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

cheeks. I seem to have forgotten how to speak the language of respectable people who have just received a trouncing. Get thee hence, my friend. Today I am a brass trumpet. Tickle not my throat, little worm. Leave me.

May 26, Italy.

It was a month ago that Thomas Magnus blew me up. Yes, it is true. He really blew me up and it was a month ago, in the holy City of Rome, in the Palazzo Orsini, when I still belonged to the billionaire Henry Wondergood⁠—do you remember that genial American, with his cigar and patent gold teeth? Alas! He is no longer with us. He died suddenly and you will do well if you order a requiem mass for him: his Illinois soul is in need of your prayers.

Let us return, however, to his last hours. I shall try to be exact in My recollections and give you not only the emotions but also the words of that evening⁠—it was evening, when the moon was shining brightly. Perhaps I shall not give you quite the words spoken but, at any rate, they will be the words I heard and stored away in my memory.⁠ ⁠… If you were ever whipped, worthy comrade, then you know how difficult it was for you to count all the blows of the whip. A change of gravity! You understand? Oh, you understand everything. And so let us receive the last breath of Henry Wondergood, blown up by the culprit Thomas Magnus and buried by⁠ ⁠… Maria.

I remember: I awoke on the morning after that stormy evening, calm and even gay. Apparently it was the effect of the sun, shining into that same, broad window through which, at night, there streamed that unwelcome and too highly significant moonlight. You understand: now the moon and now the sun? Oh, you understand everything. It is probably for the very same reason I acquired my touching faith in the integrity of Magnus and awaited toward evening that cloudless bliss. This expectation was all the greater because his collaborators⁠ ⁠… you remember his collaborators?⁠—had begun to greet and bow to me. What is a greeting?⁠—ah, how much it means to the faith of man!

You know my good manners and, therefore, will believe me when I say that I was cold and restrained like a gentleman who has just received a legacy. But if you had put your ear to my belly you would have heard violins playing within. Something about love, you understand. Oh, you understand everything. And thus, with these violins did I come to Magnus in the evening when the moon was shining brightly. Magnus was alone. We were long silent and this indicated that an interesting conversation awaited me. Finally I said:

“How is the Signorina’s health?”⁠ ⁠…

But he interrupted me:

“We are facing a very difficult talk, Wondergood? Does that disturb you?”

“Oh, no, not at all.”

“Do you want wine? Well, never mind. I shall drink a little but you need not. Yes, Wondergood?”

He laughed as he poured out the wine and here I noticed with astonishment that he himself was very excited: his large, white, hangman’s hands were quite noticeably trembling. I do not know exactly just when my violins ceased⁠—I think it was at that very moment. Magnus gulped down two glasses of wine⁠—he had intended to take only a little⁠—and, sitting down, continued:

“No, you ought not to drink, Wondergood. I need all your senses, undimmed by anything⁠ ⁠… you didn’t drink anything today? No? That’s good. Your senses must be clear and sober. One must not take anesthetics in such cases as⁠ ⁠… as.⁠ ⁠…”

“As vivisection?”

He shook his head seriously in affirmation.

“Yes, vivisection. You have caught my idea marvelously. Yes, in cases of vivisection of the soul. For instance, when a loving mother is informed of the death of her son or⁠ ⁠… a rich man that he has become penniless. But the senses, what can we do with the senses, we cannot hold them in leash all our life! You understand, Wondergood? In the long run, I am not in the least so cruel a man as I occasionally seem even to myself and the pain of others frequently arouses in me an unpleasant, responsive trembling. That is not good. A surgeon’s hand must be firm.”

He looked at his fingers: they no longer trembled. He continued with a smile:

“However, wine helps some. Dear Wondergood, I swear by eternal salvation, by which you love so to swear, that it is extremely unpleasant for me to cause you this little⁠ ⁠… pain. Keep your senses, Wondergood! Your senses, your senses! Your hand, my friend?”

I gave him my hand and Magnus enveloped my palm and fingers and held them long in his own paw, strained, permeated with some kind of electric currents. Then he let them go, sighing with relief.

“That’s it. Just so. Courage, Wondergood!”

I shrugged my shoulders, lit a cigar and asked:

“Your illustration of the very wealthy man who has suddenly become a beggar⁠—does that concern me? Am I penniless?”

Magnus answered slowly as he gazed straight into my eyes:

“If you wish to put it that way⁠—yes. You have nothing left. Absolutely nothing. And this palace, too, is already sold. Tomorrow the new owners take possession.”

“Oh, that is interesting. And where are my billions?”

“I have them. They are mine. I am a very wealthy man, Wondergood.”

I moved my cigar to the other corner of my mouth and asked:

“And you are ready, of course, to give me a helping hand? You are a contemptible scoundrel, Thomas Magnus.”

“If that’s what you call me⁠—yes. Something on that order.”

“And a liar!”

“Perhaps. In general, dear Wondergood, it is very necessary for you to change your outlook on life and man. You are too much of an idealist.”

“And you”⁠—I rose from my chair⁠—“for you it is necessary to change your fellow conversationalist. Permit me to bid you goodbye and to send a police commissary in my place.”

Magnus laughed.

“Nonsense, Wondergood! Everything has been done within the law. You, yourself, have handed over everything to me. This will surprise no one⁠ ⁠…