Скорбь сатаны / The sorrows of Satan. Уровень 4
“Well, I am fairly reliable now,” I said. “And I’m not going to run away.”
“From me?” he queried, with a half cold half kind glance. “No, I fancy not!”
He waved his hand lightly and left me. I put the leather wallet in my inner pocket, hailed a hansom and was driven off rapidly to Basinghall Street where my solicitors awaited me.
I was received at once with the utmost respect by two small men in black who represented ‘the firm.’ At my request they sent down their clerk to pay and dismiss my cab. Then we went into business together. My deceased relative, whom I had never seen as far as I myself remembered, had left me everything he possessed, including several rare collections of pictures and jewels. His will was concisely and clearly worded. In a week or ten days everything will be in order and at my sole disposition.
“You are a very fortunate man Mr. Tempest;” – said the senior partner Mr. Bentham, as he folded up the last of the papers we had been looking through. “At your age this princely inheritance may be either a great boon to you or a great curse, one never knows. The possession of such enormous wealth involves great responsibilities.”
I was amused at what I considered the impertinence of this mere servant of the law in presuming to moralize on my luck.
“Many people would be glad to accept such responsibilities and change places with me,” I said. “You yourself, for example?”
I knew this remark was not in good taste, but I felt that he had no business to preach to me as it were on the responsibilities of wealth. He gave me an observant glance.
“No Mr. Tempest, no,” he said dryly. “I do not think I should change places with you. I feel very well satisfied as I am. My brain is my bank, and brings me something to live upon, which is all that I desire. To be comfortable and work honestly is enough for me. I have never envied the wealthy.”
“Mr. Bentham is a philosopher,” interposed his partner, Mr. Ellis smiling. “In our profession, Mr. Tempest, we see so many ups and downs of life, that we ourselves learn some lessons.”
They each gave me a formal little bow, and Mr. Bentham shook hands.
“Business is over, allow me to congratulate you,” he said politely. “And something more. The fact is Mr. Tempest, your deceased relative, had one very curious idea. He was a shrewd man and a clever one, but he certainly had one very curious idea.”
“What idea?”
Bentham gazed meditatively at the ceiling.
“My dear sir, our client mentioned – er – it’s his idea – a most erratic and extraordinary one, which was briefly this, – that he had sold himself to the devil, and that his large fortune was one result of the bargain.”
I burst out laughing heartily.
“What a ridiculous notion!” I exclaimed. “Poor man! Or perhaps he used the expression as a mere figure of speech?”
“I think not,” responded Mr. Ellis. “I think our client did not use the phrase ‘sold to the devil’ as a figure of speech merely, Mr. Bentham?”
“I am positive he did not,” said Bentham seriously. “He spoke of the ‘bargain’ as an actual and accomplished fact.”
I laughed again. Then I smiled, and thanking them, rose to go. They bowed to me once more, simultaneously, looking almost like twin brothers.
“Good-bye, Mr. Tempest,” said Mr. Bentham. “We shall serve you as we served our late client, to the best of our ability. May we ask whether you require any cash advances immediately?”
“No, thank you,” I answered, feeling grateful to my friend Rimanez.
They seemed a trifle surprised at this, but were too discreet to offer any remark. They wrote down my address at the Grand Hotel, and sent their clerk to show me to the door. I gave this man half-a-sovereign to drink my health which he very cheerfully promised to do. Then I walked away.
In turning a corner I jostled up against a man, the very publisher who had returned me my rejected manuscript the day before.
“Hello!” he exclaimed.
“Hello!” I rejoined.
“Where are you going?” he went on. “Are you going to try and place that unlucky novel? My dear boy, believe me it will never do as it is…”
“It will do,” I said calmly, “I am going to publish it myself.”
He started.
“Publish it yourself! Good heavens! – it will cost you – ah! – sixty or seventy, perhaps a hundred pounds.”
“I don’t care if it costs me a thousand!”
A red flush came into his face, and his eyes opened in astonishment.
“I thought… excuse me…” he stammered awkwardly; “I thought that money was important for you…”
“It was,” I answered dryly. “It isn’t now.”
Then I burst out laughing wildly. He began looking nervously about him in all directions. I caught him by the arm.
“Look here, man,” I said, trying to conquer my almost hysterical mirth. “I’m not mad – don’t you think it. I’m only a millionaire!”
And I began laughing again; the situation seemed to me so sublimely ridiculous. But the publisher did not see it at all. I made a further effort to control myself and succeeded.
“I assure you on my word of honour I’m not joking, it’s a fact. Last night I wanted a dinner, and you, like a good fellow, offered to give me one. Today I possess five millions of money! Don’t stare so! And as I have told you, I shall publish my book myself at my own expense, and it will succeed! I’ve more than enough in my wallet to pay for its publication now!”
He fell back stupefied and confused.
“God bless my soul!” he muttered feebly. “It’s like a dream! I was never more astonished in my life!”
“Nor I!” I said. “But strange things happen in life. And that book will be the success of the season! What will you take to publish it?”
“Publish? I?”
“Yes, you – why not? I offer you a chance to get some money. Will your ‘readers’ prevent your accepting it? You are not a slave, this is a free country. I know the kind of people who ‘read’ for you, the gaunt unlovable spinster of fifty, the dyspeptic book-worm who is a ‘literary failure’ and can find nothing else to do. Why should you rely on such incompetent opinion? I’ll pay you for the publication of my book. And I guarantee you another thing. I’ll mention you as a publisher. I’ll advertise it. Everything in this world can be done for money.”
“Stop, stop,” he interrupted. “This is so sudden! You must give me time to consider!”
“Take a day for your meditations then,” I said. “But no longer. For if you don’t say yes, I’ll get another man! Be wise in time, my friend! Good-bye!”
He ran after me.
“Wait, look here! You’re so strange, so wild, so erratic! Dear dear me,” and he smiled benevolently. “Why, you don’t give me a chance to congratulate you. I really do, you know – I congratulate you sincerely!” And he shook me by the hand quite fervently. “And I will think about your book – where will a letter find you?”
“Grand Hotel,” I responded. I knew he was already mentally calculating how much he could get from me for my literary whim. “Come there, and lunch or dine with me. Tomorrow if you like – only send me a word beforehand. Remember, it must be yes or no, in twenty-four hours!”
And with this I left him. I went on, laughing to myself inaudibly, till I saw one or two passers-by looking at me so surprisingly that I came to the conclusion that they took me for a madman. I walked briskly, and presently my excitement cooled down.
I returned to the Grand, looking and feeling much better in my new suit. A waiter met me in the corridor and with the most obsequious deference, informed me that ‘His Excellency the Prince’ was waiting for me in his own apartments for lunch.
I found my new friend alone in his sumptuous drawing-room, standing near the large window and holding in his hand an oblong crystal case through which he was looking with an almost affectionate solicitude.
“Ah, Geoffrey! Here you are!” he exclaimed. “I waited for you.”
“Very good of you!” I said, pleased at the friendly familiarity he displayed in thus calling me by my Christian name. “What have you got there?”
“A pet of mine,” he answered, smiling slightly. “Did you ever see anything like it before?”
6
I approached and examined the box he held. It was perforated with holes for the admission of air, and within it lay a brilliant coloured winged insect.
“Is it alive?” I asked.
“It is alive, and has some intelligence,” replied Rimanez. “I feed it and it knows me. It is quite tame and friendly as you perceive.”
He opened the case gently. The beetle expanded its radiant wings, and it rose at once to its protector’s hand. He lifted it and held it aloft, then shaking it to and fro lightly, he exclaimed,
“Off, Sprite! Fly, and return to me!”
The creature was looking like a beautiful iridescent jewel. After a few graceful movements hither and thither, it returned to its owner’s hand, and again settled there.
“There is a well-worn saying which declares that ‘in the midst of life we are in death’,” said the prince. “But that maxim is wrong. It should be ‘in the midst of death we are in life.’ This creature is a rare and curious production of death. I found it myself. Listen. I was present at the uncasing of an Egyptian female mummy. She was a princess of a famous royal house. On her chest was a piece of a gold quarter. Underneath this gold plate, her body was swathed round and round. When these were removed it was discovered that the mummified flesh between her breasts had decayed away, and in the hollow or nest, this insect was found alive!”
I could not repress a slight nervous shudder.
“Horrible!” I said. “If I were you, I should kill it, I think.”
He looked at me.
“Why?” he asked. “I’m afraid, my dear Geoffrey, you are not a scientist. To kill the poor creature who managed to find life in the very bosom of death, is a cruel suggestion, is it not? It has eyes, and the senses of taste, smell, touch and hearing. I accept the idea of the transmigration of souls, and so sometimes I think that perhaps the princess of that Royal Egyptian house had a wicked, brilliant, vampire soul, – and that… here it is!”
A cold thrill ran through me from head to foot at these words, and as I looked at the speaker standing opposite me, with the ‘wicked, brilliant, vampire soul’ on his hand. I examined the weird insect more closely. As I did so, its bright beady eyes sparkled, I thought, vindictively, and I stepped back.
“It is certainly remarkable,” I murmured. “No wonder you value it, as a curiosity. Its eyes are quite distinct, almost intelligent.”
“No doubt she had beautiful eyes,” said Rimanez smiling.
“She? Whom do you mean?”
“The princess, of course!” he answered, evidently amused. “The dear dead lady. Some of her personality must be in this creature: it had nothing but her body to nourish itself upon.”
And here he replaced the creature in its crystal habitation.
“I suppose,” I said slowly, “you think that nothing actually perishes completely?”
“Exactly!” returned Rimanez emphatically. “Nothing can be entirely annihilated; not even a thought.”
I was silent.
“And now for luncheon,” he said gaily, passing his arm through mine. “You look twenty per cent. better than when you went out this morning, Geoffrey.”
Seated at table with the dark-faced Amiel in attendance, I related my morning’s adventures. I told him about the publisher who had on the previous day refused my manuscript, and who now, I felt sure, would be glad to accept the offer I had made. Rimanez listened attentively, smiling.
“Of course!” he said, when I had concluded. “I think he showed remarkable discretion and decency. His pleasant hypocrisy shows him to be a person of tact and foresight. Did you ever imagine a human being or a human conscience that could not be bought? The Pope will sell you a specially reserved seat in his heaven if you give him the cash while he is on earth! Nothing is given free in this world. Everything must be bought – with blood, tears and groans occasionally, – but usually with money.”
I fancied that Amiel, behind his master’s chair, smiled darkly at this. I could not formulate to myself any substantial reason for my aversion to this confidential servant. But the aversion increased each time I saw his sullen and sneering features. Yet he was perfectly respectful and deferential; I could find no fault with him
As soon as we were alone, Rimanez lit a cigar.
“Now let us talk,” he said. “I believe I am at present your best friend, and I certainly know the world better than you do. How will you begin spending your money?”
I laughed.
“Well, I shan’t provide funds for the building of a church or a hospital,” I said. “My dear Prince Rimanez, I mean to spend my money on my own pleasure, and I daresay I shall find plenty of ways to do it.”
“With your fortune, you could make hundreds of miserable people happy;” he suggested.
“Thanks, I would rather be happy myself first,” I answered gaily. “I daresay I seem to you selfish. You are philanthropic I know; I am not.”
He still regarded me steadily.
“You might help your fellow-workers in literature…”
I interrupted him with a decided gesture.
“That I will never do, my friend! My fellow-workers in literature have kicked me down at every opportunity. It is my turn at kicking now, and I will show them as little mercy, as little help, as little sympathy as they have shown me!”
“Revenge is sweet!” he said. “Well, in what, at present does your idea of enjoying your heritage consist?”
“In publishing my book,” I answered.
“Tempest,” he said, looking at me through half-closed eyes and a cloud of smoke, “man gives no clue to his intent – more malignant than the lion, more treacherous than the snake, more greedy than the wolf, he takes his fellow-man’s hand in pretended friendship, and with a smiling face he hides a false and selfish heart!”
His eyes glowed with a fiery ardour. I stared at him in mute amazement. There was something terrifying in his attitude. He caught my wondering glance,
“I think I was born to be an actor,” he said carelessly.
“I think,” I answered him, smiling a little, “you are a creature of impulse.”
“How wise of you!” he exclaimed. “Good Geoffrey Tempest, how very wise of you! But you are wrong. If I told you that I am a dangerous companion, that I like evil things better than good, that I am not a safe guide for any man, what would you think?”
“I’d think you were whimsically fond of underestimating your own qualities,” I said. “But I’d like you anyway.”
At these words, he looked at me:
“Tempest, you follow the fashion of the prettiest women. They always like the greatest scoundrels!”
“But you are not a scoundrel,” I rejoined.
“No, I’m not a scoundrel, but there’s a devil in me.”
“All the better![13]” I said, stretching myself out in my chair with lazy comfort – “I hope there’s something of him in me too.”
“Do you believe in him?” asked Rimanez smiling.
“The devil? Of course not!”
“He is a very fascinating legendary personage,” continued the prince. “Just imagine his fall from heaven! ‘Lucifer Son of the Morning’ – what a title, and what a birthright! Splendid and supreme, at the right hand of Deity itself he stood, this majestic Archangel. At once he perceived in the vista of embryonic things a new small world, and on it a being forming itself slowly. Then Lucifer, full of wrath, turned on the Master of the Spheres, crying aloud: ‘Will you make of this slight poor creature an Angel even as I? I protest against you and condemn! If you make Man in Our image I will destroy him utterly, as unfit to share with me the splendours of Your Wisdom, the glory of Your love!’ And the Supreme Voice replied; ‘Lucifer, Son of the Morning! Fall, proud Spirit from your high estate! Return no more till Man himself redeem you! When the world rejects you, I will pardon and again receive you, – but not till then.’”
“I never heard that version of the legend before,” I said. “The idea that Man should redeem the devil is quite new to me.”
“Is it?” and he looked at me fixedly. “Poor Lucifer! His punishment is of course eternal, and the distance between himself and Heaven must be rapidly increasing every day, for Man will never assist him to retrieve his error. Man will reject God fast enough and gladly enough – but never the devil. Judge then, how this ‘Lucifer, Son of the Morning,’ Satan, or whatever else he is called, must hate Humanity!”
I smiled.
“Well,” I observed. “He need not tempt anybody.”
“You forget!” said Rimanez. “He swore before God that he would destroy Man utterly. He must therefore fulfill that oath, if he can. Men swear in the name of God every day without the slightest intention of carrying out their promises.”
“But it’s all nonsense,” I said impatiently. “All these old legends are rubbish. You tell the story well, that is because you are eloquent. Nowadays no one believes in either devils or angels. I, for example, do not even believe in the soul.”
“I know you do not,” he answered suavely. “And your scepticism is very comfortable because it relieves you of all personal responsibility. I envy you! For – I regret to say, I am compelled to believe in the soul.”
“Compelled! That is absurd – no one can compel you to accept a mere theory.”
He looked at me with a smile.
“True! Very true! There is no compelling force in the whole Universe. Man is the supreme and independent creature, master of all save his personal desire. True – I forgot! Let us avoid theology, please, and psychology also. Let us talk about the only subject that has any sense or interest in it – money. I perceive your present plans are definite, – you wish to publish a book that will make you famous. Have you no wider ambitions?”
I laughed,
“No. I know there is some intellect in my book, and some originality too. Surely that will lift me up.”
“I doubt it!” he answered. “I very much doubt it. It will be received as a production of a rich man amusing himself with literature. But, as I told you before, genius seldom develops itself under the influence of wealth. You, my dear Tempest, are not a Shakespeare, but your millions will give you a better chance than he ever had in his life, as you will not have to sue for patronage. The exalted personages will be delighted to borrow money of you if you lend it.”
“I shall not lend,” I said.
“Nor give?”
“Nor give.”
“I am very glad,” he observed, “that you are determined not to ‘go about doing good’ as the humbugs say, with your money. You are wise. Spend on yourself! As for me, I always help charities, and put my name on subscription-lists[14], and I assist a certain portion of clergy.”
“I rather wonder at that,” I remarked. “Especially as you tell me you are not a Christian.”
“Yes, it seems strange, doesn’t it?” he said with a derision. “But many of the clergy are doing their best to destroy religion, – by cant, by hypocrisy, by sensuality, by shams. When they seek my help in this noble work, I give it, – freely!”
I laughed. At that moment Amiel entered, bearing a telegram for me on a silver salver. I opened it. It was from my friend the publisher, and ran as follows,
“Accept book with pleasure. Send manuscript immediately.”
I showed this to Rimanez with a kind of triumph. He smiled.
“Of course! What else did you expect? It actually means: ‘Accept money for publishing book with pleasure’. Well, what are you going to do?”
“The book must be published as quickly as possible, and I shall personally attend to all the details concerning it. For the rest of my plans…”
“Leave them to me!” said Rimanez.
7
The next three or four weeks flew by in a whirl. By the time they were ended I found it hard to recognize myself in the indolent, listless, extravagant man of fashion I had so suddenly become. The creative faculty was now dormant in me. I did very little, and thought less. But this intellectual apathy was but a passing phase, a mental holiday and desirable cessation from brain-work. My book was nearly through the press. My complacent literary egoism was mixed with a good deal of disagreeable astonishment and incredulity, because my work, written with enthusiasm and feeling, propounded sentiments and theories which I personally did not believe in. Now, how had this happened, I asked myself? How came I to write the book at all? My pen, consciously or unconsciously, had written down things which my reasoning faculties entirely repudiated.
I thought that the book was nobler than its writer. This idea smote me with a sudden pang. I pushed my papers aside, and walking to the window, looked out. It was raining hard, and the streets were black with mud and slush. I was quite alone, for I had my own suite of rooms now in the hotel, not far from those occupied by Prince Rimanez. I also had my own servant, a respectable, good fellow. Then I had my own carriage and horses with coachman and groom. I was in full possession of my fortune, I enjoyed excellent health, and I had everything I wanted. Lucio’s management was very good, and I saw myself mentioned in almost every paper in London and the provinces as the ‘famous millionaire.’ For forty pounds, a well-known ‘agency’ will guarantee the insertion of any paragraph in no less than four hundred newspapers. Money can buy everything.
The persistent paragraphing of my name, together with a description of my personal appearance and my ‘marvellous literary gifts,’ combined with a deferential and almost awestruck allusion to the ‘millions’ which made me so interesting, the paragraph was written out by Lucio, – all this brought upon me two inflictions. First many invitations to social and artistic functions[15], and secondly, a stream of begging-letters[16]. I employed a secretary, who occupied a room near my suite, and who was kept hard at work all day. Needless to say I refused all appeals for money; no one had helped me in my distress, with the exception of my old chum ‘Boffles’.
Yet with all the advantages which I now possessed I could not honestly say I was happy. I knew I could have every possible enjoyment and amusement the world had to offer. I knew I was one of the most envied among men, and yet, I was conscious of a bitterness rather than a sweetness in the full cup of fortune. For example, I had flooded the press with the prominent advertisements of my forthcoming book.
A fog began to darken down over the streets in company with the rain, and disgusted with the weather and with myself, I turned away from the window and settled into an arm-chair by the fire. A tap came at the door, and in answer to my somewhat irritable “Come in!” Rimanez entered.
“What, all in the dark Tempest!” he exclaimed cheerfully. “Why don’t you light up?”
“The fire’s enough,” I answered crossly. “Enough at any rate to think by.”
“And have you been thinking?” he inquired laughing. “Don’t do it. It’s a bad habit. No one thinks nowadays, people can’t stand it[17]. Their heads are too frail. Just begin to think – and the foundations of society will go down. Besides thinking is always dull work.”
“I have found it so,” I said gloomily. “Lucio, there is something wrong about me somewhere.”
“Wrong? Oh no, surely not! What can there be wrong about you, Tempest? Are you not one of the richest men living?”
“Listen, my friend,” I said earnestly. “You know I have been busy for the last fortnight correcting my book for the press. I have come to the conclusion that the book is not Me. It is not a reflex of my feelings at all. I cannot understand how I wrote it.”
“You find it stupid perhaps?” said Lucio sympathetically.
“No,” I answered with indignation. “I do not find it stupid.”
“Dull then?”
“No, – it is not dull.”
“Melodramatic?”
“No, – not melodramatic.”
“Well, my good fellow, if it is not dull or stupid or melodramatic, what is it!” he exclaimed merrily. “It must be something!”
“Yes, it is this, it is beyond me altogether.” And I spoke with some bitterness. “Quite beyond me. I could not write it now. I wonder I could write it then. Lucio, I daresay I am talking foolishly, but it seems to me I must have been on some higher altitude of thought when I wrote the book. A height from which I have since fallen.”
“I’m sorry to hear this,” he answered, with twinkling eyes. “From what you say it appears to me you have been guilty of literary sublimity. Oh bad, very bad! Nothing can be worse. To write sublimely is a grievous sin, and one which critics never forgive. I’m really grieved for you, my friend.”