Satan's Diary

“And so?” he said.

“And so?” I replied.

“Will you order money for the king?”

“The money is at your disposal, my dear friend.”

Magnus looked at me thoughtfully.

“It’s not worth while,” he decided. “This miracle is old stuff. It requires too many police to compel belief. We shall perform a better miracle.”

“Oh, undoubtedly. We shall contrive a better device. In two weeks?”

“Yes, about that!” replied Magnus cordially.

We shook hands warmly in parting and in about two hours the gracious king sent each of us a decoration: some sort of a star for me and something else for Magnus. I rather pitied the poor idiot who continued to play his lone hand.

April 16, Rome.

Maria is somewhat indisposed and I hardly see her. Magnus informed me of her illness – and lied about it: for some reason he does not want me to see her. Does he fear anything?

Again Cardinal X. called on him in my absence. Nothing is being said to me about the “miracle.”

But I am patient, – and I wait. At first this was rather boresome but recently I have found a new pastime and now I am quite content. It is the Roman museums, where I spend my mornings, like a conscientious American who has just learned to distinguish between a painting and a piece of sculpture. But I have no Baedecker with me and I am strangely happy that I don’t understand a thing about it all: marble and painting. I merely like it.

I like the odor of the sea in the museums. Why the sea? – I do not know: the sea is far away and I rather expected the odor of decay. And it is so spacious here – much more spacious than the Campagna. In the Campagna I see only space, over which run trains and automobiles. Here I swim in time. There is so much time here! Then, too, I rather like the fact that here they preserve with great care a chip of a marble foot or a stony sole with a bit of the heel. Like an ass from Illinois, I simply cannot understand what value there is in this, but I already believe that it is valuable and I am touched by your careful thrift, little man! Preserve it! Go on breaking the feet of live men. That is nothing. But these you must preserve. It is good, indeed, when living, dying, ever changing men, for the space of 2000 years, take such good care of a chip of marble foot.

When I enter the narrow museum from the Roman street, where every stone is drowned in the light of the April sun, its transparent and even shadow seems to me a peculiar light, more durable than the expensive rays of the sun. As far as I recollect it is thus that eternity doth shine. And these marbles! They have swallowed as much sunlight as an Englishman whiskey before they were driven into this place that they do not fear night at all… And I, too, do not fear the night when I am near them. Take care of them, man!

If this is what you call art, what an ass you are, Wondergood. Of course, you are cultured, you look upon art with reverence as upon religion and you have understood as much of it as that ass did on which the Messiah entered Jerusalem. And what if there should be a fire? Yesterday this thought troubled me all day and I went with it to Magnus. But he seems extremely occupied with something and could not, at first, understand what I was driving at.

“What’s the trouble, Wondergood? You want to insure the Vatican – or something else? Make it clearer?”

“Oh! to insure!” I exclaimed in anger: “you are a barbarian, Thomas Magnus!”

At last he understood. Smiling cordially, he stretched, yawned and laid some paper before me.

“You really are a gentleman from Mars, dear Wondergood. Don’t contradict, and sign this paper. It is the last one.”

“I will sign, but under one condition. Your explosion must not touch the Vatican.”

He laughed again:

“Would you be sorry? Then you had better not sign. In general, if you are sorry about anything – about anything at all – it would be better for us to part before it is too late. There is no room for pity in my game and my play is not for sentimental American girls.”

“If you please…” I signed the paper and threw it aside. “But it seems as if you have earnestly entered upon the duties of Satan, dear Magnus!”

“And does Satan have duties? Poor Satan! Then I don’t want to be Satan!”

“Neither duties nor obligations?”

“Neither duties nor obligations.”

“And what then?”

He glanced at me quickly with his gleaming eyes and replied with one short word, which cut the air before my face:

“Will. ”

“And…the current of high pressure?”

Magnus smiled patronizingly:

“I am very glad that you remember my words so well, Wondergood. They may be of use to you some day.”

Cursed dog. I felt so much like striking him that I – bowed particularly low and politely. But he restrained me with a gracious gesture, pointing to a chair:

“Where are you going, Wondergood? Sit down. We have seen so little of each other of late. How is your health?”

“Fine, thank you. And how is the health of Signorina Maria?”

“Not particularly good. But it’s a trifle. A few more days of waiting and you… So you like the museums, Wondergood? There was a time when I, too, gave them much time and feeling. Yes, I remember, I remember… Don’t you find, Wondergood, that man, in mass, is a repulsive being?”

I raised my eyes in astonishment:

“I do not quite understand this change of subject, Magnus. On the contrary, the museums have revealed to me a new and more attractive side of man…”

He laughed.

“Love for mankind?.. Well, well, do not take offense at the jest, Wondergood. You see: everything that man does in crayon is wonderful – but repulsive in painting. Take the sketch of Christianity, with its sermon on the Mount, its lilies and its ears of corn, how marvelous it is! And how ugly is its picture with its sextons, its funeral pyres and its Cardinal X.! A genius begins the work and an idiot, an animal, completes it. The pure and fresh wave of the ocean tide strikes the dirty shore – and returns dirty, bearing back with it corks and shells. The beginning of love, the beginning of the Roman Empire and the great revolution – how good are all beginnings! And their end? And even if a man here and there has managed to die as beautifully as he was born, the masses, the masses, Wondergood, invariably end the liturgy in shamelessness!”

“Oh, but what about the causes, Magnus?”

“The causes? Apparently we find concealed here the very substance of man, of animal, evil and limited in the mass, inclined to madness, easily inoculated with all sorts of disease and crowning the widest possible road with a standstill. And that is why Art is so much above Man!”

“I do not understand.”

“What is there incomprehensible about it? In art it is the genius who begins and the genius completes. You understand: the genius! the fool, the imitator or the critic is quite powerless to change or mar the paintings of Velasquez, the sculpture of Angelo or the verse of Homer. He can destroy, smash, break, burn or deface, but he is quite powerless to bring them down to his own level – and that is why he so detests real art. You understand, Wondergood? His paw is helpless!”

Magnus waved his white hand and laughed.

“But why does he guard and protect it so assiduously?”

“It is not he who guards and protects. This is done by a special species of faithful watchmen ” – Magnus laughed again: “and did you observe how uncomfortable they feel in the museum?”

“Who – they?”

“Well, those who came to view the things! But the most ridiculous phase of the whole business is not that the fool is a fool but that the genius unswervedly worships the fool as a neighbor and fellow being and anxiously seeks his devastating love. As if he were a savage himself, the genius does not understand that his true neighbor is a genius similar to himself and he is eternally opening his embraces to the near – human…who eagerly crawls into them in order to abstract the watch from his vest pocket! Yes, my dear Wondergood, it is a most laughable point and I fear…”

He lapsed into thought, fixing his eyes upon the floor: thus apparently do human beings gaze into the depths of their own graves. And I understood just what this genius feared, and once again I bowed before the Satanic mind which in all the world recognized only itself and its own will. Here was a god who would not share his power with Olympus! And what a contempt for mankind! And what open contempt for me! Here was a grain of earth that could make the devil himself sneeze!

And do you know how I concluded that evening? I took my pious Toppi by the neck and threatened to shoot him if he did not get drunk with me. And drunk we did get! We began in some dirty little café and continued in some night taverns where I generously filled some black-eyed bandits with liquor, mandolin players and singers, who sang to me of Maria: I drank like a farm hand who had just arrived in the city after a year of sober labor. Away with the museums! I remember that I shouted much and waved my hands – but never did I love my Maria so tenderly, so sweetly and so painfully as in that smoke of drink, permeated with the odor of wine, oranges and some burning fat, in this wide circle of black bearded stealthy faces and rapaciously gleaming eyes, amid the melodious strains of mandolins which opened for me the very vestibules of heaven and hell!

I vaguely remember some very accommodating but pompous murderers, whom I kissed and forgave in the name of Maria. I remember that I proposed that all of us go to drink in the Coliseum, in the very place where martyrs used to die but I do not know why we did not do it – I believe there were technical difficulties. And how splendid Toppi was! At first he drank long and silently, like an archbishop. Then he suddenly began to perform interesting feats. He put a bottle of Chianti on his nose, the wine running all over him. He tried to perform some tricks with cards but was immediately caught by the affable bandits who brilliantly repeated the same trick. He walked on all fours and sang some religious verses through his nose. He cried and suddenly announced frankly that he was a devil.

We walked home staggering along the street, bumping into walls and lampposts and hilariously enjoying ourselves like two students. Toppi tried to pick a quarrel with some policemen, but, touched by their politeness, he ended by conferring his stern blessing upon them, saying gloomily:

“Go and sin no more.”

Then he confessed with tears that he was in love with a certain signorina, that his love was requited and that he must therefore resign his spiritual calling. Saying this, he lay down upon a stony threshold and fell into a stubborn sleep. And thus I left him.

Maria, Maria, how you tempt me! Not once have I touched your lips. Yesterday I kissed only red wine…but whence come these burning traces on my lips? But yesterday I stood upon my knees, Madonna, and covered you with flowers: but yesterday I timidly laid hands upon the hem of your garment, and to-day you are only a woman and I want you. My hands are trembling. The obstacles, the halls, the paces and the thresholds separating us drive me mad. I want you! I did not recognize my own eyes in the mirror: there is a thick shadow upon them. I breathe heavily and irregularly, and all day long my thoughts are wandering lustfully about your naked breast. I have forgotten everything.

In whose power am I? It bends me like soft, heated iron. I am deafened, I am blinded by my own heat and sparks. What do you do, man, when that happens to you? Do you simply go and take the woman? Do you violate her? Think: it is night now and Maria is so close by. I can approach her room without a sound…and I want to hear her cries! But suppose Magnus bars the road for me? I will kill Magnus.

Nonsense.

No, tell me, in whose power am I? You ought to know that man? To-day, just before evening, as I was seeking to escape from myself and Maria, I wandered about the streets, but it was worse there: everywhere I saw men and women, men and women. As if I had never seen them before! They all appeared naked to me. I stood long at Monte-Picio and tried to grasp what a sunset was but could not: before me there passed by in endless procession those men and women, gazing into each other’s eyes. Tell me – what is Woman? I saw one – very beautiful – in an automobile. The sunset threw a rosy glow upon her pale face and in her ears there glistened two diamond sparks. She gazed upon the sunset and the sunset gazed on her, but I could not endure it: sorrow and love gripped my heart, as if I were dying. There behind her were trees, green, almost black.

Maria! Maria!

April 19, Isle of Capri.

Perfect calm reigned upon the sea. From a high precipice I gazed long upon a little schooner, motionless in the blue expanse. Its white sails were rigidly still and it seemed as happy as on that memorable day. And, again, great calm descended upon me, while the holy name of Maria resounded purely and peacefully, like the Sabbath bells on the distant shore.

There I lay upon the grass, my face toward the sky. The good earth warmed my back, while my eyes were pierced with warm light, as if I had thrust my face into the sun. Not more than three paces away there lay an abyss, a steep precipice, a dizzying wall, and it was delightful to imbibe the odor of grass and the Spring flowers of Capri. There was also the odor of Toppi, who was lying beside me: when he is heated by the sun he emits the smell of fur. He was all sunburned, just as if he had been smeared with coal. In general, he is a very amiable old Devil.

The place where we lay is called Anacapri and constitutes the elevated part of the island. The sun had already set when we began our trip downward and a half moon had risen in the sky. But there was the same quiet and warmth and from somewhere came the strains of mandolins in love, calling to Maria. Maria everywhere! But my love breathed with great calm, bathed in the pure moonlight rays, like the little white houses below. In such a house, at one time, did Maria live, and into just such a house I will take her in about four days.

A high wall along which the road ran, concealed the moon from us and here we beheld the statue of an old Madonna, standing in a niche, high above the road and the surrounding bushes. Before her burned with a weak flame the light of an image-lamp, and she seemed so alive in her watchful silence that my heart grew cold with sweet terror. Toppi bowed his head and mumbled a prayer, while I removed my hat and thought:

How high above this earthly vessel, filled with moonlit twilight and mysterious charms, you stand. Thus does Maria stand above my soul…

Enough! Here again the extraordinary begins and I must pause. We shall soon drink some champagne and then we shall go to the café. I understand they expect some mandolin players from Naples there to-day. Toppi would rather be shot than follow me: his conscience troubles him to this day. But it is good that I will be alone.

April 23 – Rome,Palazzo Orsini.

…Night. My palace is dead and silent, as if it were one of the ruins of ancient Rome. Beyond the large window lies the garden: it is transparent and white with the rays of the moon and the vaporous pole of the fountain resembles a headless vision in a silver veil. Its splash is scarcely heard through the thick window-pane – as if it were the sleepy mumbling of the night guard.

Yes, this is all beautiful and…how do you put it? – it breathes with love. Of course, it would be good to walk beside Maria over the blue sand of the garden path and to trample upon her shadow. But I am disturbed and my disquiet is wider than love. In my attempts to walk lightly I wander about the room, lean against the wall, recline in silence in the corners, and all the time I seem to hear something. Something far away, a thousand kilometers from here. Or is this all lodged in my memory – that which I strain my ear to catch? And the thousand kilometers – are they the thousand years of my life?

You would be astonished if you saw how I was dressed. My fine American costume had suddenly become unbearably heavy, so I put on my bathing suit. This made me appear thin, tall and wiry. I tried to test my nimbleness by crawling about the floor, suddenly changing the direction, like a noiseless bat. But it is not I who am restless. It is my muscles that are filled with this unrest, and I know not what they want. Then I began to feel cold. I dressed and sat down to write. I drank some wine and drew down the curtains to shut the white garden from my eyes. Then I examined and fixed my Browning. I intend to take it with me to-morrow for a friendly chat with Magnus.

You see, Thomas Magnus has some collaborators. That is what he calls those gentlemen unknown to me who respectfully get out of my way when we meet, but never greet me, as if we were meeting in the street and not in my house. There were two of them when I went to Capri. Now they are six, according to what Toppi tells me, and they live here. Toppi does not like them. Neither do I. They seem to have no faces. I could not see them. I happened to think of that just now when I tried to recall them.

“These are my assistants,” Magnus told me to-day without trying in the least to conceal his ridicule.

“Well, I must say, Magnus, they have had bad training. They never greet me when we meet.“

“On the contrary, dear Wondergood! They are very well-mannered. They simply cannot bring themselves to greet you without a proper introduction. They are…extremely correct people. However, you will learn all to-morrow. Don’t frown. Be patient, Wondergood! Just one more night!”

“How is Signorina Maria’s health?”

“To-morrow she will be well.” He placed his hand upon my shoulder and brought his dark, evil, brazen eyes closer to my face: “The passion of love, eh?”

I shook off his hand and shouted:

“Signor Magnus! I…”

“You?” – he frowned at me and calmly turned his back upon me: “Till to-morrow, Mr. Wondergood!”

That is why I loaded my revolver. In the evening I was handed a letter from Magnus: he begged my pardon, said his conduct was due to unusual excitement and he sincerely sought my friendship and confidence. He also agreed that his collaborators are really ill-mannered folk. I gazed long upon these hasty illegible lines and felt like taking with me, not my revolver, but a cannon.

One more night, but how long it is!

There is danger facing me.

I feel it and my muscles know it, too. Do you think that I am merely afraid? I swear by eternal salvation – no! I know not where my fear has disappeared, but only a short while ago I was afraid of everything: of darkness, death and the most inconsequential pain. And now I fear nothing. I only feel strange…is that how you put it: strange?

Here I am on your earth, man, and I am thinking of another person who is dangerous to me and I myself am – man. And there is the moon and the fountain. And there is Maria, whom I love. And here is a glass and wine. And this is – my and your life. Or did I simply imagine that I was Satan once? I see it is all an invention, the fountain and Maria and my very thoughts on the man – Magnus, but the real my mind can neither unravel nor understand. I assiduously examine my memory and it is silent, like a closed book, and I have no power to open this enchanted volume, concealing the whole past of my being. Straining my eyesight, I gaze into the bright and distant depth from which I came upon this pasteboard earth – but I see nothing in the painful ebb and flow of the boundless fog. There, behind the fog, is my country, but it seems – it seems I have quite forgotten the road.

I have again returned to Wondergood’s bad habit of getting drunk alone and I am slightly drunk now. No matter. It is the last time. I have just seen something after which I wish to see nothing else. I felt like taking a look at the white garden and to imagine how it would feel to walk beside Maria over the path of blue sand. I turned off the light in the room and opened wide the draperies. And the white garden arose before me, like a dream, and – think of it! – over the path of blue sand there walked a man and a woman – and the woman was Maria! They walked quietly, trampling upon their own shadows, and the man embraced her. The little counting machine in my breast beat madly, fell to the floor and broke, when, finally, I recognized the man – it was Magnus, only Magnus, dear Magnus, the father. May he be cursed with his fatherly embraces!

Ah, how my love for Maria surged up again within me! I fell on my knees before the window and stretched out my hands to her… To be sure, I had already seen something of that kind in the theater, but it’s all the same to me: I stretched out my hands – was I not alone and drunk! Why should I not do what I want to do? Madonna! Then I suddenly drew down the curtain!

Quietly, like a web, like a handful of moonlight, I will take this vision and weave it into night dreams. Quietly!.. Quietly!..

May 25, 1914. – Italy.

Had I at my disposal, not the pitiful word but a strong orchestra, I would compel all the brass trumpets to roar. I would raise their blazing mouths to the sky and would compel them to rave incessantly in a blazen, screeching voice which would make one’s hair stand on end and scatter the clouds in terror. I do not want the lying violins. Hateful to me is the gentle murmur of false strings beneath the fingers of liars and scoundrels. Breath! Breath! My gullet is like a brass horn. My breath – a hurricane, driving forward into every narrow cleft. And all of me rings, kicks and grates like a heap of iron in the face of the wind. Oh, it is not always the mighty, wrathful roar of brass trumpets. Frequently, very frequently it is the pitiful wail of burned, rusty iron, crawling along lonely, like the winter, the whistle of bent twigs, which drives thought cold and fills the heart with the rust of gloom and homelessness. Everything that fire can touch has burned up within me. Was it I who wanted to play? Was it I who yearned for the game? Then – look upon this monstrous ruin of the theater wrecked by the flames: all the actors, too, have lost their lives therein…ah, all the actors, too, have perished, and brazen Truth peers now through the beggarly holes of its empty windows.

By my throne, – what was that love I prattled of when I donned this human form? To whom was it that I opened my embraces? Was it you…comrade? By my throne! – if I was Love but for a single moment, henceforth I am Hate and eternally thus I remain.

Let us halt at this point to-day, dear comrade. It has been quite some time since I moved my pen upon this paper and I must now grow accustomed anew to your dull and shallow face, smeared o’er with the red of your cheeks. I seem to have forgotten how to speak the language of respectable people who have just received a trouncing. Get thee hence, my friend. To-day I am a brass trumpet. Tickle not my throat, little worm. Leave me.

May 26, Italy.

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

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

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