The Sorrows of Satan. Мария Корелли

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СКАЧАТЬ you have them still I am sure”—I averred, looking expressively at his noble head and fine eyes.

      The strange subtle smile I had noticed once or twice before lightened his face. “Ah, you mean to compliment me!” he said—“You like my looks,—many people do. Yet after all there is nothing so deceptive as one’s outward appearance. The reason of this is that as soon as childhood is past, we are always pretending to be what we are not,—and thus, with constant practice from our youth up, we manage to make our physical frames complete disguises for our actual selves. It is really wise and clever of us,—for hence each individual is so much flesh-wall through which neither friend nor enemy can spy. Every man is a solitary soul imprisoned in a self-made den,—when he is quite alone he knows and frequently hates himself,—sometimes he even gets afraid of the gaunt and murderous monster he keeps hidden behind his outwardly pleasant body-mask, and hastens to forget its frightful existence in drink and debauchery. That is what I do occasionally,—you would not think it of me, would you?”

      “Never!” I replied quickly, for something in his voice and aspect moved me strangely—“You belie yourself, and wrong your own nature.”

      He laughed softly.

      “Perhaps I do!” he said carelessly—“This much you may believe of me—that I am no worse than most men! Now to return to the subject of your literary career,—you have written a book, you say,—well, publish it and see the result—if you only make one ‘hit’ that is something. And there are ways of arranging that the ‘hit’ shall be made. What is your story about? I hope it is improper?”

      “It certainly is not;”—I replied warmly—“It is a romance dealing with the noblest forms of life and highest ambitions;—I wrote it with the intention of elevating and purifying the thoughts of my readers, and wished if I could, to comfort those who had suffered loss or sorrow—”

      Rimânez smiled compassionately.

      “Ah, it won’t do!” he interrupted—“I assure you it won’t;—it doesn’t fit the age. It might go down, possibly, if you could give a ‘first-night’ of it as it were to the critics, like one of my most intimate friends, Henry Irving,—a ‘first-night’ combined with an excellent supper and any amount of good drinks going. Otherwise it’s no use. If it is to succeed by itself, it must not attempt to be literature,—it must simply be indecent. As indecent as you can make it without offending advanced women,—that is giving you a good wide margin. Put in as much as you can about sexual matters and the bearing of children,—in brief, discourse of men and women simply as cattle who exist merely for breeding purposes, and your success will be enormous. There’s not a critic living who won’t applaud you,—there’s not a school-girl of fifteen who will not gloat over your pages in the silence of her virginal bedroom!”

      Such a flash of withering derision darted from his eyes as startled me,—I could find no words to answer him for the moment, and he went on—

      “What put it into your head, my dear Tempest, to write a book dealing with, as you say, ‘the noblest forms of life’? There are no noble forms of life left on this planet,—it is all low and commercial,—man is a pigmy, and his aims are pigmy like himself. For noble forms of life seek other worlds!—there are others. Then again, people don’t want their thoughts raised or purified in the novels they read for amusement—they go to church for that, and get very bored during the process. And why should you wish to comfort folks who, out of their own sheer stupidity generally, get into trouble? They wouldn’t comfort you,—they would not give you sixpence to save you from starvation. My good fellow, leave your quixotism behind you with your poverty. Live your life to yourself,—if you do anything for others they will only treat you with the blackest ingratitude,—so take my advice, and don’t sacrifice your own personal interests for any consideration whatever.”

      He rose from the table as he spoke and stood with his back to the bright fire, smoking his cigar tranquilly,—and I gazed at his handsome figure and face with just the faintest thrill of pained doubt darkening my admiration.

      “If you were not so good-looking I should call you heartless”—I said at last—“But your features are a direct contradiction to your words. You have not really that indifference to human nature which you strive to assume,—your whole aspect betokens a generosity of spirit which you cannot conquer if you would. Besides, are you not always trying to do good?”

      He smiled.

      “Always! That is, I am always at work endeavouring to gratify every man’s desire. Whether that is good of me, or bad, remains to be proved. Men’s wants are almost illimitable,—the only thing none of them ever seem to wish, so far as I am concerned, is to cut my acquaintance!”

      “Why, of course not! After once meeting you, how could they!” I said, laughing at the absurdity of the suggestion.

      He gave me a whimsical side-look.

      “Their desires are not always virtuous,” he remarked, turning to flick off the ash of his cigar into the grate.

      “But of course you do not gratify them in their vices!” I rejoined, still laughing—“That would be playing the part of a benefactor somewhat too thoroughly!”

      “Ah now I see we shall flounder in the quicksands of theory if we go any further”—he said—“You forget, my dear fellow, that nobody can decide as to what is vice, or what is virtue. These things are chameleon-like, and take different colours in different countries. Abraham had two or three wives and several concubines, and he was the very soul of virtue according to sacred lore,—whereas my Lord Tom-Noddy in London to-day has one wife and several concubines, and is really very much like Abraham in other particulars, yet he is considered a very dreadful person. ‘Who shall decide when doctors disagree!’ Let’s drop the subject, as we shall never settle it. What shall we do with the rest of the evening? There is a stout-limbed, shrewd wench at the Tivoli, dancing her way into the affections of a ricketty little Duke,—shall we go and watch the admirable contortions with which she is wriggling into a fixed position among the English aristocracy? Or are you tired, and would you prefer a long night’s rest?”

      To tell the truth I was thoroughly fatigued, and mentally as well as physically worn out with the excitements of the day,—my head too was heavy with the wine to which I had so long been unaccustomed.

      “Upon my word I think I would rather go to bed than anything—” I confessed—“But what about my room?”

      “Oh, Amiel will have attended to that for you,—we’ll ask him.” And he touched the bell. His valet instantly appeared.

      “Have you got a room for Mr Tempest?”

      “Yes, your Excellency. An apartment in this corridor almost facing your Excellency’s suite. It is not as well furnished as it might be, but I have made it as comfortable as I can for the night.”

      “Thanks very much!” I said—“I am greatly obliged to you.”

      Amiel bowed deferentially.

      “Thank you, sir.”

      He retired, and I moved to bid my host good-night. He took my proffered hand, and held it in his, looking at me curiously the while.

      “I like you, Geoffrey Tempest;” he said—“And because I like you, and because I think there are the makings of something higher than mere earthy brute in you, I am going to make you what you may perhaps consider rather a singular proposition. It is this,—that if you don’t like me, say so at once, and we will part now, before СКАЧАТЬ