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

your attention and I could not get it without these gardens of Eden and these chains, the two extremes of your life. The gardens of Eden⁠—how beautiful! Chains⁠—how terrible! Moreover, all this talk is much more entertaining than merely squatting on a hill, cigar in one’s free hand, thinking lazily and yawning while awaiting the arrival of the chauffeur. And as far as Maria is concerned, I brought her into the situation because from afar I could see the black cypress trees above the Magnus home. An involuntary association of ideas⁠ ⁠… you understand.

Can a man with such sight really see Satan? Can a person of such dull ear hear the so-called “murmurs” born of Immaculate Conception? Nonsense! And, please, I beg of you, call Me just Wondergood. Call me just Wondergood until the day when I crack my skull open with that plaything which opens the most narrow door into limitless space. Call me just Henry Wondergood, of Illinois: you will find that I will respond promptly and obligingly.

But if, some day, you should find my head crushed, examine carefully its fragments: there, in red ink will be engraved the proud name of Satan! Bend thy head, in reverence and bow to him⁠—but do not do me the honor of accompanying my fragments to the scrap heap: one should never bow so respectfully to chains cast off!

March 9, 1914.
Rome, Villa Orsini.

Last night I had an important conversation with Thomas Magnus. When Maria had retired I began as usual to prepare to return home but Magnus detained me.

“Why go, Mr. Wondergood? Stay here for the night. Stay here and listen to the barking of Mars!”

For several days dense clouds had been gathering over Rome and a heavy rain had been beating down upon its walls and ruins. This morning I read in a newspaper a very portentous weather bulletin: cielo nuvolo il vento forte e mare molto agitato. Toward evening the threat turned into a storm and the enraged sea hurled across a range of ninety miles its moist odors upon the walls of Rome. And the real Roman sea, the billowy Campagna, sang forth with all the voices of the tempest, like the ocean, and at moments it seemed that its immovable hills, its ancient waves, long evaporated by the sun, had once more come to life and moved forward upon the city walls. Mad Mars, this creator of terror and tempest, flew like an arrow across its wide spaces, crushed the head of every blade of grass to the ground, sighed and panted and hurled heavy gusts of wind into the whining cypress trees. Occasionally he would seize and hurl the nearest objects he could lay his hands upon: the brick roofs of the houses shook beneath his blows and their stone walls roared as if inside the very stones the imprisoned wind was gasping and seeking an escape.

We listened to the storm all evening. Maria was calm but Magnus was visibly nervous, constantly rubbed his white hands and listened intently to the antics of the wind: to its murderous whistle, its roar and its signs, its laughter and its groans⁠ ⁠… the wild-haired artist was cunning enough to be slayer and victim, to strangle and to plead for mercy at one and the same time! If Magnus had the moving ears of an animal, they would have remained immovable. His thin nose trembled, his dim eyes grew dark, as if they reflected the shadows of the clouds, his thin lips were twisted into a quick and strange smile. I, too, was quite excited: it was the first time since I became human I had heard such a storm and it raised in me a white terror: almost with the horror of a child I avoided the windows, beyond which lay the night. Why does it not come here, I thought: can the window pane possibly keep it out if it should wish to break through?⁠ ⁠…

Someone knocked at the iron gates several times, the gates at which I and Toppi once knocked for admission.

“That is my chauffeur, who has come to fetch me,” said I: “we must admit him.”

Magnus glanced at me from the corner of his eye and remarked sadly:

“There is no road on that side of the house. There is nothing but field there. That is mad Mars who is begging for admittance.”

And as if he had actually heard his words, Mars broke out into laughter and disappeared whistling. But the knocking was soon resumed. It seemed as if someone were tearing off the iron gates and several voices, shouting and interrupting each other, were anxiously speaking; an infant was heard weeping.

“Those must be people who have lost their way⁠ ⁠… you hear⁠—an infant! We must open the gates.”

“Well, we’ll see,” said Magnus angrily.

“I will go with you, Magnus.”

“Sit still, Wondergood. This friend of mine, here, is quite enough.⁠ ⁠…” He quickly drew that revolver from the table drawer and with a peculiar expression of love and even gentleness he grasped it in his broad hand and carefully hid it in his pocket. He walked out and we could hear the cry that met him at the gate.

On that evening I somehow avoided Maria’s eyes and I felt quite ill at ease when we were left alone. And suddenly I felt like sinking to the floor, and kneeling before her so that her dress might touch my face: I felt as if I had hair on my back, that sparks would at any moment begin to fly if someone were to touch it and that this would relieve me. Thus, in my mind, I moved closer and closer to Her, when Magnus returned and silently put the revolver back into the drawer. The voices at the door had ceased and the knocking, too.

“Who was that?”⁠ ⁠… asked Maria.

Magnus angrily shook off the drops of rain upon his coat.

“Crazy Mars. Who else did you expect?”

“But I thought I heard you speak to him?” I jested, trying to conceal