The Sorrows of Satan (Horror Classic). Marie Corelli
much as you can about sexual matters and the bearing of children,—in brief, discourse of men and women simply as cattle who exist merely for breeding purposes, and your success will be enormous. There’s not a critic living who won’t applaud you,—there’s not a school-girl of fifteen who will not gloat over your pages in the silence of her virginal bedroom!”
Such a flash of withering derision darted from his eyes as startled me,—I could find no words to answer him for the moment, and he went on—
“What put it into your head, my dear Tempest, to write a book dealing with, as you say, ‘the noblest forms of life’? There are no noble forms of life left on this planet,—it is all low and commercial,—man is a pigmy, and his aims are pigmy like himself. For noble forms of life seek other worlds!—there are others. Then again, people don’t want their thoughts raised or purified in the novels they read for amusement—they go to church for that, and get very bored during the process. And why should you wish to comfort folks who, out of their own sheer stupidity generally, get into trouble? They wouldn’t comfort you,—they would not give you sixpence to save you from starvation. My good fellow, leave your quixotism behind you with your poverty. Live your life to yourself,—if you do anything for others they will only treat you with the blackest ingratitude,—so take my advice, and don’t sacrifice your own personal interests for any consideration whatever.”
He rose from the table as he spoke and stood with his back to the bright fire, smoking his cigar tranquilly,—and I gazed at his handsome figure and face with just the faintest thrill of pained doubt darkening my admiration.
“If you were not so good-looking I should call you heartless”—I said at last—“But your features are a direct contradiction to your words. You have not really that indifference to human nature which you strive to assume,—your whole aspect betokens a generosity of spirit which you cannot conquer if you would. Besides, are you not always trying to do good?”
He smiled.
“Always! That is, I am always at work endeavouring to gratify every man’s desire. Whether that is good of me, or bad, remains to be proved. Men’s wants are almost illimitable,—the only thing none of them ever seem to wish, so far as I am concerned, is to cut my acquaintance!”
“Why, of course not! After once meeting you, how could they!” I said, laughing at the absurdity of the suggestion.
He gave me a whimsical side-look.
“Their desires are not always virtuous,” he remarked, turning to flick off the ash of his cigar into the grate.
“But of course you do not gratify them in their vices!” I rejoined, still laughing—“That would be playing the part of a benefactor somewhat too thoroughly!”
“Ah now I see we shall flounder in the quicksands of theory if we go any further”—he said—“You forget, my dear fellow, that nobody can decide as to what is vice, or what is virtue. These things are chameleon-like, and take different colours in different countries. Abraham had two or three wives and several concubines, and he was the very soul of virtue according to sacred lore,—whereas my Lord Tom-Noddy in London to-day has one wife and several concubines, and is really very much like Abraham in other particulars, yet he is considered a very dreadful person. ‘Who shall decide when doctors disagree!’ Let’s drop the subject, as we shall never settle it. What shall we do with the rest of the evening? There is a stout-limbed, shrewd wench at the Tivoli, dancing her way into the affections of a ricketty little Duke,—shall we go and watch the admirable contortions with which she is wriggling into a fixed position among the English aristocracy? Or are you tired, and would you prefer a long night’s rest?”
To tell the truth I was thoroughly fatigued, and mentally as well as physically worn out with the excitements of the day,—my head too was heavy with the wine to which I had so long been unaccustomed.
“Upon my word I think I would rather go to bed than anything—” I confessed—“But what about my room?”
“Oh, Amiel will have attended to that for you,—we’ll ask him.” And he touched the bell. His valet instantly appeared.
“Have you got a room for Mr Tempest?”
“Yes, your Excellency. An apartment in this corridor almost facing your Excellency’s suite. It is not as well furnished as it might be, but I have made it as comfortable as I can for the night.”
“Thanks very much!” I said—“I am greatly obliged to you.”
Amiel bowed deferentially.
“Thank you, sir.”
He retired, and I moved to bid my host good-night. He took my proffered hand, and held it in his, looking at me curiously the while.
“I like you, Geoffrey Tempest;” he said—“And because I like you, and because I think there are the makings of something higher than mere earthy brute in you, I am going to make you what you may perhaps consider rather a singular proposition. It is this,—that if you don’t like me, say so at once, and we will part now, before we have time to know anything more of each other, and I will endeavour not to cross your path again unless you seek me out. But if on the contrary, you do like me,—if you find something in my humour or turn of mind congenial to your own disposition, give me your promise that you will be my friend and comrade for a while, say for a few months at any rate. I can take you into the best society, and introduce you to the prettiest women in Europe as well as the most brilliant men. I know them all, and I believe I can be useful to you. But if there is the smallest aversion to me lurking in the depths of your nature”—here he paused,—then resumed with extraordinary solemnity—“in God’s name give it full way and let me go,—because I swear to you in all sober earnest that I am not what I seem!”
Strongly impressed by his strange look and stranger manner, I hesitated one moment,—and on that moment, had I but known it, hung my future. It was true,—I had felt a passing shadow of distrust and repulsion for this fascinating yet cynical man, and he seemed to have guessed it. But now every suspicion of him vanished from my mind, and I clasped his hand with renewed heartiness.
“My dear fellow, your warning comes too late!” I said mirthfully—“Whatever you are, or whatever you choose to think you are, I find you most sympathetic to my disposition, and I consider myself most fortunate in knowing you. My old friend Carrington has indeed done me a good turn in bringing us together, and I assure you I shall be proud of your companionship. You seem to take a perverse delight in running yourself down!—but you know the old adage, ‘the devil is not so black as he is painted’?”
“And that is true!” he murmured dreamily—“Poor devil! His faults are no doubt much exaggerated by the clergy! And so we are to be friends?”
“I hope so! I shall not be the first to break the compact!”
His dark eyes rested upon me thoughtfully, yet there seemed to be a lurking smile in them as well.
“Compact is a good word”—he said—“So,—a compact we will consider it. I meant to improve your material fortunes,—you can dispense with that aid now; but I think I can still be of service in pushing you on in society. And love—of course you will fall in love if you have not already done so,—have you?”
“Not I!” I answered quickly, and with truth—“I have seen no woman yet who perfectly fulfils my notions of beauty.”
He burst out laughing violently.
“Upon my word you are not wanting in audacity!” he said—“Nothing but perfect beauty will suit you, eh? But consider, my friend, you, though a good-looking well-built man, are not yourself quite a Phœbus Apollo!”
“That has nothing to do with the matter”—I rejoined—“A man should choose a wife with a careful eye to his own personal gratification, in the same way that he chooses horses or wine,—perfection or nothing.”
“And the woman?”—Rimânez demanded, his eyes twinkling.