Скорбь сатаны / The sorrows of Satan. Уровень 4. Мария Корелли
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,”
subscription-lists – подписные листы
social and artistic functions – общественные и артистические должности
begging-letters – просительные письма
can’t stand it – не могут этого выдержать