her, and she was anxious to make him talk.

  cher ami. They should know that during the Middle Ages imagination peopled the four elements with intelligences, normally unseen, some of which were friendly to man and others hostile. They were thought to be powerful and conscious of their power, though at the same time they were profoundly aware that they possessed no soul. Their life depended upon the continuance of some natural object, and hence for them there could be no immortality. They must return eventually to the abyss of unending night, and the darkness of death afflicted them always. But it was thought that in the same manner as man by his union with God had won a spark of divinity, so might the sylphs, gnomes, undines, and salamanders by an alliance with man partake of his immortality. And many of their women, whose beauty was more than human, gained a human soul by loving one of the race of men. But the reverse occurred also, and often a love-sick youth lost his immortality because he left the haunts of his kind to dwell with the fair, soulless denizens of the running streams or of the forest airs.'

  Boyd.

  4

  They came down to the busy, narrow street which led into the Boulevard du Montparnasse. Electric trams passed through it with harsh ringing of bells, and people surged along the pavements.

  Belfort.

  capa, and he flung the red and green velvet of its lining gaudily over his shoulder. He had a large soft hat. His height was great, though less noticeable on account of his obesity, and he towered over the puny multitude.

  Oliver Haddo,' he said.

  'Let us go in and see what the fellow has to show.'

  Wait and see. Serpents very poisonous.'

  Arthur.

  cerastes is the name under which you gentlemen of science know it, and it is the most deadly of all Egyptian snakes. It is commonly known as Cleopatra's Asp, for that is the serpent which was brought in a basket of figs to the paramour of Caesar in order that she might not endure the triumph of Augustus.'

  Oliver Haddo was left alone with the snake-charmer.

  5

  Dr Porho?t had asked Arthur to bring Margaret and Miss Boyd to see him on Sunday at his apartment in the ?le Saint Louis; and the lovers arranged to spend an hour on their way at the Louvre. Susie, invited to accompany them, preferred independence and her own reflections.

  La Diane de Gabies, which moved him differently, and to this presently he insisted on going. With a laugh Margaret remonstrated, but secretly she was not displeased. She was aware that his passion for this figure was due, not to its intrinsic beauty, but to a likeness he had discovered in it to herself.

  poudre de riz. The very plane trees had a greater sobriety than elsewhere, as though conscious they stood in a Paris where progress was not. In front was the turbid Seine, and below, the twin towers of Notre Dame. Susie could have kissed the hard paving stones of the quay. Her good-natured, plain face lit up as she realized the delight of the scene upon which her eyes rested; and it was with a little pang, her mind aglow with characters and events from history and from fiction, that she turned away to enter Dr Porho?t's house.

  concierge, rang a tinkling bell at one of the doorways that faced her. Dr Porho?t opened in person..

  Grimoire of Honorius, and is the principal text-book of all those who deal in the darkest ways of the science.'

  Hexameron of Torquemada and the Tableau de l'Inconstance des Démons, by Delancre; he drew his finger down the leather back of Delrio's Disquisitiones Magicae and set upright the Pseudomonarchia Daemonorum of Wierus; his eyes rested for an instant on Hauber's Acta et Scripta Magica, and he blew the dust carefully off the most famous, the most infamous, of them all, Sprenger's Malleus Malefikorum.

  Clavicula Salomonis; and I have much reason to believe that it is the identical copy which belonged to the greatest adventurer of the eighteenth century, Jacques Casanova. You will see that the owner's name had been cut out, but enough remains to indicate the bottom of the letters; and these correspond exactly with the signature of Casanova which I have found at the Bibliothéque Nationale. He relates in his memoirs that a copy of this book was seized among his effects when he was arrested in Venice for traffic in the black arts; and it was there, on one of my journeys from Alexandria, that I picked it up.'

  Zohar.'

  Burdon.

  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.'

  Porho?t.

  coiffe that my mother wore. And if she lay there in her black dress, with a band about her chin, I knew that it could mean but one thing.

  Apollonius of Tyana in London.'

  The other half of this card will be given you at three o'clock tomorrow in front of Westminster Abbey. Next day, going to the appointed spot, with his portion of the card in his hand, he found a baronial equipage waiting for him. A footman approached, and, making a sign to him, opened the carriage door. Within was a lady in black satin, whose face was concealed by a thick veil. She motioned him to a seat beside her, and at the same time displayed the other part of the card he had received. The door was shut, and the carriage rolled away. When the lady raised her veil, Eliphas Levi saw that she was of mature age; and beneath her grey eyebrows were bright black eyes of preternatural fixity.'

  Buy Ashantis, they are bound to go up."

  6

  Two days later, Arthur received Frank Hurrell's answer to his letter. It was characteristic of Frank that he should take such pains to reply at length to the inquiry, and it was clear that he had lost none of his old interest in odd personalities. He analysed Oliver Haddo's character with the patience of a scientific man studying a new species in which he is passionately concerned.

  7

  On the morning of the day upon which they had asked him to tea, Oliver Haddo left at Margaret's door vast masses of chrysanthemums. There were so many that the austere studio was changed in aspect. It gained an ephemeral brightness that Margaret, notwithstanding pieces of silk hung here and there on the walls, had never been able to give it. When Arthur arrived, he was dismayed that the thought had not occurred to him.

  C'est tellement intime ici,' smiled Dr Porho?t, breaking into French in the impossibility of expressing in English the exact feeling which that scene gave him.

  genre. It seemed hardly by chance that the colours arranged themselves in such agreeable tones, or that the lines of the wall and the seated persons achieved such a graceful decoration. The atmosphere was extraordinarily peaceful.

  aureum vellus printed at Rorschach in the sixteenth century, he received the philosopher's stone from Solomon Trismosinus. This person possessed also the Universal Panacea, and it is asserted that he was seen still alive by a French traveller at the end of the seventeenth century. Paracelsus then passed through the countries that border the Danube, and so reached Italy, where he served as a surgeon in the imperial army. I see no reason why he should not have been present at the battle of Pavia. He collected information from physicians, surgeons and alchemists; from executioners, barbers, shepherds, Jews, gipsies, midwives, and fortune-tellers; from high and low, from learned and vulgar. In the sketch I have given of his career in that volume you hold, I have copied out a few words of his upon the acquirement of knowledge which affect me with a singular emotion.'

  Paragranum:

  Tinctura Physicorum, which neither Pope nor Emperor could buy with all his wealth. It was one of the greatest alchemical mysteries, and, though mentioned under the name of The Red Lion in many occult works, was actually known to few before Paracelsus, except Hermes Trismegistus and Albertus Magnus. Its preparation was extremely difficult, for the presence was needed of two perfectly harmonious persons whose skill was equal. It was said to be a red ethereal fluid. The least wonderful of its many properties was its power to transmute all inferior metals into gold. There is an old church in the south of Bavaria where the tincture is said to be still buried in the ground. In the year 1698 some of it penetrated through the soil, and the phenomenon was witnessed by many people, who believed it to be a miracle. The church which was thereupon erected is still a well-known place for pilgrimage. Paracelsus concludes his directions for its manufacture with the words: But if this be incomprehensible to you, remember that only he who desires with his whole heart will find, and to him only who knocks vehemently shall the door be opened.'

  Electrum Magicum, of which the wise made mirrors wherein they were able to see not only the events of the past and of the present, but the doings of men in daytime and at night. They might see anything that had been written or spoken, and the person who said it, and the causes that made him say it. But I like best the Primum Ens Melissae. An elaborate prescription is given for its manufacture. It was a remedy to prolong life, and not only Paracelsus, but his predecessors Galen, Arnold of Villanova, and Raymond Lulli, had laboured studiously to discover it.'

  Primum Ens Melissae at least offers a less puerile benefit than most magical secrets.'

  homunculi. The old philosophers doubted the possibility of this operation, but Paracelsus asserts positively that it can be done. I picked up once for a song on a barrow at London Bridge a little book in German. It was dirty and thumbed, many of the pages were torn, and the binding scarcely held the leaves together. It was called Die Sphinx and was edited by a certain Dr Emil Besetzny. It contained the most extraordinary account I have ever read of certain spirits generated by Johann-Ferdinand, Count von Küffstein, in the Tyrol, in 1775. The sources from which this account is taken consist of masonic manuscripts, but more especially of a diary kept by a certain James Kammerer, who acted in the capacity of butler and famulus to the Count. The evidence is ten times stronger than any upon which men believe the articles of their religion. If it related to less wonderful subjects, you would not hesitate to believe implicitly every word you read. There were ten homunculi—James Kammerer calls them prophesying spirits—kept in strong bottles, such as are used to preserve fruit, and these were filled with water. They were made in five weeks, by the Count von Küffstein and an Italian mystic and rosicrucian, the Abbé Geloni. The bottles were closed with a magic seal. The spirits were about a span long, and the Count was anxious that they should grow. They were therefore buried under two cartloads of manure, and the pile daily sprinkled with a certain liquor prepared with great trouble by the adepts. The pile after such sprinklings began to ferment and steam, as if heated by a subterranean fire. When the bottles were removed, it was found that the spirits had grown to about a span and a half each; the male homunculi were come into possession of heavy beards, and the nails of the fingers had grown. In two of the bottles there was nothing to be seen save clear water, but when the Abbé knocked thrice at the seal upon the mouth, uttering at the same time certain Hebrew words, the water turned a mysterious colour, and the spirits showed their faces, very small at first, but growing in size till they attained that of a human countenance. And this countenance was horrible and fiendish.'

  homunculi were exposed to the air they closed their eyes and seemed to grow weak and unconscious, as though they were about to die. But with the spirits that were invisible, at certain intervals blood was poured into the water; and it disappeared at once, inexplicably, without colouring or troubling it. By some accident one of the bottles fell one day and was broken. The homunculus within died after a few painful respirations in spite of all efforts to save him, and the body was buried in the garden. An attempt to generate another, made by the Count without the assistance of the Abbé, who had left, failed; it produced only a small thing like a leech, which had little vitality and soon died.'

  homunculi were seen by historical persons, by Count Max Lemberg, by Count Franz-Josef von Thun, and by many others. I have no doubt that they were actually generated. But with our modern appliances, with our greater skill, what might it not be possible to do now if we had the courage? There are chemists toiling away in their laboratories to create the primitive protoplasm from matter which is dead, the organic from the inorganic. I have studied their experiments. I know all that they know. Why shouldn't one work on a larger scale, joining to the knowledge of the old adepts the scientific discovery of the moderns? I don't know what would be the result. It might be very strange and very wonderful. Sometimes my mind is verily haunted by the desire to see a lifeless substance move under my spells, by the desire to be as God.'

  8

  Susie could not persuade herself that Haddo's regret was sincere. The humility of it aroused her suspicion. She could not get out of her mind the ugly slyness of that smile which succeeded on his face the first passionate look of deadly hatred. Her fancy suggested various dark means whereby Oliver Haddo might take vengeance on his enemy, and she was at pains to warn Arthur. But he only laughed.

  He was amused by Susie's trepidation.

  concierge, the only person at hand, ran forward with a cry. She knelt down and, looking round with terror, caught sight of Margaret.

  Oh, mademoiselle, venez vite!' she cried.

  Oliver, and he seemed to be dead. She forgot that she loathed him.

  Instinctively she knelt down by his side and loosened his collar. He

  opened his eyes. An expression of terrible anguish came into his face.

  concierge. But with her help Margaret raised him to his feet, and together they brought him to the studio. He sank painfully into a chair.

  La Gioconda which hung on the wall. Suddenly he began to speak. He recited the honeyed words with which Walter Pater expressed his admiration for that consummate picture.

  Littré.'

  I'm only nervous and frightened.'

  9

  Margaret's night was disturbed, and next day she was unable to go about her work with her usual tranquillity. She tried to reason herself into a natural explanation of the events that had happened. The telegram that Susie had received pointed to a definite scheme on Haddo's part, and suggested that his sudden illness was but a device to get into the studio. Once there, he had used her natural sympathy as a means whereby to exercise his hypnotic power, and all she had seen was merely the creation of his own libidinous fancy. But though she sought to persuade herself that, in playing a vile trick on her, he had taken a shameful advantage of her pity, she could not look upon him with anger. Her contempt for him, her utter loathing, were alloyed with a feeling that aroused in her horror and dismay. She could not get the man out of her thoughts. All that he had said, all that she had seen, seemed, as though it possessed a power of material growth, unaccountably to absorb her. It was as if a rank weed were planted in her heart and slid long poisonous tentacles down every artery, so that each part of her body was enmeshed. Work could not distract her, conversation, exercise, art, left her listless; and between her and all the actions of life stood the flamboyant, bulky form of Oliver Haddo. She was terrified of him now as never before, but curiously had no longer the physical repulsion which hitherto had mastered all other feelings. Although she repeated to herself that she wanted never to see him again, Margaret could scarcely resist an overwhelming desire to go to him. Her will had been taken from her, and she was an automaton. She struggled, like a bird in the fowler's net with useless beating of the wings; but at the bottom of her heart she was dimly conscious that she did not want to resist. If he had given her that address, it was because he knew she would use it. She did not know why she wanted to go to him; she had nothing to say to him; she knew only that it was necessary to go. But a few days before she had seen the Phèdre of Racine, and she felt on a sudden all the torments that wrung the heart of that unhappy queen; she, too, struggled aimlessly to escape from the poison that the immortal gods poured in her veins. She asked herself frantically whether a spell had been cast over her, for now she was willing to believe that Haddo's power was all-embracing. Margaret knew that if she yielded to the horrible temptation nothing could save her from destruction. She would have cried for help to Arthur or to Susie, but something, she knew not what, prevented her. At length, driven almost to distraction, she thought that Dr Porho?t might do something for her. He, at least, would understand her misery. There seemed not a moment to lose, and she hastened to his house. They told her he was out. Her heart sank, for it seemed that her last hope was gone. She was like a person drowning, who clings to a rock; and the waves dash against him, and beat upon his bleeding hands with a malice all too human, as if to tear them from their refuge.

  maison meublée, and heavy hangings, the solid furniture of that sort of house in Paris, was unexpected in connexion with him. The surroundings were so commonplace that they seemed to emphasise his singularity. There was a peculiar lack of comfort, which suggested that he was indifferent to material things. The room was large, but so cumbered that it gave a cramped impression. Haddo dwelt there as if he were apart from any habitation that might be his. He moved cautiously among the heavy furniture, and his great obesity was somehow more remarkable. There was the acrid perfume which Margaret remembered a few days before in her vision of an Eastern city.

  'I wonder you don't do a head of Arthur as you can't do a caricature.'

  coiffe, perhaps a maid-servant lately come from her native village to the great capital, passed in and knelt down. Margaret could hear her muttered words, and at intervals the deep voice of the priest. In three minutes she tripped neatly away. She looked so fresh in her plain black dress, so healthy and innocent, that Margaret could not restrain a sob of envy. The child had so little to confess, a few puny errors which must excite a smile on the lips of the gentle priest, and her candid spirit was like snow. Margaret would have given anything to kneel down and whisper in those passionless ears all that she suffered, but the priest's faith and hers were not the same. They spoke a different tongue, not of the lips only but of the soul, and he would not listen to the words of an heretic.

  10

  Susie stared without comprehension at the note that announced Margaret's marriage. It was a petit bleu sent off from the Gare du Nord, and ran as follows:

  concierge if she knew where Margaret had gone that morning.

  Parfaitement, Mademoiselle,' answered the old woman. 'I heard her tell the coachman to go to the British Consulate.'

  petit déjeuner of the morning, and she was faint with hunger. But she had not the heart to make herself tea. At last he came. He entered joyfully and looked around.

  Susie.

  11

  Arthur went back to London next day.

  homunculi.

  Eau de Nil; and its beauty was enhanced by the old lace which had formed not the least treasured part of her inheritance. In her hair she wore an ornament of Spanish paste, of exquisite workmanship, and round her neck a chain which had once adorned that of a madonna in an Andalusian church. Her individuality made even her plainness attractive. She smiled at herself in the glass ruefully, because Arthur would never notice that she was perfectly dressed.

  'That is what you have made him.'

  12

  Arthur Burdon spent two or three days in a state of utter uncertainty, but at last the idea he had in mind grew so compelling as to overcome all objections. He went to the Carlton and asked for Margaret. He had learnt from the porter that Haddo was gone out and so counted on finding her alone. A simple device enabled him to avoid sending up his name. When he was shown into her private room Margaret was sitting down. She neither read nor worked.

  'D'you think anything can be hidden from him?'

  Arthur's side and seized his hands.

  Haddo is a human being like the rest of us.'

  SUSAN BOYD

  I think the odd trick is mine.'

  The man has some power over her which we can't counteract.'

  13

  Some weeks later Dr Porho?t was sitting among his books in the quiet, low room that overlooked the Seine. He had given himself over to a pleasing melancholy. The heat beat down upon the noisy streets of Paris, and the din of the great city penetrated even to his fastness in the ?le Saint Louis. He remembered the cloud-laden sky of the country where he was born, and the south-west wind that blew with a salt freshness. The long streets of Brest, present to his fancy always in a drizzle of rain, with the lights of cafés reflected on the wet pavements, had a familiar charm. Even in foul weather the sailor-men who trudged along them gave one a curious sense of comfort. There was delight in the smell of the sea and in the freedom of the great Atlantic. And then he thought of the green lanes and of the waste places with their scented heather, the fair broad roads that led from one old sweet town to another, of the Pardons and their gentle, sad crowds. Dr Porho?t gave a sigh.

  bonne showed Susie in, and he rose with a smile to greet her. She had been in Paris for some time, and they had seen much of one another. He basked in the gentle sympathy with which she interested herself in all the abstruse, quaint matters on which he spent his time; and, divining her love for Arthur, he admired the courage with which she effaced herself. They had got into the habit of eating many of their meals together in a quiet house opposite the Cluny called La Reine Blanche, and here they had talked of so many things that their acquaintance was grown into a charming friendship.

  homunculi he manufactured on human blood. One wonders how he came by it.'

  chambre ardente, to deal with cases of sorcery and magic?'

  bonne, opened the door to let a visitor come in. It was Arthur Burdon. Susie gave a cry of surprise, for she had received a brief note from him two days before, and he had said nothing of crossing the Channel.

  cher ami,' said Dr Porho?t, looking at him. 'Will you let Matilde make you a cup of coffee?'

  Monte Carlo.

  14

  Susie never forgot the horror of that journey to England. They arrived in London early in the morning and, without stopping, drove to Euston. For three or four days there had been unusual heat, and even at that hour the streets were sultry and airless. The train north was crowded, and it seemed impossible to get a breath of air. Her head ached, but she was obliged to keep a cheerful demeanour in the effort to allay Arthur's increasing anxiety. Dr Porho?t sat in front of her. After the sleepless night his eyes were heavy and his face deeply lined. He was exhausted. At length, after much tiresome changing, they reached Venning. She had expected a greater coolness in that northern country; but there was a hot blight over the place, and, as they walked to the inn from the little station, they could hardly drag their limbs along.

  Arthur's arm.

  Mais, mon ami, vous êtes fou,' cried Dr Porho?t, springing up.

  must leave me alone. Good Heavens, the time has gone by for tears and lamentation. After all I've gone through for months, I can't weep because Margaret is dead. My heart is dried up. But I know that she didn't die naturally, and I'll never rest so long as that fellow lives.'

  Luke's Hospital.' He pointed to his card, which Dr Richardson still held.

  'And my friend is Dr Porho?t, whose name will be familiar to you with

  respect to his studies in Malta Fever.'

  B.M.J.' said the country doctor.

  Alexandria?' he said, after some hesitation.

  15

  Arthur wished to set about the invocation then and there, but Dr Porho?t said it was impossible. They were all exhausted after the long journey, and it was necessary to get certain things together without which nothing could be done. In his heart he thought that a night's rest would bring Arthur to a more reasonable mind. When the light of day shone upon the earth he would be ashamed of the desire which ran counter to all his prepossessions. But Arthur remembered that on the next day it would be exactly a week since Margaret's death, and it seemed to him that then their spells might have a greater efficacy.

  16

  Arthur would not leave the little village of Venning. Neither Susie nor the doctor could get him to make any decision. None of them spoke of the night which they had spent in the woods of Skene; but it coloured all their thoughts, and they were not free for a single moment from the ghastly memory of it. They seemed still to hear the sound of that passionate weeping. Arthur was moody. When he was with them, he spoke little; he opposed a stubborn resistance to their efforts at diverting his mind. He spent long hours by himself, in the country, and they had no idea what he did. Susie was terribly anxious. He had lost his balance so completely that she was prepared for any rashness. She divined that his hatred of Haddo was no longer within the bounds of reason. The desire for vengeance filled him entirely, so that he was capable of any violence.

  must tell us what you are going to do,' she said. 'It is useless to stay here. We are all so ill and nervous that we cannot consider anything rationally. We want you to come away with us tomorrow.'

  I will let you in.'

  I had some difficulty in getting in.'

  The night was still quite dark, and the stars shone out in their myriads.

  At last he slackened their pace.

  End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Magician, by Somerset Maugham

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