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

it is not I who am occupying myself with them, Signor Magnus!”

“And how about the interviews? What about that flight of yours? You should drive them away. This humbles your⁠ ⁠… three billions. And is it true that you delivered some sort of a sermon?”

The joy of play forsook me. Unwilling as Magnus was to listen to me, I told him all about my sermon and those credulous fools who swallowed sacrilege as they do marmalade.

“And did you expect anything different, Mr. Wondergood?”

“I expected that they would fall upon me with clubs for my audacity: When I sacrilegiously bandied about the words of the Testament.⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes, they are beautiful words,” agreed Magnus. “But didn’t you know that all their worship of God and all their faith are nothing but sacrilege? When they term a wafer the body of Christ, while some Sixtus or Pius reigns undisturbed, and with the approval of all Catholics as the Vicar of Christ, why should not you, an American from Illinois, call yourself at least⁠ ⁠… his governor? This is not meant as sacrilege, Mr. Wondergood. These are simply allegories, highly convenient for blockheads, and you are only wasting your wrath. But when will you get down to business?”

I threw up my hands in skillfully simulated sorrow:

“I want to do something, but I know not what to do. I shall probably never get down to business until you, Magnus, agree to come to my aid.”

He frowned, at his own large, motionless, white hands and then at me:

“You are too credulous, Mr. Wondergood. This is a great fault when one has three billions. No, I am of no use to you. Our roads are far apart.”

“But, dear Magnus!⁠ ⁠…”

I expected him to strike me for this gentle dear, which I uttered in my best possible falsetto. But I ventured to continue. With all the sweetness I managed to accumulate in Rome, I looked upon the dim physiognomy of my friend and in a still gentler falsetto, I asked:

“And of what nationality are you, my dear⁠ ⁠… Signor Magnus? I suspect for some reason that you are not Italian?”

He replied calmly:

“No, I am not Italian.”

“But where is your country?⁠—”

“My country?⁠ ⁠… Omne solum liberam libero patria. I suppose you do not know Latin? It means: Where freedom is there is the fatherland of every free man. Will you take breakfast with me?”

The invitation was couched in such icy tones and Maria’s absence was so strongly implied therein that I was compelled to decline it politely. The devil take this man! I was not at all in a merry mood that morning. I fervently wished to weep upon his breast while he mercilessly threw cold showers upon my noblest transports. I sighed and changed my pose. I assumed a pose prepared especially for Maria. Speaking in a low voice, I said:

“I want to be frank with you, Signor Magnus. My past⁠ ⁠… contains many dark pages, which I should like to redeem. I.⁠ ⁠…”

He quickly interrupted me:

“There are dark pages in everybody’s past, Mr. Wondergood. I myself am not so clear of reproach as to accept the confession of such a worthy gentleman.”

“I am a poor spiritual father,” he added with a most unpleasant laugh: “I never pardon sinners and, in view of that, what pleasure could there be for you in your confession. Better tell me something more about your nephew. Is he young?”

We spoke about my nephew⁠—and Magnus smiled. A pause ensued. Then Magnus asked whether I had visited the Vatican gallery and I bade him goodbye, requesting him to transmit my compliments to Maria. I confess I was a sorry sight and felt deeply indebted to Magnus when he said in bidding me farewell:

“Do not be angry with me, Mr. Wondergood. I am not altogether well today and⁠ ⁠… am rather worried about my affairs. That’s all. I hope to be more pleasant when we meet again, but be so kind as to excuse me this morning. I shall see that Maria gets your compliments.”

If this blackbearded fellow were only playing, I confess I would have found a worthy partner.

A dozen pickaninnies could not have licked off the honeyed expression my face assumed at Magnus’ promise to transmit my greetings to Maria. All the way back to my hotel I smiled idiotically at the coachman’s back and afterwards bestowed a kiss on Toppi’s brow⁠—the canaille still maintains an odor of fur, like a young devil.

“I see there was profit in your visit,” said Toppi significantly. “How is Magnus’⁠ ⁠… daughter? You understand?”

“Splendid, Toppi, splendid! She said that my beauty and wisdom reminded her of Solomon’s!”

Toppi smiled condescendingly at my unsuccessful jest. The honeyed expression left my face and rust and vinegar took the place of the sugar. I locked myself in my room and for a long time continued to curse Satan for falling in love with a woman.

You consider yourself original, my earthly friend, when you fall in love with a woman and begin to quiver all over with the fever of love. And I do not. I can see the legions of couples, from Adam and Eve on; I can see their kisses and caresses; I can hear the words so cursedly monotonous, and I begin to detest my own lips daring to mumble the mumbling of others, my eyes, simulating the gaze of others, my heart, surrendering obediently to the click of the lock of a house of shame. I can see all these excited animals in their groaning and their caresses and I cry with revulsion at my own mass of bones and flesh and nerves! Take care, Satan in human form, Deceit is coming over You!

Won’t you take Maria for yourself, my earthly friend? Take her. She is yours, not mine. Ah, if Maria were my slave, I would put a rope around her neck and would take her, naked, to the market place: Who will buy? Who will pay the most for this unearthly beauty? Ah, do not hurt the poor blind merchant: open wide your purses, jingle louder your gold, generous