Скорбь сатаны / The sorrows of Satan. Уровень 4

“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 - All the better! – Тем лучше!]” 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.”