The Sorrows of Satan. Мария Корелли

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СКАЧАТЬ separate establishments. On this particular afternoon I was in a more miserable humour than ever my poverty had brought upon me, yet from a strictly reasonable point of view I had nothing to be miserable about. I was in full possession of my fortune,—I enjoyed excellent health, and I had everything I wanted, with the added consciousness that if my wants increased I could gratify them easily. The ‘paragraph wheel’ under Lucio’s management had been worked with such good effect that I had seen myself mentioned in almost every paper in London and the provinces as the ‘famous millionaire,’—and for the benefit of the public, who are sadly uninstructed on these matters, I may here state as a very plain unvarnished truth, that for forty pounds[1],a well-known ‘agency’ will guarantee the insertion of any paragraph, provided it is not libellous, in no less than four hundred newspapers. The art of ‘booming’ is thus easily explained, and level-headed people will be able to comprehend why it is that a few names of authors are constantly mentioned in the press, while others, perhaps more deserving, remain ignored. Merit counts as nothing in such circumstances,—money wins the day. And 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 awe-struck allusion to the ‘millions’ which made me so interesting—(the paragraph was written out by Lucio and handed for circulation to the ‘agency’ aforesaid with ‘money down’)—all this I say brought upon me two inflictions,—first, any amount of invitations to social and artistic functions,—and secondly, a continuous stream of begging-letters. I was compelled to employ 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,’—no one save he had given me even so much as a word of sympathy,—I was resolved now to be as hard and as merciless as I had found my contemporaries. I had a certain grim pleasure in reading letters from two or three literary men, asking for work ‘as secretary or companion,’ or failing that, for the loan of a little cash to ‘tide over present difficulties.’ One of these applicants was a journalist on the staff of a well-known paper who had promised to find me work, and who instead of doing so, had, as I afterwards learned, strongly dissuaded his editor from giving me any employment. He never imagined that Tempest the millionaire, and Tempest the literary hack, were one and the same person,—so little do the majority think that wealth can ever fall to the lot of authors! I wrote to him myself however and told him what I deemed it well he should know, adding my sarcastic thanks for his friendly assistance to me in time of need,—and herein I tasted something of the sharp delight of vengeance. I never heard from him again, and I am pretty sure my letter gave him material not only for astonishment but meditation.

      Yet with all the advantages over both friends and enemies 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,—as I stood looking out of the window at the persistently falling rain, I was conscious of a bitterness rather than a sweetness in the full cup of fortune. Many things that I had imagined would give me intense satisfaction had fallen curiously flat. For example, I had flooded the press with the most carefully worded and prominent advertisements of my forthcoming book, and when I was poor I had pictured to myself how I should revel in doing this,—now that it was done I cared nothing at all about it. I was simply weary of the sight of my own advertised name. I certainly did look forward with very genuine feeling and expectation to the publication of my work when that should be an accomplished fact,—but to-day even that idea had lost some of its attractiveness owing to this new and unpleasant impression on my mind that the contents of that book were as utterly the reverse of my own true thoughts as they could well be. 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, poking the coal till it blazed, and wondering what I should do to rid my mind of the gloom that threatened to envelop it in as thick a canopy as that of the London fog. A tap came at the door, and in answer to my somewhat irritable “Come in!” Rimânez 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 now-a-days,—people can’t stand it—their heads are too frail. Once begin to think and down go the foundations of society,—besides thinking is always dull work.”

      “I have found it so,” I said gloomily—“Lucio, there is something wrong about me somewhere.”

      His eyes flashed keen, half-amused inquiry into mine.

      “Wrong? Oh no, surely not! What can there be wrong about you, Tempest? Are you not one of the richest men living?”

      I let the satire pass.

      “Listen, my friend,” I said earnestly—“You know I have been busy for the last fortnight correcting the proofs of my book for the press,—do you not?”

      He nodded with a smiling air.

      “Well I have arrived almost at the end of my work and I have come to the conclusion that the book is not Me,—it is not a reflex of my feelings at all,—and I cannot understand how I came to write it.”

      “You find it stupid perhaps?” said Lucio sympathetically.

      “No,” I answered with a touch of 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 never thought your case was quite so desperate.”

      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 purporting to be mine, is not me,—in short, 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 is bound to change a man considerably for the better—or worse! But you seem to be worrying yourself most absurdly about nothing. Not one author in many centuries writes from his own heart or as he truly feels—when he does, he becomes well-nigh 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,—it is a decadent ephemeral age, and most things connected with it are decadent and ephemeral. СКАЧАТЬ