Книга - Скорбь сатаны / The sorrows of Satan. Уровень 4

Скорбь сатаны / The sorrows of Satan. Уровень 4
Мария Корелли


Легко читаем по-английски
Талантливый писатель Джеффри Темпест – герой мистического романа Марии Корелли «Скорбь сатаны», прозябающий в нищете и мечтающий о богатстве. Но получив желаемое, станет ли он по-настоящему счастливым? Можно ли купить за деньги талант, любовь, искреннее восхищение или дружбу?

Для удобства читателя текст сопровождается комментариями и кратким словарем.

Предназначается для продолжающих изучать английский язык (уровень 4 —Upper-Intermediate).

В формате PDF A4 сохранен издательский макет.





Мария Корелли

Скорбь сатаны / The sorrows of Satan. Уровень 4





© Матвеев С. А.

© ООО «Издательство АСТ», 2021





Marie Corelli

The Sorrows of Satan





1


Do you know what it is to be poor? Not poor with the arrogant poverty – certain people complain of who have five or six thousand a year to live upon; who yet swear they can hardly manage to make both ends meet. I mean really poor – downright, cruelly, hideously poor, with a poverty that is graceless, sordid and miserable. Poverty that compels you to dress in your one suit of clothes till it is worn threadbare. That denies you clean linen on account of the ruinous charges of washerwomen[1 - washerwomen – прачки]. That robs you of your own self-respect, and causes you to slink along the streets vaguely abashed, instead of walking erect among your friends in independent ease. This is the sort of poverty I mean. This is the curse; this is the moral cancer that eats into the heart of any human creature and makes him envious and malignant. When he sees the fat idle woman passing by in her luxurious carriage, lolling back lazily, when he observes the brainless and sensual man smoking and dawdling away the hours in the Park, then the blood in him turns to gall, and his suffering spirit rises in fierce rebellion, crying out,

“Why in God’s name, should this injustice be? Why should a worthless lounger have his pockets full of gold by chance and heritage, while I, toiling wearily from morning till midnight, can scarce afford myself a satisfying meal?”

Why indeed? I have often thought about it. Now however I believe I can solve the problem out of my own personal experience. But… such an experience! Who will believe that anything so strange and terrific ever chanced to a mortal man? No one. Yet it is true; truer than so-called[2 - so-called – так называемая] truth. Moreover I know that many men are living under the same influence, that they are in the tangles of sin, but too weak to break the net in which they have become voluntarily imprisoned. Will they be taught, I wonder, the lesson I have learned?

But I do not write with any hope of either persuading or enlightening my fellow-men[3 - fellow-men – собратья]. I know their obstinacy too well. I can gauge it by my own. I used to have proud belief in myself. And I am aware that others are in similar case. I merely intend to relate the various incidents of my life.

During a certain bitter winter, when a great wave of intense cold spread throughout all Europe, I, Geoffrey Tempest, was alone in London and starving. Now a starving man seldom gets the sympathy he merits. Few people believe in him. Worthy folks are the most incredulous. Some of them even laugh when told of hungry people. Or they will idly murmur ‘How dreadful!’ and at once turn to the discussion of the latest news for killing time. To be hungry sounds coarse and vulgar, and is not a topic for polite society, which always eats more than sufficient for its needs.

That time I knew the cruel meaning of the word “hunger” too well: the gnawing pain, the sick faintness, the deadly stupor, the insatiable animal craving for mere food. I felt that I had not deserved to suffer the wretchedness in which I found myself[4 - I found myself – я оказался]. I had worked hard. From the time my father died, when I discovered that every penny of the fortune went to the swarming creditors, and that nothing of all our house and estate was left to me except a jewelled miniature of my mother who had lost her own life in giving me birth, – from that time, I had toiled late and early. I had used my University education to the literature. I had sought for employment on almost every journal in London, – refused by many, taken on trial by some, but getting steady pay from none.

Whoever seeks to live by brain and pen alone is, at the beginning of such a career, treated as a sort of social pariah. Nobody wants him, everybody despises him. His efforts are derided, his manuscripts are flung back to him unread. He is less cared for[5 - he is less cared for – о нём заботятся меньше] than the condemned murderer in gaol. The murderer is at least fed and clothed. A clergyman visits him, and his gaoler will occasionally play cards with him. But a man with original thoughts and the power of expressing them, appears to be regarded by everyone in authority as much worse than the worst criminal.

I took both kicks and blows in sullen silence and lived on, – not for the love of life, but simply because I scorned the cowardice of self-destruction. I was young enough not to part with hope too easily. For about six months I got some work on a well-known literary journal. Thirty novels a week were sent to me to ‘criticise’. I was glancing hastily at about eight or ten of them, and writing one column of abuse concerning these thus casually selected. The remainder were useless at all. I found that this mode of action was considered ‘smart,’ and I pleased my editor who paid me the munificent sum of fifteen shillings for my weekly labour.

But on one fatal occasion I changed my tactics and warmly praised a work which my own conscience told me was both original and excellent. The author of it was an old enemy of the proprietor of the journal on which I was employed. My eulogistic review, unfortunately for me, appeared, and I was immediately dismissed.

After this I dragged on in a miserable way, doing some work for the dailies, and living on promises that never became realities, till, in the early January of the bitter winter, I found myself literally penniless and face to face with starvation. Moreover, I was owing a month’s rent for the poor lodging I occupied in a back street not far from the British Museum.

I had been out all day trudging from one newspaper office to another, seeking for work and finding none. Every available post was filled. I had also tried, unsuccessfully, to dispose of a manuscript of my own, – a work of fiction which I knew had some merit. But all the ‘readers’ found it exceptionally worthless. These ‘readers’ were novelists themselves who read other people’s productions in their spare moments and passed judgment on them.

The last publisher was a kindly man who looked at my shabby clothes and gaunt face with some commiseration.

“I’m sorry,” said he, “very sorry, but my readers are quite unanimous. From what I can learn, it seems to me you have been too earnest. And also, rather sarcastic against society. My dear fellow, that won’t do[6 - that won’t do – так не пойдёт]. Never blame society, – it buys books! Now if you could write a smart love-story, slightly risky, – even a little more than risky for that matter; that is the sort of thing that suits the present age[7 - present age – наше время].”

“Pardon me,” I interposed, “but are you sure you judge the public taste correctly?”

He smiled a bland smile.

“Of course I am sure,” he replied. “It is my business to know the public taste as thoroughly as I know my own pocket. Understand me, I don’t suggest that you should write a book on an indecent subject, but I assure you high-class fiction doesn’t sell. The critics don’t like it. What goes down with them and with the public is some sensational realism.”

“I think,” I said with a forced smile, “if what you say be true, I must lay down the pen and try another trade. I consider Literature as the highest of all professions, and I would rather not join in with those who voluntarily degrade it.”

He gave me a quick side-glance of mingled incredulity and depreciation.

“Well, well!” he finally observed, “you are a little quixotic. Will you come on to my club and dine with me?”

I refused this invitation promptly. I knew my wretched plight, and pride – false pride if you will – rose up to my rescue. I bade him a hurried good-day, and started back to my lodging, carrying my rejected manuscript with me. Arrived there, my landlady met me, and asked me whether I would ‘kindly settle accounts’ the next day. She spoke civilly enough, and not without a certain compassionate hesitation in her manner. Her evident pity for me galled my spirit as much as the publisher’s offer of a dinner had wounded my pride. I at once promised her the money at the time she herself appointed, though I had not the least idea where or how I should get the required sum.

When I was in my room, I flung my useless manuscript on the floor and myself into a chair, and swore. It refreshed me, and it seemed natural. A fierce formidable oath was to me the sort of physical relief. I was incapable of talking to God in my despair. To speak frankly, I did not believe in any God then. Of course I knew the Christian faith; but that creed became useless to me. Spiritually I was adrift in chaos.

I had worked honestly and patiently; all to no purpose. I knew of rogues who gained plenty of money; and of knaves who were amassing large fortunes. Their prosperity proved that honesty after all was not the best policy. What should I do then?

The night was bitter cold. My hands were numbed, and I tried to warm them at the oil-lamp my landlady was good enough to allow me, in spite of delayed cash-payments. As I did so, I noticed three letters on the table. One in a long blue envelope, one with the Melbourne postmark, and the third a thick square missive coroneted in red and gold at the back. I turned over all three indifferently. Selecting the one from Australia, balanced it in my hand a moment before opening it. I knew from whom it came, and wondered what news it brought me. Some months previously I had written a detailed account of my increasing debts and difficulties to an old college friend. Finding England too narrow for his ambition that friend had gone out to the New world. He was getting on well, so I understood. I had therefore ventured to ask him for the loan of fifty pounds. Here, no doubt, was his reply, and I hesitated before breaking the seal.

“Of course it will be a refusal,” I said, – “However kindly a friend may otherwise be, he soon turns crusty if asked to lend money. He will express many regrets, accuse trade and the general bad times and hope I will soon get better. I know the sort of thing.”

But as I opened the envelope, a bill for fifty pounds fell out upon the table. My heart gave a quick bound of mingled relief and gratitude.

“My old fellow, I wronged you!” I exclaimed, “Your heart is great indeed!”

I eagerly read his letter. It was not very long,





Dear Geoff,

I’m sorry to hear you are down. It shows that fools are still flourishing in London, when a man of your capability cannot gain his proper place in the world of letters. I believe it’s all a question of intrigues, and money is the only thing that will pull the intrigues. Here’s the fifty you ask for, don’t hurry about paying it back. I am sending you a friend, – a real friend! He brings you a letter of introduction from me, and between ourselves, old man, you cannot do better than put yourself and your literary affairs entirely in his hands. He knows everybody, he is a great philanthropist and seems particularly fond of the society of the clergy. He has explained to me quite frankly, that he is so enormously wealthy that he does not know what to do with his money. He is always glad to know of some places where his money and influence (he is very influential) may be useful to others. He has helped me out of a very serious hobble, and I owe him a big debt of gratitude. I’ve told him all about you, – what a smart fellow you are, and he has promised to give you a lift up. He can do anything he likes. Use him, and write and let me know how you get on. Don’t bother about the fifty.

Ever yours

    Boffles.



I laughed as I read the absurd signature. ‘Boffles’ was the nickname given to my friend by several of our college companions, and neither he nor I knew how it first arose. But no one except ever addressed him by his proper name, which was John Carrington. He was simply ‘Boffles,’ and Boffles he remained even now for all those who had been his intimates. I wondered as to what manner of man the ‘philanthropist’ might be who had more money than he knew what to do with. Anyway, now I can pay my landlady as I promised. Moreover I can order some supper, and have a fire lit to cheer my chilly room.

I opened the long blue envelope, and unfolded the paper within, stared at it amazedly. What was it all about? The written characters danced before my eyes. Puzzled and bewildered, I found myself reading the thing over and over again without any clear comprehension of it. No – no! – impossible! If it is a joke, it is a very elaborate and remarkable one!




2


With an effort, I read every word of the document deliberately, and the stupefaction of my wonder increased. Was I going mad, or sickening for a fever? Can this startling, this stupendous information be really true? If it is true, I am king instead of beggar! The letter, the amazing letter, bore the printed name of a well-known firm of London solicitors. It stated in precise terms that a distant relative of my father’s, of whom I had scarcely heard, had died suddenly in South America, leaving me his sole heir.

“The real and personal estate[8 - the real and personal estate – движимое и недвижимое имущество] now amounting to something over five millions of pounds sterling, we should esteem it a favour if you could make it convenient to call upon us any day this week in order that we may go through the necessary formalities together. The larger bulk of the cash is lodged in the Bank of England, and a considerable amount is placed in French government securities.

Trusting you will call on us without delay, we are, Sir, yours obediently…”

Five millions! I, the starving literary hack, the friendless, hopeless, almost reckless haunter of low newspaper dens, I, the possessor of “over five millions of pounds sterling”! The fact seemed to me a wild delusion, born of the dizzy vagueness which lack of food engendered in my brain. I stared round the room. The mean miserable furniture, the fireless grate, the dirty lamp, the low truckle bedstead, – and then, then the overwhelming contrast between the poverty that environed me and the news I had just received, struck me as the wildest, most ridiculous incongruity I had ever heard of or imagined.

“Was there ever such a caprice of mad Fortune!” I cried aloud. “Who would have imagined it! Good God!”

And I laughed loudly again; laughed just as I had previously sworn, simply by way of relief to my feelings. Some one laughed in answer. A laugh that seemed to echo mine. I checked myself abruptly, somewhat startled, and listened. Rain poured outside, and the wind shrieked like a petulant shrew. The violinist next door was practising a brilliant roulade up and down his instrument. Yet I could have sworn I heard a man’s laughter close behind me where I stood.

“It must have been my fancy;” I murmured, turning the flame of the lamp up higher in order to obtain more light in the room. “I am nervous I suppose, no wonder! Poor Boffles! Good old fellow!” I continued, remembering my friend’s draft for fifty pounds. “What a surprise for you! You will have your loan back as promptly as you sent it, with an extra fifty added for your generosity. And as for the rich friend you are sending to help me over my difficulties, well, he may be a very excellent old gentleman, but he will find himself quite useless this time. I want neither assistance nor advice nor patronage. I can buy them all! Titles, honours, possessions, – they are all purchaseable, – love, friendship, position, – they are all for sale in this admirably commercial age! The wealthy ‘philanthropist’ will find it difficult to match me in power[9 - to match me in power – состязаться со мной в могуществе]! He will scarcely have more than five millions to waste, I think! And now for supper, I shall have to live on credit till I get some cash. And there is no reason why I should not leave this wretched hole at once, and go to one of the best hotels!”

I was about to leave the room on the swift impulse of excitement and joy, when a fresh and violent gust of wind cast some soot on my rejected manuscript. It lay forgotten on the floor, as I had despairingly thrown it. I hastily picked it up and shook it. Now I could publish it myself, and not only publish it but advertise it, and not only advertise it, but ‘push’ it, in all the crafty and cautious ways! I smiled as I thought of the vengeance I would take on all those who had scorned and slighted me and my labour. Now they will fawn and whine at my feet like curs! Every stiff and stubborn neck will bend before me. Brains and money together can move the world!

Full of ambitious thought, I caught wild sounds from the violin, and all at once I remembered I had not yet opened the third letter addressed to me, the one coroneted in scarlet and gold, which had remained where it was on the table almost unnoticed till now. I took it up and turned it over with an odd sense of reluctance in my fingers, I read the following lines,





Dear Sir.

I am the bearer of a letter of introduction to you from your former college companion Mr. John Carrington, now of Melbourne, who has been good enough to thus give me the means of making the acquaintance of one, who, I understand, is more than exceptionally endowed with the gift of literary genius. I shall call upon you this evening between eight and nine o’clock, trusting to find you at home and disengaged. I enclose my card, and present address, and beg to remain,

Very faithfully yours

    Lucio Rimanez.



The card mentioned dropped on the table as I finished reading the note. It bore a small, exquisitely engraved coronet and the words “Prince Lucio Rimanez” while, scribbled lightly in pencil underneath was the address ‘Grand Hotel.’

I read the brief letter through again, it was simple enough, expressed with clearness and civility. There was nothing remarkable about it, nothing whatever; yet it seemed to me surcharged with meaning. Why, I could not imagine. How the wind roared! And how that violin next door wailed! My brain swam and my heart ached heavily. I grew irritable and nervous. An impulse of shame possessed me, shame that this foreign prince, with limitless wealth, should be coming to visit me, – me, now a millionaire, – in my present wretched lodging. If I had had a sixpence about me, (which I had not) I should have sent a telegram to my approaching visitor.

“But in any case,” I said aloud, addressing myself to the empty room, “I will not meet him tonight. I’ll go out and leave no message. If he comes he will think I have not yet had his letter. I can make an appointment to see him when I am better lodged, and better dressed.”

I groped about the room for my hat and coat, and I was still engaged in a fruitless and annoying search, when I caught a sound of galloping horses’ hoofs coming to a stop in the street below. I paused and listened. There was a slight commotion in the basement, I heard landlady’s voice and then a deep masculine voice. After that steps, firm and even, ascended the stairs to my landing.

“The devil is in it!” I muttered vexedly. “Here comes the very man I meant to avoid!”




3


The door opened. I could just perceive a tall shadowy figure standing on the threshold. I heard my landlady’s introductory words “A gentleman to see you sir,” words that were quickly interrupted by a murmur of dismay at finding the room in total darkness.

“Well to be sure! The lamp must have gone out!” she exclaimed, then addressing the personage she had ushered thus far, she added, “I’m afraid Mr Tempest isn’t in after all, sir, though I certainly saw him about half-an-hour ago. If you don’t mind waiting here a minute I’ll fetch a light and see if he has left any message on his table.”

The tall stranger advanced a pace or two, and a rich voice with a ring of ironical amusement in it called me by my name,

“Geoffrey Tempest, are you there?”

Why could I not answer? The strangest and most unnatural obstinacy stiffened my tongue. The majestic figure drew nearer, and once again the voice called,

“Geoffrey Tempest, are you there?”

I could hold out no longer, and like a coward, I came forward boldly to confront my visitor.

“Yes, I am here,” I said. “I am ashamed to meet you here. You are Prince Rimanez of course. I have just read your note which prepared me for your visit, but I was hoping that my landlady would conclude I was out, and show you downstairs again. You see I am perfectly frank!”

“You are indeed!” returned the stranger. “So frank that I cannot fail to understand you. You resent my visit this evening and wish I had not come!”

I made haste to deny it, though I knew it to be true. Truth, even in trifles, always seems unpleasant!

“Pray do not think me so churlish,” I said. “The fact is, I only opened your letter a few minutes ago, and before I could make any arrangements to receive you, the lamp went out. I am forced to greet you in this darkness, which is almost too dense to shake hands in.”

“Shall we try?” my visitor enquired. “Here is my hand!”

I at once extended my hand, and it was instantly clasped in a warm and somewhat masterful manner. At that moment a light flashed on the scene. My landlady entered, bearing ‘her best lamp’. She set it on the table. I believe she uttered some exclamation of surprise at seeing me, I did not hear, so entirely was I amazed and fascinated by the appearance of the man whose long slender hand still held mine. I am myself an average good height, but he was fully half a head taller than I, if not more than that. As I looked straightly at him, I thought I had never seen so much beauty and intellectuality combined in the outward personality of any human being. The finely shaped head denoted both power and wisdom, and was nobly poised on his shoulders. The countenance was a pure oval, and singularly pale. He had dark eyes, which had a curious and wonderfully attractive look of mingled mirth and misery. The mouth was firm, determined, and not too small. I felt as if I had known him all my life! And now face to face with him, I remembered my actual surroundings, – the bare cold room, the lack of fire, the black soot that sprinkled the carpetless floor, my own shabby clothes. He regarded me, smiling.

“I know I have come at an awkward moment,” he said. “I always do! It is my peculiar misfortune. Well-bred people never intrude where they are not wanted. I’m afraid my manners leave much to be desired[10 - leave much to be desired – оставляют много желать]. Try to forgive me if you can, for the sake of this,” – and he held out a letter addressed to me in my friend Carrington’s familiar handwriting. “And permit me to sit down while you read my credentials.”

He took a chair and seated himself. I observed his handsome face and easy attitude with renewed admiration.

“No credentials are necessary,” I said with all the cordiality I now really felt. “I have already had a letter from Carrington in which he speaks of you in the highest and most grateful terms. But the fact is – well! – really, prince, you must excuse me if I seem confused or astonished. I had expected to see quite an old man…”

“No one is old, my dear sir, nowadays!” he declared lightly, “even the grandmothers and grandfathers are friskier at fifty than they were at fifteen. One does not talk of age at all now in polite society, it is ill-bred, even coarse. Indecent things are unmentionable – age has become an indecent thing. You expected to see an old man you say? Well, you are not disappointed – I am old. In fact you have no idea how very old I am!”

I laughed at this piece of absurdity.

“Why, you are younger than I,” I said, “or if not, you look like it.”

“Ah, my looks belie me!” he returned gaily, “I am like several of the most noted fashionable beauties, – much riper than I seem. But read the introductory missive I have brought you.”

I at once opened my friend’s note and read as follows,





Dear Geoffrey.

The bearer of this, Prince Rimanez, is a very distinguished scholar and gentleman, allied by descent to one of the oldest families in Europe, or for that matter, in the world. His ancestors were originally princes of Chaldea, who afterwards settled in Tyre. From thence they went to Etruria and there continued through many centuries. Certain troublous and overpowering circumstances have forced him into exile from his native province, and deprived him of a great part of his possessions. He has travelled far and seen much, and has a wide experience of men and things. He is a poet and musician of great skill, and though he occupies himself with the arts solely for his own amusement, I think you will find his practical knowledge of literary matters useful to you in your difficult career. In all matters scientific he is an absolute master.

Wishing you both a cordial friendship,

I am, dear Geoffrey,

Yours sincerely

    John Carrington.

I glanced furtively at my silent companion. He caught my stray look and returned it with a curiously grave fixity. I spoke,

“This letter, prince, adds to my shame and regret that I should have greeted you in so churlish a manner this evening. No apology can condone my rudeness, but you cannot imagine how mortified I felt and still feel, to be compelled to receive you in this miserable den.”

The prince waived aside my remarks with a light gesture of his hand.

“Why be mortified?” he demanded. “Rather be proud that you can dispense with the vulgar appurtenances of luxury. Genius thrives in a garret and dies in a palace. Is not that the generally accepted theory?”

“Rather a mistaken one I consider,” I replied. “Genius usually dies of starvation.”

“True! But there is an all-wise Providence in this, my dear sir! Schubert perished of want, but see what large profits all the music-publishers have made since out of his compositions! Honest folk should be sacrificed in order to provide for the sustenance of knaves!”

He laughed, and I looked at him in a little surprise.

“You speak sarcastically of course?” I said. “You do not really believe what you say?”

“Oh, do I not!” he returned, with a flash of his fine eyes. “I always realize the proverb ‘needs must when the devil drives[11 - needs must when the devil drives – нужно покориться, когда погоняет дьявол].’ The devil drives the world, whip in hand, and oddly enough, succeeds!”

His brow clouded and the bitter lines about his mouth deepened and hardened. Anon he laughed again lightly and continued,

“But let us not moralize. Morals sicken the soul both in church and out of it. Every sensible man hates to be told what he could be and what he won’t be. I am here to make friends with you if you permit. To put an end to ceremony, will you accompany me back to my hotel where I have ordered supper?”

By this time I had become indescribably fascinated by his easy manner, handsome presence and mellifluous voice. The satirical turn of his humour suited mine. My first annoyance abated.

“With pleasure!” I replied. “But first of all, you must allow me to explain matters a little. You have heard about my affairs from my friend John Carrington. I know from his private letter to me that you have come here out of pure kindness and goodwill. For that generous intention I thank you! I know you expected to find a poor wretch of a literary man. A couple of hours ago you would have amply fulfilled that expectation. But now, things have changed. I have received news which completely alters my position. I got a letter…”

“An agreeable one I trust?” interposed my companion suavely.

I smiled.

“Judge for yourself!”

I handed him the lawyer’s letter which informed me of my suddenly acquired fortune.

He glanced it through rapidly, then folded and returned it to me with a courteous bow.

“I suppose I should congratulate you,” he said. “And I do. Though of course this wealth which seems to content you, to me appears a mere trifle. It can be exhausted in about eight years or less. To be rich, really rich, one should have about a million a year. Then one might reasonably hope to escape the workhouse!”

He laughed, and I stared at him stupidly, not knowing how to take his words, whether as truth or idle boasting. Five millions of money a mere trifle! He went on,

“The inexhaustible greed of a man, my dear sir, can never be satisfied. If he gets one thing, he wants another, and his tastes are generally expensive. A few pretty and unscrupulous women for example, will soon relieve you of your five millions. Horse-racing will do it still more quickly. No, no, you are not rich, you are still poor, only your needs are no longer so pressing as they were.”

He broke off and raised his head,

“What is that?” he asked.

It was the violinist next door playing a well-known “Ave Maria.” I told him so.

“Dismal, very dismal!” he said with a contemptuous shrug. “I hate all that kind of mawkish devotional stuff. Well, Mr. Millionaire! There is no objection, I hope, to the proposed supper? What do you say?”

He clapped me on the shoulder cordially and looked straight into my face. Those wonderful eyes of his completely dominated me. I made no attempt to resist the singular attraction which now possessed me for this man whom I had but just met. Only for one moment more I hesitated, looking down at my shabby attire.

“I am not fit to accompany you, prince,” I said. “I look more like a tramp than a millionaire.”

He glanced at me and smiled.

“Upon my word you do!” he averred. “But be satisfied! It is only the poor and proud who dress well. An ugly coat often adorns the back of a Prime Minister!”

He rose.

“Why think of the coat if the purse is full!” he continued gaily. “Now come along. I want you to do justice to my supper. I have my own chef with me, and he is not without skill. I hope, by the way, you will let me be your banker?”

This offer was made with such an air of courteous delicacy and friendship, that I accepted it gratefully, as it relieved me from all temporary embarrassment. I hastily wrote a few lines to my landlady, telling her she would receive the money owing to her by post next day. I extinguished the lamp, and with the new friend I left my dismal lodgings and all its miserable associations for ever. I went joyfully out of the dreary house where I had lived so long among disappointments and difficulties. The last thing I heard as I passed into the street with my companion, was a plaintive wail of minor melody by the unknown and invisible player of the violin.




4


Outside the prince’s carriage waited, drawn by two spirited black horses caparisoned in silver. We stepped in. As I sank back among the easy cushions, I felt the complacent consciousness of luxury and power. My brain was in a whirl, my thoughts were all dim and disconnected. I was in some whimsical dream from which I should wake up directly.

The carriage rolled on and made no noise as it went, one could only hear the even rapid trot of the horses. By-and-by I saw in the semi-darkness my new friend’s brilliant dark eyes fixed upon me with a curiously intent expression.

“Do you not feel the world already at your feet?” he queried half playfully, half ironically. “It is such an absurd world, you know, so easily moved. Wise men in all ages have done their best to make it less ridiculous. With no result, inasmuch as it continues to prefer folly to wisdom.”

“You speak a trifle bitterly, prince,” I said. “But no doubt you have had a wide experience among men?”

“I have,” he returned with emphasis. “My kingdom is a vast one.”

“You are a ruling power then?” I exclaimed with some astonishment. “Yours is not a title of honour only?”

“Oh, as your rules of aristocracy go, it is a mere title of honour,” he replied quickly. “When I say that my kingdom is a vast one, I mean that I rule wherever men obey the influence of wealth. From this point of view, am I wrong in calling my kingdom vast? Is it not almost boundless?”

“I perceive you are a cynic,” I said. “Surely you believe that there are some things wealth cannot buy, honour and virtue for example?”

He surveyed me with a whimsical smile.

“I suppose honour and virtue exist,” he answered. “But my experience has taught me that I can always buy everything. Just tell the price, and the people become bribery and corrupt in the twinkling of an eye! Curious – very curious. Pray do not imagine I am a swindler. I am a real prince, believe me, and of such descent as none of your oldest families can boast. But my dominions are broken up and my former subjects dispersed among all nations. Money I fortunately have in plenty, and with that I pave my way. Some day when we are better acquainted, you will know more of my private history. I have various other names and titles. My intimate friends generally drop my title, and call me Lucio simply.”

“That is your Christian name?” I began.

“Not at all – I have no ‘Christian’ name,” he interrupted swiftly and with anger. “I’m not a ‘Christian’ at all!”

He spoke with impatience.

“Indeed!” I murmured vaguely.

He burst out laughing.

“‘Indeed!’ That is all you can say! Indeed and again indeed the word ‘Christian’ vexes me. You are not a Christian, no one is really, people pretend to be. They are more blasphemous than any fallen fiend! Now I have only one faith…”

“And that is…?”

“A profound and awful one!” he said in thrilling tones. “And the worst of it is that it is true.”

The carriage stopped and we descended. At first sight of the black horses and silver trappings, the porter of the hotel and two or three other servants rushed out to attend upon us; but the prince passed into the hall without noticing any of them. He addressed himself to a man in black, his own private valet, who came forward to meet him with a profound salutation. I murmured something about wishing to engage a room for myself in the hotel.

“Oh, my man will make that for you,” he said lightly. “The hotel is not full. At any rate, all the best rooms are not taken; and of course you want one of the best.”

A servant bowed obsequiously as I passed. A thrill of disgust ran through me, mingled with a certain angry triumph. If you are poor and dress shabbily you are thrust aside and ignored. But if you are rich, you may wear shabby clothes as much as you like. You are still courted and flattered, and invited everywhere, though you may be the greatest fool alive or the worst blackguard.

With vague thoughts such as these, I followed my host to his rooms. He occupied nearly a whole wing of the hotel, having a large drawing-room, dining-room and study en suite, fitted up in the most luxurious manner, besides bedroom, bathroom, and dressing-room, with other rooms adjoining, for his valet and two extra personal attendants. The table was laid for supper, and glittered with the costliest glass, silver and china, with the most exquisite fruit and flowers. In a few moments we were seated. The prince’s valet acted as head-waiter, and I noticed that now this man’s face seemed very dark and unpleasant, even sinister in expression. But in the performance of his duties he was unexceptionable, quick, attentive, and deferential. His name was Amiel, his movements were as noiseless as of a cat or a tiger. I talked with freedom and confidence. The strong attraction I had for my new friend was deepening with every moment I passed in his company.

“Will you continue your literary career now you have this little fortune?” he inquired.

“Certainly I shall,” I replied, “maybe for fun. You see, with money I can declare my name whether the public like it or not. No newspaper refuses paying advertisements.”

“True! But may not inspiration refuse to flow from a full purse and an empty head?”

This remark provoked me not a little.

“Do you consider me empty-headed?” I asked with some vexation.

“Not at present. My dear Tempest, I assure you I do not think you empty-headed. On the contrary, your head, I believe from what I have heard, has been and is full of ideas, excellent ideas, original ideas, which the world of criticism does not want. But whether these ideas will continue to germinate in your brain, or whether, with the full purse, they will cease, is now the question. Great originality and inspiration, strange to say, seldom endow the millionaire. Inspiration is supposed to come from above, money from below! In your case however both originality and inspiration may continue to flourish and bring forth fruit, I trust they may. It often happens, nevertheless that when bags of money fall to the genius, God departs and the devil walks in. Have you never heard that?”

“Never!” I answered smiling.

“Well, of course the proverb is foolish, and sounds ridiculous in this age when people believe in neither God nor devil. However one must choose: an up or a down. Genius is the Up, money is the Down. You cannot fly and grovel at the same instant.”

“The possession of money does not force a man to grovel,” I said. “It is the one thing necessary to strengthen his powers and lift him to the greatest heights.”

“You think so?” and my host lit his cigar. “Then I’m afraid, you don’t know much about what I call natural psychology. What belongs to the earth tends earthwards, surely you realize that? Gold belongs to the earth, you dig it out of the ground, it is a metal. Genius belongs to nobody knows where. You cannot dig it up. It is a rare visitant and capricious as the wind.”

I laughed.

“Upon my word you preach very eloquently against wealth!” I said. “You yourself are unusually rich, are you sorry for it?”

“No, I am not sorry, because being sorry would be no use,” he returned. “And I never waste my time. But I am telling you the truth. Genius and great riches hardly ever pull together. Anyway, let’s return to the subject of your literary career. You have written a book, you say. Well, publish it and see the result. 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. I waned to comfort those who had suffered loss or sorrow…”

Rimanez smiled compassionately.

“Ah, it won’t do!” he interrupted. “I assure you it won’t; it doesn’t fit the age. It must simply be indecent. That is giving you a good wide margin. Write about sexual matters and the bearing of children, in brief, discourse of men and women simply as cattle, and your success will be enormous!”

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,

“Why, my dear Tempest, do you 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. People don’t want their thoughts raised or purified in the novels they read for amusement. They go to church for that. My good fellow, leave your extravagant behaviour 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. 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. I gazed at his handsome figure and face.

“If you were not so good-looking I should call you heartless,” I said. “But your features are a direct contradiction to your words. 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 is to cut my acquaintance!”

“Why, of course not! After once meeting you, how could they!” I said.

He gave me a whimsical side-look.

“Their desires are not always virtuous,” he remarked.

“But of course you do not gratify them in their vices!” I rejoined, laughing.

“Ah now I see we shall flounder in the sands 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 today has one wife and several concubines, and is really very much like Abraham in other particulars, yet he is considered a very dreadful person. Let’s drop the subject. What shall we do with the rest of the evening? Will we go to the theater? 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.

“I think I would rather go to bed,” 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. 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. The Prince took my hand, and held it in his, looking at me.

“I like you, Geoffrey Tempest;” he said – “And because I like 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 we have time to know anything more of each other, and I will endeavour not to cross your path again unless you seek me out. But if on the contrary, you like me, give me your promise that you will be my friend and comrade for a while, say for a few months. I can take you into the best society, and introduce you to the prettiest women in Europe as well as the most brilliant men. I know them all, and I believe I can be useful to you. But if there is the smallest aversion to me, let me go, because I swear to you that I am not what I seem!”

I was strongly impressed by his strange look and stranger manner. It was true, I had felt a shadow of distrust and repulsion for this fascinating yet cynical man, and he guessed it. But now every suspicion of him vanished from my mind, and I clasped his hand with heartiness.

“My dear fellow, it’s too late!” I said mirthfully. “Whatever you are, I find you most sympathetic to my disposition, and I consider myself most fortunate in knowing you. I assure you I shall be proud of your companionship. You know the old adage, ‘the devil is not so black as he is painted’!”

“And that is true!” he murmured dreamily. “Poor devil! His faults are no doubt much exaggerated by the clergy! And so we are friends?”

“I hope so! I shall not be the first to break the compact!”

His dark eyes rested upon me thoughtfully.

“Compact is a good word,” he said. “I think I can still be of service in pushing you on in society. And love – of course you will fall in love if you have not already done so, have you?”

“Not I!” I answered quickly, and with truth. “I have seen no woman yet who perfectly fulfils my notions of beauty.”

He burst out laughing violently,

“Nothing but perfect beauty will suit you, eh? But consider, my friend, you, though a good-looking well-built man, are not yourself quite Apollo!”

“That has nothing to do with the matter,” I rejoined. “A man should choose a wife with a careful eye, in the same way that he chooses horses or wine, – perfection or nothing.”

“And the woman?” Rimanez demanded.

“The woman has really no right of choice,” I responded. “A man is always a man, a woman is only a man’s appendage. Without beauty she cannot put forth any just claim to his admiration or his support.”

“Right! Very right, and logically argued!” he exclaimed, becoming serious in a moment. “I myself have no sympathy with the new ideas concerning the intellectuality of woman. She is simply the female of man, she has no real soul, she is incapable of forming a correct opinion on any subject. And in the present age she is becoming more than ever unmanageable.”

“It is only a passing phase,” I returned carelessly. “I care very little for women – I doubt whether I shall ever marry.”

“Well you have plenty of time to consider, and amuse yourself with the belles,” he said watching me narrowly. “And in the meantime I can take you round the different marriage-markets of the world, though the largest one of them all is of course this metropolis. Good-night!”

“Good-night!” I responded.

“Amiel, show Mr Tempest to his room.”

Amiel obeyed, and crossing the corridor, ushered me into a large, luxurious apartment, richly furnished, and lit up by the blaze of a bright fire.

“Is there anything I can do for you sir?” Amiel inquired.

“No thank you,” – I answered. “you have been very attentive, I shall not forget it.”

A slight smile flickered over his features.

“Much obliged to you, sir. Good-night.”

And he retired, leaving me alone.

“Geoffrey Tempest, the world is before you!” I said. “You are a young man, you have health, a good appearance, and brains, added to these you now have five millions of money, and a wealthy prince for your friend. What more do you want of Fate or Fortune? Nothing, except fame! And that you will get easily, for now even fame is purchaseable – like love.”




5


The next morning I learned that ‘His Excellency’, Prince Rimanez, had gone out riding in the Park, leaving me to breakfast alone. I therefore took that meal in the public room of the hotel. The servants asked many questions. When would I be pleased to lunch? At what hour would I dine? Should my present apartment be retained? Was it not satisfactory? Would I prefer a ‘suite’ similar to that occupied by His Excellency? All these deferential questions first astonished and then amused me. After the breakfast I saw my new friend coming back from his ride. He bestrode a magnificent chestnut mare. Rimanez smiled as he caught sight of me, touching his hat with the handle of his whip by way of salutation.

“You slept late, Tempest,” he said, as he dismounted. “Tomorrow you must come with me and join the Liver Brigade. In the Liver Brigade you will see all those interesting fellows who have sold themselves to the devil. They think me one of them, but I am not.”

He patted his mare and the groom led it away.

“Why do you join the procession then?” I asked him, laughing and glancing at him. “You are a fraud!”

“I am!” he responded lightly. “And I am not the only one in London! Where are going to?”

“To those lawyers who wrote to me last night. Bentham and Ellis is the name of the firm. The sooner I interview them the better, don’t you think so?”

“Yes – but see here,” and he drew me aside. “You must have some cash. It doesn’t look well to apply at once for advances. Take this wallet. Remember you promised to let me be your banker. On your way you might go to some well-reputed tailor.”

He moved off at a rapid pace. I hurried after him, touched by his kindness.

“But wait, Lucio!”

I called him thus by his familiar name for the first time. He stopped at once and stood quite still.

“Well?” he said, regarding me with an attentive smile.

“You don’t give me time to speak,” I answered in a low voice. “The fact is I have some money, or rather I can get it directly. Carrington sent me a draft for fifty pounds in his letter. I forgot to tell you about it. It was very good of him to lend it to me. Take it as security for this wallet. By the way, how much is there inside it?”

“Five hundred, in banknotes of tens and twenties,” he responded with brevity.

“Five hundred! My dear fellow, I don’t want all that. It’s too much!”

“Better have too much than too little nowadays,” he retorted with a laugh. “My dear Tempest, five hundred pounds is really nothing. You can spend it all on your dress, for example. Better send back John Carrington’s draft. I don’t believe in his generosity considering that he came into a mine[12 - he came into a mine – он открыл руду] worth a hundred thousand pounds sterling, a few days before I left Australia.”

I heard this with great surprise, and with a slight feeling of resentment too. The frank and generous character of my old ‘Boffles’ darkened suddenly in my eyes. Why did not he tell me of his good fortune in his letter? Was he afraid I might trouble him for further loans?

Rimanez, who had observed me intently, presently added,

“Did he not tell you of his luck? That was not very friendly of him – but as I remarked last night, money often spoils a man.”

“Oh I daresay he meant no secret,” I said hurriedly. “No doubt he will make it the subject of his next letter. Now as to this five hundred…”

“Keep it, man, keep it,” he interposed impatiently. “What do you talk about security for? Haven’t I got you as security?”

I laughed.

“Well, I am fairly reliable now,” I said. “And I’m not going to run away.”

“From me?” he queried, with a half cold half kind glance. “No, I fancy not!”

He waved his hand lightly and left me. I put the leather wallet in my inner pocket, hailed a hansom and was driven off rapidly to Basinghall Street where my solicitors awaited me.

I was received at once with the utmost respect by two small men in black who represented ‘the firm.’ At my request they sent down their clerk to pay and dismiss my cab. Then we went into business together. My deceased relative, whom I had never seen as far as I myself remembered, had left me everything he possessed, including several rare collections of pictures and jewels. His will was concisely and clearly worded. In a week or ten days everything will be in order and at my sole disposition.

“You are a very fortunate man Mr. Tempest;” – said the senior partner Mr. Bentham, as he folded up the last of the papers we had been looking through. “At your age this princely inheritance may be either a great boon to you or a great curse, one never knows. The possession of such enormous wealth involves great responsibilities.”

I was amused at what I considered the impertinence of this mere servant of the law in presuming to moralize on my luck.

“Many people would be glad to accept such responsibilities and change places with me,” I said. “You yourself, for example?”

I knew this remark was not in good taste, but I felt that he had no business to preach to me as it were on the responsibilities of wealth. He gave me an observant glance.

“No Mr. Tempest, no,” he said dryly. “I do not think I should change places with you. I feel very well satisfied as I am. My brain is my bank, and brings me something to live upon, which is all that I desire. To be comfortable and work honestly is enough for me. I have never envied the wealthy.”

“Mr. Bentham is a philosopher,” interposed his partner, Mr. Ellis smiling. “In our profession, Mr. Tempest, we see so many ups and downs of life, that we ourselves learn some lessons.”

They each gave me a formal little bow, and Mr. Bentham shook hands.

“Business is over, allow me to congratulate you,” he said politely. “And something more. The fact is Mr. Tempest, your deceased relative, had one very curious idea. He was a shrewd man and a clever one, but he certainly had one very curious idea.”

“What idea?”

Bentham gazed meditatively at the ceiling.

“My dear sir, our client mentioned – er – it’s his idea – a most erratic and extraordinary one, which was briefly this, – that he had sold himself to the devil, and that his large fortune was one result of the bargain.”

I burst out laughing heartily.

“What a ridiculous notion!” I exclaimed. “Poor man! Or perhaps he used the expression as a mere figure of speech?”

“I think not,” responded Mr. Ellis. “I think our client did not use the phrase ‘sold to the devil’ as a figure of speech merely, Mr. Bentham?”

“I am positive he did not,” said Bentham seriously. “He spoke of the ‘bargain’ as an actual and accomplished fact.”

I laughed again. Then I smiled, and thanking them, rose to go. They bowed to me once more, simultaneously, looking almost like twin brothers.

“Good-bye, Mr. Tempest,” said Mr. Bentham. “We shall serve you as we served our late client, to the best of our ability. May we ask whether you require any cash advances immediately?”

“No, thank you,” I answered, feeling grateful to my friend Rimanez.

They seemed a trifle surprised at this, but were too discreet to offer any remark. They wrote down my address at the Grand Hotel, and sent their clerk to show me to the door. I gave this man half-a-sovereign to drink my health which he very cheerfully promised to do. Then I walked away.

In turning a corner I jostled up against a man, the very publisher who had returned me my rejected manuscript the day before.

“Hello!” he exclaimed.

“Hello!” I rejoined.

“Where are you going?” he went on. “Are you going to try and place that unlucky novel? My dear boy, believe me it will never do as it is…”

“It will do,” I said calmly, “I am going to publish it myself.”

He started.

“Publish it yourself! Good heavens! – it will cost you – ah! – sixty or seventy, perhaps a hundred pounds.”

“I don’t care if it costs me a thousand!”

A red flush came into his face, and his eyes opened in astonishment.

“I thought… excuse me…” he stammered awkwardly; “I thought that money was important for you…”

“It was,” I answered dryly. “It isn’t now.”

Then I burst out laughing wildly. He began looking nervously about him in all directions. I caught him by the arm.

“Look here, man,” I said, trying to conquer my almost hysterical mirth. “I’m not mad – don’t you think it. I’m only a millionaire!”

And I began laughing again; the situation seemed to me so sublimely ridiculous. But the publisher did not see it at all. I made a further effort to control myself and succeeded.

“I assure you on my word of honour I’m not joking, it’s a fact. Last night I wanted a dinner, and you, like a good fellow, offered to give me one. Today I possess five millions of money! Don’t stare so! And as I have told you, I shall publish my book myself at my own expense, and it will succeed! I’ve more than enough in my wallet to pay for its publication now!”

He fell back stupefied and confused.

“God bless my soul!” he muttered feebly. “It’s like a dream! I was never more astonished in my life!”

“Nor I!” I said. “But strange things happen in life. And that book will be the success of the season! What will you take to publish it?”

“Publish? I?”

“Yes, you – why not? I offer you a chance to get some money. Will your ‘readers’ prevent your accepting it? You are not a slave, this is a free country. I know the kind of people who ‘read’ for you, the gaunt unlovable spinster of fifty, the dyspeptic book-worm who is a ‘literary failure’ and can find nothing else to do. Why should you rely on such incompetent opinion? I’ll pay you for the publication of my book. And I guarantee you another thing. I’ll mention you as a publisher. I’ll advertise it. Everything in this world can be done for money.”

“Stop, stop,” he interrupted. “This is so sudden! You must give me time to consider!”

“Take a day for your meditations then,” I said. “But no longer. For if you don’t say yes, I’ll get another man! Be wise in time, my friend! Good-bye!”

He ran after me.

“Wait, look here! You’re so strange, so wild, so erratic! Dear dear me,” and he smiled benevolently. “Why, you don’t give me a chance to congratulate you. I really do, you know – I congratulate you sincerely!” And he shook me by the hand quite fervently. “And I will think about your book – where will a letter find you?”

“Grand Hotel,” I responded. I knew he was already mentally calculating how much he could get from me for my literary whim. “Come there, and lunch or dine with me. Tomorrow if you like – only send me a word beforehand. Remember, it must be yes or no, in twenty-four hours!”

And with this I left him. I went on, laughing to myself inaudibly, till I saw one or two passers-by looking at me so surprisingly that I came to the conclusion that they took me for a madman. I walked briskly, and presently my excitement cooled down.

I returned to the Grand, looking and feeling much better in my new suit. A waiter met me in the corridor and with the most obsequious deference, informed me that ‘His Excellency the Prince’ was waiting for me in his own apartments for lunch.

I found my new friend alone in his sumptuous drawing-room, standing near the large window and holding in his hand an oblong crystal case through which he was looking with an almost affectionate solicitude.

“Ah, Geoffrey! Here you are!” he exclaimed. “I waited for you.”

“Very good of you!” I said, pleased at the friendly familiarity he displayed in thus calling me by my Christian name. “What have you got there?”

“A pet of mine,” he answered, smiling slightly. “Did you ever see anything like it before?”




6


I approached and examined the box he held. It was perforated with holes for the admission of air, and within it lay a brilliant coloured winged insect.

“Is it alive?” I asked.

“It is alive, and has some intelligence,” replied Rimanez. “I feed it and it knows me. It is quite tame and friendly as you perceive.”

He opened the case gently. The beetle expanded its radiant wings, and it rose at once to its protector’s hand. He lifted it and held it aloft, then shaking it to and fro lightly, he exclaimed,

“Off, Sprite! Fly, and return to me!”

The creature was looking like a beautiful iridescent jewel. After a few graceful movements hither and thither, it returned to its owner’s hand, and again settled there.

“There is a well-worn saying which declares that ‘in the midst of life we are in death’,” said the prince. “But that maxim is wrong. It should be ‘in the midst of death we are in life.’ This creature is a rare and curious production of death. I found it myself. Listen. I was present at the uncasing of an Egyptian female mummy. She was a princess of a famous royal house. On her chest was a piece of a gold quarter. Underneath this gold plate, her body was swathed round and round. When these were removed it was discovered that the mummified flesh between her breasts had decayed away, and in the hollow or nest, this insect was found alive!”

I could not repress a slight nervous shudder.

“Horrible!” I said. “If I were you, I should kill it, I think.”

He looked at me.

“Why?” he asked. “I’m afraid, my dear Geoffrey, you are not a scientist. To kill the poor creature who managed to find life in the very bosom of death, is a cruel suggestion, is it not? It has eyes, and the senses of taste, smell, touch and hearing. I accept the idea of the transmigration of souls, and so sometimes I think that perhaps the princess of that Royal Egyptian house had a wicked, brilliant, vampire soul, – and that… here it is!”

A cold thrill ran through me from head to foot at these words, and as I looked at the speaker standing opposite me, with the ‘wicked, brilliant, vampire soul’ on his hand. I examined the weird insect more closely. As I did so, its bright beady eyes sparkled, I thought, vindictively, and I stepped back.

“It is certainly remarkable,” I murmured. “No wonder you value it, as a curiosity. Its eyes are quite distinct, almost intelligent.”

“No doubt she had beautiful eyes,” said Rimanez smiling.

“She? Whom do you mean?”

“The princess, of course!” he answered, evidently amused. “The dear dead lady. Some of her personality must be in this creature: it had nothing but her body to nourish itself upon.”

And here he replaced the creature in its crystal habitation.

“I suppose,” I said slowly, “you think that nothing actually perishes completely?”

“Exactly!” returned Rimanez emphatically. “Nothing can be entirely annihilated; not even a thought.”

I was silent.

“And now for luncheon,” he said gaily, passing his arm through mine. “You look twenty per cent. better than when you went out this morning, Geoffrey.”

Seated at table with the dark-faced Amiel in attendance, I related my morning’s adventures. I told him about the publisher who had on the previous day refused my manuscript, and who now, I felt sure, would be glad to accept the offer I had made. Rimanez listened attentively, smiling.

“Of course!” he said, when I had concluded. “I think he showed remarkable discretion and decency. His pleasant hypocrisy shows him to be a person of tact and foresight. Did you ever imagine a human being or a human conscience that could not be bought? The Pope will sell you a specially reserved seat in his heaven if you give him the cash while he is on earth! Nothing is given free in this world. Everything must be bought – with blood, tears and groans occasionally, – but usually with money.”

I fancied that Amiel, behind his master’s chair, smiled darkly at this. I could not formulate to myself any substantial reason for my aversion to this confidential servant. But the aversion increased each time I saw his sullen and sneering features. Yet he was perfectly respectful and deferential; I could find no fault with him

As soon as we were alone, Rimanez lit a cigar.

“Now let us talk,” he said. “I believe I am at present your best friend, and I certainly know the world better than you do. How will you begin spending your money?”

I laughed.

“Well, I shan’t provide funds for the building of a church or a hospital,” I said. “My dear Prince Rimanez, I mean to spend my money on my own pleasure, and I daresay I shall find plenty of ways to do it.”

“With your fortune, you could make hundreds of miserable people happy;” he suggested.

“Thanks, I would rather be happy myself first,” I answered gaily. “I daresay I seem to you selfish. You are philanthropic I know; I am not.”

He still regarded me steadily.

“You might help your fellow-workers in literature…”

I interrupted him with a decided gesture.

“That I will never do, my friend! My fellow-workers in literature have kicked me down at every opportunity. It is my turn at kicking now, and I will show them as little mercy, as little help, as little sympathy as they have shown me!”

“Revenge is sweet!” he said. “Well, in what, at present does your idea of enjoying your heritage consist?”

“In publishing my book,” I answered.

“Tempest,” he said, looking at me through half-closed eyes and a cloud of smoke, “man gives no clue to his intent – more malignant than the lion, more treacherous than the snake, more greedy than the wolf, he takes his fellow-man’s hand in pretended friendship, and with a smiling face he hides a false and selfish heart!”

His eyes glowed with a fiery ardour. I stared at him in mute amazement. There was something terrifying in his attitude. He caught my wondering glance,

“I think I was born to be an actor,” he said carelessly.

“I think,” I answered him, smiling a little, “you are a creature of impulse.”

“How wise of you!” he exclaimed. “Good Geoffrey Tempest, how very wise of you! But you are wrong. If I told you that I am a dangerous companion, that I like evil things better than good, that I am not a safe guide for any man, what would you think?”

“I’d think you were whimsically fond of underestimating your own qualities,” I said. “But I’d like you anyway.”

At these words, he looked at me:

“Tempest, you follow the fashion of the prettiest women. They always like the greatest scoundrels!”

“But you are not a scoundrel,” I rejoined.

“No, I’m not a scoundrel, but there’s a devil in me.”

“All the better![13 - All the better! – Тем лучше!]” I said, stretching myself out in my chair with lazy comfort – “I hope there’s something of him in me too.”

“Do you believe in him?” asked Rimanez smiling.

“The devil? Of course not!”

“He is a very fascinating legendary personage,” continued the prince. “Just imagine his fall from heaven! ‘Lucifer Son of the Morning’ – what a title, and what a birthright! Splendid and supreme, at the right hand of Deity itself he stood, this majestic Archangel. At once he perceived in the vista of embryonic things a new small world, and on it a being forming itself slowly. Then Lucifer, full of wrath, turned on the Master of the Spheres, crying aloud: ‘Will you make of this slight poor creature an Angel even as I? I protest against you and condemn! If you make Man in Our image I will destroy him utterly, as unfit to share with me the splendours of Your Wisdom, the glory of Your love!’ And the Supreme Voice replied; ‘Lucifer, Son of the Morning! Fall, proud Spirit from your high estate! Return no more till Man himself redeem you! When the world rejects you, I will pardon and again receive you, – but not till then.’”

“I never heard that version of the legend before,” I said. “The idea that Man should redeem the devil is quite new to me.”

“Is it?” and he looked at me fixedly. “Poor Lucifer! His punishment is of course eternal, and the distance between himself and Heaven must be rapidly increasing every day, for Man will never assist him to retrieve his error. Man will reject God fast enough and gladly enough – but never the devil. Judge then, how this ‘Lucifer, Son of the Morning,’ Satan, or whatever else he is called, must hate Humanity!”

I smiled.

“Well,” I observed. “He need not tempt anybody.”

“You forget!” said Rimanez. “He swore before God that he would destroy Man utterly. He must therefore fulfill that oath, if he can. Men swear in the name of God every day without the slightest intention of carrying out their promises.”

“But it’s all nonsense,” I said impatiently. “All these old legends are rubbish. You tell the story well, that is because you are eloquent. Nowadays no one believes in either devils or angels. I, for example, do not even believe in the soul.”

“I know you do not,” he answered suavely. “And your scepticism is very comfortable because it relieves you of all personal responsibility. I envy you! For – I regret to say, I am compelled to believe in the soul.”

“Compelled! That is absurd – no one can compel you to accept a mere theory.”

He looked at me with a smile.

“True! Very true! There is no compelling force in the whole Universe. Man is the supreme and independent creature, master of all save his personal desire. True – I forgot! Let us avoid theology, please, and psychology also. Let us talk about the only subject that has any sense or interest in it – money. I perceive your present plans are definite, – you wish to publish a book that will make you famous. Have you no wider ambitions?”

I laughed,

“No. I know there is some intellect in my book, and some originality too. Surely that will lift me up.”

“I doubt it!” he answered. “I very much doubt it. It will be received as a production of a rich man amusing himself with literature. But, as I told you before, genius seldom develops itself under the influence of wealth. You, my dear Tempest, are not a Shakespeare, but your millions will give you a better chance than he ever had in his life, as you will not have to sue for patronage. The exalted personages will be delighted to borrow money of you if you lend it.”

“I shall not lend,” I said.

“Nor give?”

“Nor give.”

“I am very glad,” he observed, “that you are determined not to ‘go about doing good’ as the humbugs say, with your money. You are wise. Spend on yourself! As for me, I always help charities, and put my name on subscription-lists[14 - subscription-lists – подписные листы], and I assist a certain portion of clergy.”

“I rather wonder at that,” I remarked. “Especially as you tell me you are not a Christian.”

“Yes, it seems strange, doesn’t it?” he said with a derision. “But many of the clergy are doing their best to destroy religion, – by cant, by hypocrisy, by sensuality, by shams. When they seek my help in this noble work, I give it, – freely!”

I laughed. At that moment Amiel entered, bearing a telegram for me on a silver salver. I opened it. It was from my friend the publisher, and ran as follows,

“Accept book with pleasure. Send manuscript immediately.”

I showed this to Rimanez with a kind of triumph. He smiled.

“Of course! What else did you expect? It actually means: ‘Accept money for publishing book with pleasure’. Well, what are you going to do?”

“The book must be published as quickly as possible, and I shall personally attend to all the details concerning it. For the rest of my plans…”

“Leave them to me!” said Rimanez.




7


The next three or four weeks flew by in a whirl. By the time they were ended I found it hard to recognize myself in the indolent, listless, extravagant man of fashion I had so suddenly become. The creative faculty was now dormant in me. I did very little, and thought less. But this intellectual apathy was but a passing phase, a mental holiday and desirable cessation from brain-work. My book was nearly through the press. My complacent literary egoism was mixed with a good deal of disagreeable astonishment and incredulity, because my work, written with enthusiasm and feeling, propounded sentiments and theories which I personally did not believe in. Now, how had this happened, I asked myself? How came I to write the book at all? My pen, consciously or unconsciously, had written down things which my reasoning faculties entirely repudiated.

I thought that the book was nobler than its writer. This idea smote me with a sudden pang. I pushed my papers aside, and walking to the window, looked out. It was raining hard, and the streets were black with mud and slush. I was quite alone, for I had my own suite of rooms now in the hotel, not far from those occupied by Prince Rimanez. I also had my own servant, a respectable, good fellow. Then I had my own carriage and horses with coachman and groom. I was in full possession of my fortune, I enjoyed excellent health, and I had everything I wanted. Lucio’s management was very good, and I saw myself mentioned in almost every paper in London and the provinces as the ‘famous millionaire.’ For forty pounds, a well-known ‘agency’ will guarantee the insertion of any paragraph in no less than four hundred newspapers. Money can buy everything.

The persistent paragraphing of my name, together with a description of my personal appearance and my ‘marvellous literary gifts,’ combined with a deferential and almost awestruck allusion to the ‘millions’ which made me so interesting, the paragraph was written out by Lucio, – all this brought upon me two inflictions. First many invitations to social and artistic functions[15 - social and artistic functions – общественные и артистические должности], and secondly, a stream of begging-letters[16 - begging-letters – просительные письма]. I employed a secretary, who occupied a room near my suite, and who was kept hard at work all day. Needless to say I refused all appeals for money; no one had helped me in my distress, with the exception of my old chum ‘Boffles’.

Yet with all the advantages which I now possessed I could not honestly say I was happy. I knew I could have every possible enjoyment and amusement the world had to offer. I knew I was one of the most envied among men, and yet, I was conscious of a bitterness rather than a sweetness in the full cup of fortune. For example, I had flooded the press with the prominent advertisements of my forthcoming book.

A fog began to darken down over the streets in company with the rain, and disgusted with the weather and with myself, I turned away from the window and settled into an arm-chair by the fire. A tap came at the door, and in answer to my somewhat irritable “Come in!” Rimanez entered.

“What, all in the dark Tempest!” he exclaimed cheerfully. “Why don’t you light up?”

“The fire’s enough,” I answered crossly. “Enough at any rate to think by.”

“And have you been thinking?” he inquired laughing. “Don’t do it. It’s a bad habit. No one thinks nowadays, people can’t stand it[17 - can’t stand it – не могут этого выдержать]. Their heads are too frail. Just begin to think – and the foundations of society will go down. Besides thinking is always dull work.”

“I have found it so,” I said gloomily. “Lucio, there is something wrong about me somewhere.”

“Wrong? Oh no, surely not! What can there be wrong about you, Tempest? Are you not one of the richest men living?”

“Listen, my friend,” I said earnestly. “You know I have been busy for the last fortnight correcting my book for the press. I have come to the conclusion that the book is not Me. It is not a reflex of my feelings at all. I cannot understand how I wrote it.”

“You find it stupid perhaps?” said Lucio sympathetically.

“No,” I answered with indignation. “I do not find it stupid.”

“Dull then?”

“No, – it is not dull.”

“Melodramatic?”

“No, – not melodramatic.”

“Well, my good fellow, if it is not dull or stupid or melodramatic, what is it!” he exclaimed merrily. “It must be something!”

“Yes, it is this, it is beyond me altogether.” And I spoke with some bitterness. “Quite beyond me. I could not write it now. I wonder I could write it then. Lucio, I daresay I am talking foolishly, but it seems to me I must have been on some higher altitude of thought when I wrote the book. A height from which I have since fallen.”

“I’m sorry to hear this,” he answered, with twinkling eyes. “From what you say it appears to me you have been guilty of literary sublimity. Oh bad, very bad! Nothing can be worse. To write sublimely is a grievous sin, and one which critics never forgive. I’m really grieved for you, my friend.”

I laughed in spite of my depression.

“You are incorrigible, Lucio!” I said. “But your cheerfulness is very inspiriting. All I wanted to explain to you is this, that my book expresses a certain tone of thought which is not me. I, in my present self have no sympathy with it. I must have changed very much since I wrote it.”

“Changed? Why yes, I should think so!” and Lucio laughed heartily. “The possession of five millions changes a man considerably for the better – or worse! But you seem to be worrying yourself about nothing. Not one author in many centuries writes from his own heart or as he truly feels. When he does, he becomes immortal. This planet is too limited to hold more than one Homer, one Plato, one Shakespeare. Don’t distress yourself – you are neither of these three! You belong to the age, Tempest. Observe the signs of the time. Art is subordinate to the love of money – literature, politics and religion the same. You cannot escape from the general disease. The only thing to do is to make the best of it[18 - to make the best of it – извлечь из этого выгоду]. No one can reform it.”

He paused. I was silent.

“What I am going to say now,” he proceeded, “will sound ridiculous. In order to write with intense feeling, you must first feel. When you wrote this book of yours, you were almost a human hedgehog in the way of feeling. The ‘change’ you complain of is this: you have nothing to feel about.”

I was irritated.

“Do you take me for a callous creature?” I exclaimed. “You are mistaken in me, Lucio. I feel most keenly…”

“What do you feel?” he inquired, fixing his eyes steadily upon me. “There are hundreds of starving wretches in this metropolis, men and women on the brink of suicide because they have no hope of anything in this world or the next – do you feel for them? Do their grieves affect you? You know they do not, you know you never think of them, why should you? One of the chief advantages of wealth is the ability to shut out other people’s miseries from our personal consideration.”

I said nothing. He was right.

“Yesterday,” he went on in the same quiet voice, “a child was run over here[19 - a child was run over here – здесь переехали ребёнка], just opposite this hotel. It was only a poor child. Its mother ran shrieking out of a back-street, just to see the little bleeding body. She struck wildly with both hands at the men who were trying to lead her away. And then with a cry she fell face forward in the mud – dead. She was only a poor woman. I simply tell you the ‘sad incident’ as it occurred, and I am sure you are not sorry for the fate of either the child or its mother who died in the agony. Now don’t say you are, because I know you’re not!”

“How can one feel sorry for people one does not know or has never seen…” I began.

“Exactly! How is it possible? How can one feel, when one’s self is thoroughly comfortable? Thus, my dear Geoffrey, you must be content to let your book appear as the reflex and record of your past when you were in the sensitive stage. Now you are encased in a pachydermatous covering of gold, which adequately protects you from such influences.”

“You should have been an orator,” I said, rising and pacing the room to and fro in vexation. “But to me your words are not consoling, and I do not think they are true. Fame is easily enough secured.”

“Pardon me,” said Lucio with a deprecatory gesture. “Notoriety is easily secured – very easily. A few critics who have dined with you, will give you notoriety. But fame is the voice of the whole civilized public of the world.”

“The public!” I echoed contemptuously. “The public only care for trash.”

“It is a pity you should appeal to it then,” he responded with a smile. “If you think so little of the public why give it anything of your brain? The public is the author’s best friend and truest critic. But if you prefer to despise, I tell you what to do. Print just twenty copies of your book and present these to the leading reviewers. When they write about you (as they will do – I’ll take care of that) let your publisher advertise ‘First and Second Large Editions’ of the new novel by Geoffrey Tempest, are bought, one hundred thousand copies having been sold in a week!”

I laughed.

“It is a plan of action of many modern publishers,” I said. “But I don’t like it. I’ll win my fame legitimately if I can.”

“You can’t!” declared Lucio with a serene smile. “It’s impossible. You are too rich. That is not legitimate in literature.”

I went over to my table, rolled up my corrected proofs and directed them to the printers.

The door opened and closed – Lucio was gone. I remained alone. We had now been together for nearly a month, and I was no closer to the secret of his actual nature than I had been at first. Yet I admired him more than ever.




8


Rimanez and I went to the theater. We had entered the Earl of Elton’s box between the first and second acts of the play, and the Earl himself, an unimpressive, bald-headed, red-faced old gentleman, with fuzzy white whiskers, had risen to welcome us. His daughter had not moved. A minute or two later when he addressed her sharply, saying “Sibyl! Prince Rimanez and his friend, Mr. Geoffrey Tempest,” she turned her head and honoured us both with the chill glance. Her exquisite beauty smote me dumb and foolish. Lucio spoke to her, and I listened.

“At last, Lady Sibyl,” he said, bending towards her deferentially. “At last I have the honour of meeting you. I have seen you often, as one sees a star, – at a distance.”

She smiled, – a smile so slight and cold that it scarcely lifted the corners of her lovely lips.

“I do not think I have ever seen you,” she replied. “But my father speak of you constantly. So his friends are always mine.”

He bowed.

“To merely speak to Lady Sibyl Elton is sufficient to make the man happy,” he said. “To be her friend is to discover the lost paradise.”

She flushed. Rimanez turned to me, and placed a chair just behind hers.

“Will you sit here Geoffrey?” he suggested. “I want to have a business chat with Lord Elton.”

She smiled encouragingly as I approached her.

“You are a great friend of Prince Rimanez?” she asked softly, as I sat down.

“Yes, we are very intimate,” I replied. “He is a delightful companion.”

The curtain rose and the play was resumed. A very questionable play, about the ‘woman with the past’. I felt disgusted at the performance and looked at my companions. There was no sign of disapproval on Lady Sibyl’s fair countenance. Her father was bending forward eagerly.

“England has progressed!” said Rimanez.

“But, these women you know,” exclaimed Lord Elton, “these poor souls with a past – are very interesting!”

“Very!” murmured his daughter. “In fact it seems that for women with no such ‘past’ there can be no future! Virtue and modesty are quite out of date.”

I leaned towards her, half whispering,

“Lady Sibyl, I am glad to see this wretched play offends you.”

She turned her deep eyes on me in mingled surprise and amusement.

“Oh no, it doesn’t,” she declared. “I have seen so many like it. And I have read so many novels on just the same theme! I assure you, I am quite convinced that the so-called ‘bad’ woman is the only popular type with men. She gets all the enjoyment possible out of life, she frequently makes an excellent marriage. It is quite a mistake for women to be respectable, – they are dull.”

“Ah, now you are only joking!” I said with an indulgent smile. “You know that in your heart you think very differently!”

She made no answer, as just then the curtain went up again. At that very instant she turned to me and said,

“You are the famous Mr. Tempest, are you not?”

“Famous?” I echoed with a deep sense of gratification. “Well, I am scarcely that, yet! My book is not published.”

Her eyebrows arched themselves surprisedly.

“Your book? I did not know you had written one. When I asked if you were the famous Mr. Tempest, I meant to say were you the great millionaire.”

I bowed.

“How delightful it must be for you to have so much money!” she said. “And you are young too, and good-looking.”

I smiled.

“You are very kind, Lady Sibyl!”

“Why?” she asked laughing, such a delicious low laugh. “Because I tell you the truth? You are young and you are good-looking! Millionaires are generally such appalling creatures. And now tell me about your book!”

The performance was over. We all left the box together. Lucio and I raised our hats in farewell, and the Elton equipage rolled away. As we drove off, Lucio peered inquisitively at me and said,

“Well?”

I was silent.

“Don’t you admire her?” he went on. “I must confess she is cold, but snow often covers volcanoes! She has good features, and a naturally clear complexion.”

“She is perfectly beautiful,” – I said emphatically. “The dullest eyes must see that. There is not a fault to be found with her. And she is wise and cold.”

“Geoffrey, there are no obstacles in the way of your wooing and winning her, if such is your desire. Geoffrey Tempest, millionaire, will be a welcome suitor. Poor Lord Elton’s affairs are in a bad way – he is almost ruined. The American woman who is boarding with him…”

“Boarding with him!” I exclaimed.

Lucio laughed heartily.

“The Earl and Countess of Elton give the prestige of their home and protection to Miss Diana Chesney, the American, for the trifling sum of two thousand guineas per annum.”

“What a state!” I said, half angrily.

“Geoffrey, my friend, you are really amazingly inconsistent! Six weeks ago, what were you? A mere poor scribbler. Now, as millionaire, you think contemptuously of an Earl, because he is boarding an American heiress and launching her into society where she would never get without him. And you aspire, or probably mean to aspire to the hand of the Earl’s daughter, as if you yourself were a descendant of kings!”

“My father was a gentleman,” I said, with hauteur, “and a descendant of gentlemen. We were never common folk.”

Lucio smiled.

“I do not doubt it, my dear fellow. But a simple ‘gentleman’ is below – or above – an Earl. Which side will you choose? It really doesn’t matter nowadays. You occupy a good position, since you have money. And you do not know how it was made.”

“True!” I answered meditatively. Then, with a sudden flash of recollection I added,

“By the way I never told you that my deceased relative imagined that he had sold his soul to the devil, and that this vast fortune of his was the material result!”

Lucio laughed.

“No! Not possible!” he exclaimed derisively. “What an idea! Imagine any sane man believing in a devil! Ha, ha, ha! Well, well! The folly of human imaginations will never end! Here we are!”

He sprang lightly out as the brougham stopped at the Grand Hotel.




9


It was a fine frosty evening. At about eleven o’clock, we went to the private gambling club to which my companion had volunteered to introduce me as a guest. It was situated at the end of a mysterious little back street, and was an unpretentious looking house enough outside. But within, it was sumptuously though tastelessly furnished. A woman with painted eyes and dyed hair received us. Her looks and manner proclaimed her as one of those ‘pure’ ladies with a ‘past’ who are represented as such martyrs to the vices of men. Lucio said something to her apart, – whereupon she glanced at me deferentially and smiled. Then rang the bell. A discreet man-servant in sober black made his appearance. We trod on a carpet of the softest felt. I noticed that everything was rendered as noiseless as possible in this establishment.

On the upper landing, the servant knocked very cautiously at a side-door. A key turned in the lock, and we were admitted into a long double room, very brilliantly lit with lamps. It was crowded with men playing at rouge et noir and baccarat[20 - rouge et noir and baccarat – красное и чёрное и баккара (названия игр)]. Some looked up as Lucio entered and nodded smilingly, others glanced inquisitively at me, but our entrance was otherwise scarcely noticed.

Lucio drew me along by the arm, sat down to watch the play. I followed his example. I recognized the faces of many well-known public men, men eminent in politics and society. But I betrayed no sign of surprise, and quietly observed the games and the gamesters. I was prepared to play and to lose. But I was not prepared however for the strange scene which soon occurred.




10


As soon as the game was finished, the players rose, and greeted Lucio with eagerness and effusion. I instinctively guessed from their manner that they looked upon him as an influential member of the club, a person to lend them money to gamble with. He introduced me to them all, and I perceived the effect my name had upon most of them. I was asked if I would join in a game of baccarat, and I readily consented. The stakes were ruinously high, but I had no need to falter for that. One of the players near me was a fair-haired young man, handsome in face. He had been introduced to me as Viscount Lynton. When he lost, as he mostly did, he laughed uproariously as though he were drunk or delirious. Lucio did not join us, but sat apart, quietly observant, and watching me. All the luck came my way, and I won steadily. The more I won the more excited I became, till presently my humour changed and I was seized by a whimsical desire to lose. I wished this for young Lynton’s sake. He seemed literally maddened by my constant winnings, and continued his foolhardy and desperate play. His eyes glittered with a hungry feverishness. The other gamesters concealed their feelings more cleverly. Again and again I gathered up the stakes, till at last the players rose, Viscount Lynton among them.

“Well, I’ve lost everything!” he said, with a loud laugh. “You must give me my chance of a revanche tomorrow, Mr. Tempest!”

I bowed.

“With pleasure!”

He called a waiter at the end of the room to bring him a brandy and soda, and meanwhile I was surrounded by the rest of the men, all of them repeating the Viscount’s suggestion of a ‘revanche,’ and strenuously urging upon me the necessity of returning to the club the next night. I readily agreed, and while we were in the midst of talk, Lucio suddenly addressed young Lynton.

“Will you make up another game with me?” he inquired. “I’ll start the bank with this,” – and he placed two notes of five hundred pounds each on the table.

There was a moment’s silence. The Viscount was thirstily drinking his brandy-and-soda, and glanced at the notes with covetous bloodshot eyes. Then he shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

“I can’t stake anything,” he said; “I’ve already told you I’ve lost everything.”

“Sit down, sit down, Lynton!” urged one man near him. “I’ll lend you some money.”

“Thanks, I’d rather not!” he returned, flushing a little. “I’m too much in your debt already. You go on, you fellows, and I’ll watch the play.”

“Let me persuade you Viscount Lynton,” said Lucio, looking at him with his dazzling inscrutable smile. “If you do not stake money, stake something trifling and merely nominal,” and here he took up a counter. “This frequently represents fifty pounds, – let it represent for once something that is not valuable like money, – your soul, for example!”

A burst of laughter broke from all the men. Lucio laughed softly with them.

“I really propose less than one hair of your head,” he continued, “because the hair is something, and the soul is nothing! Come! Will you risk that non-existent quantity for the chance of winning a thousand pounds?”

The Viscount turned upon us,

“Done!” he exclaimed; whereupon the party sat down.

The game was brief, and in its rapid excitement, almost breathless. Lucio rose, the winner. He smiled as he pointed to the counter which had represented Viscount Lynton’s soul.

“I have won!” he said quietly. “But you owe me nothing, my dear Viscount, inasmuch as you risked nothing! We played this game simply for fun. If souls had any existence of course I should claim yours!” He laughed. “Good-night! Tempest and I will give you, your full revenge tomorrow, and you will probably have the victory!”

Viscount Lynton shook Lucio’s hand heartily.

“You are an awfully good fellow!” he said, speaking hurriedly. “And I assure you seriously if I had a soul I should be very glad to part with it for a thousand pounds at the present moment. But I feel convinced I shall win tomorrow!”

“I am sure you will!” returned Lucio affably.

The Viscount smiled and left the club. As soon as the door had closed behind him, several of the gamesters exchanged sententious nods and glances.

“Ruined!” said one of them.

“His gambling debts are more than he can ever pay,” added another.

These remarks were made indifferently, as though one should talk of the weather, no sympathy was expressed. But I was not utterly vile. I inwardly resolved to write to Viscount Lynton that very evening, and tell him to consider his debt to me cancelled, as I should refuse to claim it. I met Lucio’s gaze fixed steadily upon me. He smiled, and in a few minutes we had left the club, and were out in the cold night air under a heaven of frostily sparkling stars. My companion laid his hand on my shoulder.

“Tempest, if you are going to be kind-hearted or sympathetic to undeserving rascals, I shall leave you!” he said, with a curious mixture of satire and seriousness in his voice. “I see you want to cancel Lynton’s debt, you are a fool. He is a born scoundrel, why should you compassionate him? From the time he first went to college till now, he has been doing nothing but live a life of degraded sensuality. He is a worthless rake, worse than a dog!”





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notes


Примечания





1


washerwomen – прачки




2


so-called – так называемая




3


fellow-men – собратья




4


I found myself – я оказался




5


he is less cared for – о нём заботятся меньше




6


that won’t do – так не пойдёт




7


present age – наше время




8


the real and personal estate – движимое и недвижимое имущество




9


to match me in power – состязаться со мной в могуществе




10


leave much to be desired – оставляют много желать




11


needs must when the devil drives – нужно покориться, когда погоняет дьявол




12


he came into a mine – он открыл руду




13


All the better! – Тем лучше!




14


subscription-lists – подписные листы




15


social and artistic functions – общественные и артистические должности




16


begging-letters – просительные письма




17


can’t stand it – не могут этого выдержать




18


to make the best of it – извлечь из этого выгоду




19


a child was run over here – здесь переехали ребёнка




20


rouge et noir and baccarat – красное и чёрное и баккара (названия игр)