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

should like to tell you of an experience that I once had in Alexandria. So far as I can see, it can be explained by none of the principles known to science. I ask you only to believe that I am not consciously deceiving you.”

He spoke with a seriousness which gave authority to his words. It was plain, even to Arthur, that he narrated the event exactly as it occurred.

“I had heard frequently of a certain sheikh who was able by means of a magic mirror to show the inquirer persons who were absent or dead, and a native friend of mine had often begged me to see him. I had never thought it worth while, but at last a time came when I was greatly troubled in my mind. My poor mother was an old woman, a widow, and I had received no news of her for many weeks. Though I wrote repeatedly, no answer reached me. I was very anxious and very unhappy. I thought no harm could come if I sent for the sorcerer, and perhaps after all he had the power which was attributed to him. My friend, who was interpreter to the French Consulate, brought him to me one evening. He was a fine man, tall and stout, of a fair complexion, but with a dark brown beard. He was shabbily dressed, and, being a descendant of the Prophet, wore a green turban. In his conversation he was affable and unaffected. I asked him what persons could see in the magic mirror, and he said they were a boy not arrived at puberty, a virgin, a black female slave, and a pregnant woman. In order to make sure that there was no collusion, I despatched my servant to an intimate friend and asked him to send me his son. While we waited, I prepared by the magician’s direction frankincense and coriander-seed, and a chafing-dish with live charcoal. Meanwhile, he wrote forms of invocation on six strips of paper. When the boy arrived, the sorcerer threw incense and one of the paper strips into the chafing-dish, then took the boy’s right hand and drew a square and certain mystical marks on the palm. In the centre of the square he poured a little ink. This formed the magic mirror. He desired the boy to look steadily into it without raising his head. The fumes of the incense filled the room with smoke. The sorcerer muttered Arabic words, indistinctly, and this he continued to do all the time except when he asked the boy a question.

“ ‘Do you see anything in the ink?’ he said.

“ ‘No,’ the boy answered.

“But a minute later, he began to tremble and seemed very much frightened.

“ ‘I see a man sweeping the ground,’ he said.

“ ‘When he has done sweeping, tell me,’ said the sheikh.

“ ‘He has done,’ said the boy.

“The sorcerer turned to me and asked who it was that I wished the boy should see.

“ ‘I desire to see the widow Jeanne-Marie Porhoët.’

“The magician put the second and third of the small strips of paper into the chafing-dish, and fresh frankincense was added. The fumes were painful to my eyes. The boy began to speak.

“ ‘I see an old woman lying on a bed. She has a black dress, and on her head is a little white cap. She has a wrinkled face and her eyes are closed. There is a band tied round her chin. The bed is in a sort of hole, in the wall, and there are shutters to it.’

“The boy was describing a Breton bed, and the white cap was the coif 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.

“ ‘What else does he see?’ I asked the sorcerer.

“He repeated my question, and presently the boy spoke again.

“ ‘I see four men come in with a long box. And there are women crying. They all wear little white caps and black dresses. And I see a man in a white surplice, with a large cross in his hands, and a little boy in a long red gown. And the men take off their hats. And now everyone is kneeling down.’

“ ‘I will hear no more,’ I said. ‘It is enough.’

“I knew that my mother was dead.

“In a little while, I received a letter from the priest of the village in which she lived. They had buried her on the very day upon which the boy had seen this sight in the mirror of ink.”

Dr. Porhoët passed his hand across his eyes, and for a little while there was silence.

“What have you to say to that?” asked Oliver Haddo, at last.

“Nothing,” answered Arthur.

Haddo looked at him for a minute with those queer eyes of his which seemed to stare at the wall behind.

“Have you ever heard of Eliphas Levi?” he inquired. “He is the most celebrated occultist of recent years. He is thought to have known more of the mysteries than any adept since the divine Paracelsus.”

“I met him once,” interrupted Dr. Porhoët. “You never saw a man who looked less like a magician. His face beamed with good-nature, and he wore a long grey beard, which covered nearly the whole of his breast. He was of a short and very corpulent figure.”

“The practice of black arts evidently disposes to obesity,” said Arthur, icily.

Susie noticed that this time Oliver Haddo made no sign that the taunt moved him. His unwinking, straight eyes remained upon Arthur without expression.

“Levi’s real name was Alphonse-Louis Constant, but he adopted that under which he is generally known for reasons that are plain to the romantic mind. His father was a bootmaker. He was destined for the priesthood, but fell in love with a damsel fair and married her. The union was unhappy. A fate befell him which has been the lot of greater men than he, and his wife presently abandoned the marital roof with her lover. To console himself he began to make