The Sorrows of Satan. Мария Корелли

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СКАЧАТЬ my beliefs,—my crack-brained theories,—were worth anything,—which they are not—I could claim the only positive existing part of our late acquaintance Viscount Lynton! But,—where and how to send in my account with him? If I were Satan now…”

      I forced a faint smile.

      “You would have cause to rejoice!” I said.

      He moved two paces towards me, and laid his hands gently on my shoulders.

      “No, Geoffrey”—and his rich voice had a strange soft music in it—“No, my friend! If I were Satan I should probably lament!—for every lost soul would of necessity remind me of my own fall, my own despair,—and set another bar between myself and heaven! Remember,—the very Devil was an Angel once!”

      His eyes smiled, and yet I could have sworn there were tears in them. I wrung his hand hard,—I felt that notwithstanding his assumed coldness and cynicism, the fate of young Lynton had affected him profoundly. My liking for him gained new fervour from this impression, and I went to bed more at ease with myself and things in general. During the few minutes I spent in undressing I became even able to contemplate the tragedy of the evening with less regret and greater calmness,—for it was certainly no use worrying over the irrevocable,—and, after all, what interest had the Viscount’s life for me? None. I began to ridicule myself for my own weakness and disinterested emotion,—and presently, being thoroughly fatigued, fell sound asleep. Towards morning however, perhaps about four or five o’clock, I woke suddenly as though touched by an invisible hand. I was shivering violently, and my body was bathed in a cold perspiration. In the otherwise dark room there was something strangely luminous, like a cloud of white smoke or fire. I started up, rubbing my eyes,—and stared before me for a moment, doubting the evidence of my own senses. For, plainly visible and substantially distinct, at a distance of perhaps five paces from my bed, stood three Figures, muffled in dark garments and closely hooded. So solemnly inert they were,—so heavily did their sable draperies fall about them that it was impossible to tell whether they were men or women,—but what paralysed me with amazement and terror was the strange light that played around and above them,—the spectral, wandering, chill radiance that illumined them like the rays of a faint wintry moon. I strove to cry out,—but my tongue refused to obey me—and my voice was strangled in my throat. The Three remained absolutely motionless,—and again I rubbed my eyes, wondering if this were a dream or some hideous optical delusion. Trembling in every limb, I stretched my hand towards the bell intending to ring violently for assistance,—when—a Voice, low and thrilling with intense anguish, caused me to shrink back appalled, and my arm fell nerveless at my side. “Misery!”

      The word struck the air with a harsh reproachful clang, and I nearly swooned with the horror of it. For now one of the Figures moved, and a face gleamed out from beneath its hooded wrappings—a face white as whitest marble and fixed into such an expression of dreadful despair as froze my blood. Then came a deep sigh that was more like a death-groan, and again the word, “Misery!” shuddered upon the silence.

      Mad with fear, and scarcely knowing what I did, I sprang from the bed, and began desperately to advance upon these fantastic masqueraders, determined to seize them and demand the meaning of this practical and untimely jest,—when suddenly all Three lifted their heads and turned their faces on me,—such faces!—indescribably awful in their pallid agony,—and a whisper more ghastly than a shriek, penetrated the very fibres of my consciousness—“Misery!”

      With a furious bound I flung myself upon them,—my hands struck empty space. Yet there—distinct as ever—they stood, glowering down upon me, while my clenched fists beat impotently through and beyond their seemingly corporeal shapes! And then—all at once—I became aware of their eyes,—eyes that watched me pitilessly, stedfastly, and disdainfully,—eyes that like witch-fires, seemed to slowly burn terrific meanings into my very flesh and spirit. Convulsed and almost frantic with the strain on my nerves, I abandoned myself to despair,—this awful sight meant death I thought,—my last hour had surely come! Then—I saw the lips of one of those dreadful faces move … some superhuman instinct in me leaped to life, … in some strange way I thought I knew, or guessed the horror of what that next utterance would be, … and with all my remaining force I cried out—

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      Примечания

      1

      A fact.

      2

      The author has Mr Knowles’s own written authority for this fact.

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