Скорбь сатаны / The sorrows of Satan. Уровень 4

“True! But may not inspiration refuse to flow from a full purse and an empty head?”

This remark provoked me not a little.

“Do you consider me empty-headed?” I asked with some vexation.

“Not at present. My dear Tempest, I assure you I do not think you empty-headed. On the contrary, your head, I believe from what I have heard, has been and is full of ideas, excellent ideas, original ideas, which the world of criticism does not want. But whether these ideas will continue to germinate in your brain, or whether, with the full purse, they will cease, is now the question. Great originality and inspiration, strange to say, seldom endow the millionaire. Inspiration is supposed to come from above, money from below! In your case however both originality and inspiration may continue to flourish and bring forth fruit, I trust they may. It often happens, nevertheless that when bags of money fall to the genius, God departs and the devil walks in. Have you never heard that?”

“Never!” I answered smiling.

“Well, of course the proverb is foolish, and sounds ridiculous in this age when people believe in neither God nor devil. However one must choose: an up or a down. Genius is the Up, money is the Down. You cannot fly and grovel at the same instant.”

“The possession of money does not force a man to grovel,” I said. “It is the one thing necessary to strengthen his powers and lift him to the greatest heights.”

“You think so?” and my host lit his cigar. “Then I’m afraid, you don’t know much about what I call natural psychology. What belongs to the earth tends earthwards, surely you realize that? Gold belongs to the earth, you dig it out of the ground, it is a metal. Genius belongs to nobody knows where. You cannot dig it up. It is a rare visitant and capricious as the wind.”

I laughed.

“Upon my word you preach very eloquently against wealth!” I said. “You yourself are unusually rich, are you sorry for it?”

“No, I am not sorry, because being sorry would be no use,” he returned. “And I never waste my time. But I am telling you the truth. Genius and great riches hardly ever pull together. Anyway, let’s return to the subject of your literary career. You have written a book, you say. Well, publish it and see the result. What is your story about? I hope it is improper?”

“It certainly is not,” I replied warmly. “It is a romance dealing with the noblest forms of life and highest ambitions. I wrote it with the intention of elevating and purifying the thoughts of my readers. I waned to comfort those who had suffered loss or sorrow…”

Rimanez smiled compassionately.

“Ah, it won’t do!” he interrupted. “I assure you it won’t; it doesn’t fit the age. It must simply be indecent. That is giving you a good wide margin. Write about sexual matters and the bearing of children, in brief, discourse of men and women simply as cattle, and your success will be enormous!”

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,

“Why, my dear Tempest, do you 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. People don’t want their thoughts raised or purified in the novels they read for amusement. They go to church for that. My good fellow, leave your extravagant behaviour 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. 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. I gazed at his handsome figure and face.

“If you were not so good-looking I should call you heartless,” I said. “But your features are a direct contradiction to your words. 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 is to cut my acquaintance!”

“Why, of course not! After once meeting you, how could they!” I said.

He gave me a whimsical side-look.

“Their desires are not always virtuous,” he remarked.

“But of course you do not gratify them in their vices!” I rejoined, laughing.

“Ah now I see we shall flounder in the sands 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 today has one wife and several concubines, and is really very much like Abraham in other particulars, yet he is considered a very dreadful person. Let’s drop the subject. What shall we do with the rest of the evening? Will we go to the theater? 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.

“I think I would rather go to bed,” 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. 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. The Prince took my hand, and held it in his, looking at me.

“I like you, Geoffrey Tempest;” he said – “And because I like 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 like me, give me your promise that you will be my friend and comrade for a while, say for a few months. 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, let me go, because I swear to you that I am not what I seem!”

I was strongly impressed by his strange look and stranger manner. It was true, I had felt a shadow of distrust and repulsion for this fascinating yet cynical man, and he guessed it. But now every suspicion of him vanished from my mind, and I clasped his hand with heartiness.

“My dear fellow, it’s too late!” I said mirthfully. “Whatever you are, I find you most sympathetic to my disposition, and I consider myself most fortunate in knowing you. I assure you I shall be proud of your companionship. 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 friends?”

“I hope so! I shall not be the first to break the compact!”

His dark eyes rested upon me thoughtfully.

“Compact is a good word,” he said. “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,

“Nothing but perfect beauty will suit you, eh? But consider, my friend, you, though a good-looking well-built man, are not yourself quite Apollo!”

“That has nothing to do with the matter,” I rejoined. “A man should choose a wife with a careful eye, in the same way that he chooses horses or wine, – perfection or nothing.”

“And the woman?” Rimanez demanded.

“The woman has really no right of choice,” I responded. “A man is always a man, a woman is only a man’s appendage. Without beauty she cannot put forth any just claim to his admiration or his support.”

“Right! Very right, and logically argued!” he exclaimed, becoming serious in a moment. “I myself have no sympathy with the new ideas concerning the intellectuality of woman. She is simply the female of man, she has no real soul, she is incapable of forming a correct opinion on any subject. And in the present age she is becoming more than ever unmanageable.”

“It is only a passing phase,” I returned carelessly. “I care very little for women – I doubt whether I shall ever marry.”