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

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.”

“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] subscription-lists – подписные листы , 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.

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.