Мария Корелли - Скорбь сатаны / The sorrows of Satan. Уровень 4

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] social and artistic functions – общественные и артистические должности , and secondly, a stream of begging-letters [16] begging-letters – просительные письма . 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] can’t stand it – не могут этого выдержать . 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.”

I laughed in spite of my depression.

“You are incorrigible, Lucio!” I said. “But your cheerfulness is very inspiriting. All I wanted to explain to you is this, that my book expresses a certain tone of thought which is not me. I, in my present self have no sympathy with it. I must have changed very much since I wrote it.”

“Changed? Why yes, I should think so!” and Lucio laughed heartily. “The possession of five millions changes a man considerably for the better – or worse! But you seem to be worrying yourself about nothing. Not one author in many centuries writes from his own heart or as he truly feels. When he does, he becomes immortal. This planet is too limited to hold more than one Homer, one Plato, one Shakespeare. Don’t distress yourself – you are neither of these three! You belong to the age, Tempest. Observe the signs of the time. Art is subordinate to the love of money – literature, politics and religion the same. You cannot escape from the general disease. The only thing to do is to make the best of it [18] to make the best of it – извлечь из этого выгоду . No one can reform it.”

He paused. I was silent.

“What I am going to say now,” he proceeded, “will sound ridiculous. In order to write with intense feeling, you must first feel. When you wrote this book of yours, you were almost a human hedgehog in the way of feeling. The ‘change’ you complain of is this: you have nothing to feel about.”

I was irritated.

“Do you take me for a callous creature?” I exclaimed. “You are mistaken in me, Lucio. I feel most keenly…”

“What do you feel?” he inquired, fixing his eyes steadily upon me. “There are hundreds of starving wretches in this metropolis, men and women on the brink of suicide because they have no hope of anything in this world or the next – do you feel for them? Do their grieves affect you? You know they do not, you know you never think of them, why should you? One of the chief advantages of wealth is the ability to shut out other people’s miseries from our personal consideration.”

I said nothing. He was right.

“Yesterday,” he went on in the same quiet voice, “ a child was run over here [19] a child was run over here – здесь переехали ребёнка , just opposite this hotel. It was only a poor child. Its mother ran shrieking out of a back-street, just to see the little bleeding body. She struck wildly with both hands at the men who were trying to lead her away. And then with a cry she fell face forward in the mud – dead. She was only a poor woman. I simply tell you the ‘sad incident’ as it occurred, and I am sure you are not sorry for the fate of either the child or its mother who died in the agony. Now don’t say you are, because I know you’re not!”

“How can one feel sorry for people one does not know or has never seen…” I began.

“Exactly! How is it possible? How can one feel, when one’s self is thoroughly comfortable? Thus, my dear Geoffrey, you must be content to let your book appear as the reflex and record of your past when you were in the sensitive stage. Now you are encased in a pachydermatous covering of gold, which adequately protects you from such influences.”