Satan’s Diary Leonid Andreyev (ebook reader play store TXT) 📖

not talk about? I wept for my sad childhood, spent in labor and privation; I whined about my poor father who perished in a match factory. I prayed solemnly for all my brothers and sisters in Christ. The swamp I created was so huge that the journalists caught enough wild ducks to last them for six months. How we wept!

I shivered with the dampness and began to beat energetically the drum of my billions: dumdum! Everything for others, not a cent for me: dumdum! With a brazenness worthy of the whip I concluded “with the words of the Great Teacher:”

“Come ye unto me all who are heavy-laden and weary and I will comfort ye!”

Ah, what a pity I cannot perform miracles! A little practical miracle, something on the order of transforming a bottle of water into one of sour Chianti or some of the worshippers into pastry, would have gone a long way at that moment.⁠—You laugh and are angry, my earthy reader? There is no reason for you to act thus. Remember only that the extraordinary cannot be expressed in your ventriloquist language and that my words are merely a cursed mask for my thoughts.

Maria!

You will read of my success in the newspapers. There was one fool, however, who almost spoiled my day for me: he was a member of the Salvation Army. He came to see me and suggested that I immediately take up a trumpet and lead the army into battle⁠—they were too cheap laurels he offered and I drove him out. But Toppi⁠—he was triumphantly silent all the way home and finally he said very respectfully:

“You were in fine mettle today, Mr. Wondergood. I even wept. It is a pity that neither Magnus nor his daughter heard you preach, She⁠—she would have changed her opinion of us.”

You understand, of course, that I felt like kicking this admirer out of the carriage! I again felt in the pupils of my eyes the piercing sting of hers. The speed with which I was again turned inside out and spread out on a plate for the public’s view is equal only to that with which an experienced waiter opens a can of conserves. I drew my top hat over my eyes, raised the collar of my coat and looking very much like a tragedian just hissed off the stage, I rode silently, and without acknowledging the greetings showered upon me, I proceeded to my apartments. Ah, that gaze of Maria! And how could I have acknowledged the greetings when I had no cane with me?

I have declined all of today’s invitations and am at home: I am engaged in “religious meditation”⁠—this was how Toppi announced it to the journalists. He has really begun to respect me. Before me are whiskey and champagne. I am slowly filling up on the liquor while from the dining hall below come the distant strains of music. My Wondergood was apparently considerable of a drunkard and every night he drags me to the wineshop, to which I interpose no objection. What’s the difference? Fortunately his intoxication is of a merry kind and we make quite a pleasant time of it. At first we cast our dull eyes over the furniture and involuntarily begin to calculate the value of all this bronze, these carpets, Venetian mirrors, etc.

“A trifle!” we agree, and with peculiar self-satisfaction we lose ourselves in the contemplation of our own billions, of our power and our remarkable wisdom and character. Our bliss increases with each additional glass. With peculiar pleasure we wallow in the cheap luxury of the hotel, and⁠—think of it!⁠—I am actually beginning to have a liking for bronze, carpets, glass and stones. My Puritan Toppi condemns luxury. It reminds him of Sodom and Gommorah. But it is difficult for me to part with these little emotional pleasures. How silly of me!

We continue to listen dully and half-heartedly to the music and venture to whistle some accompaniments. We add a little contemplation on the decollete of the ladies and then, with our step still firm, we proceed to our resting room.

But we were just ready for bed when suddenly I felt as if someone had struck me a blow and I was immediately seized with a tempest of tears, of love and sadness. The extraordinary suddenly found expression. I grew as broad as space, as deep as eternity and I embraced all in a single breath! But, oh, what sadness! Oh, what love, Maria!

But I am nothing more than a subterranean lake in the belly of Wondergood and my storms in no way disturb his firm tread. I am only a solitaire in his stomach, of which he seeks to rid himself!

We ring for the servants.

“Soda!”

I am simply drunk. Arrivederci, Signor, buona notte!

Rome, Hotel “Internationale.”

Yesterday I visited Magnus. I was compelled to wait long for him, in the garden, and when he did appear he was so cold and indifferent that I felt like leaving. I observed a few gray hairs in his black beard. I had not noticed them before. Was Maria unwell? I appeared concerned. Everything here is so uncertain that on leaving a person for one hour one may have to seek him in eternity.

“Maria is well, thank you,” replied Magnus, frigidly. He seemed surprised as if my question were presumptuous and improper. “And how are your affairs, Mr. Wondergood? The Roman papers are filled with news of you. You are scoring a big success.”

With pain aggravated by the absence of Maria, I revealed to Magnus my disappointment and my ennui. I spoke well, not without wit and sarcasm. I grew more and more provoked by his lack of attention and interest, plainly written on his pale and weary face. Not once did he smile or venture to put any questions, but when I reached the story of my “nephew” he frowned in displeasure and said:

“Fie! This is a cheap variety farce! How can you occupy yourself with such trifles, Mr. Wondergood?”

I replied angrily:

“But