The Sorrows of Satan. Мария Корелли

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 see to that for you”—he said lightly—“The house is not full,—at anyrate all the best rooms are not taken; and of course you want one of the best.”

      A staring waiter, who up to that moment, had been noting my shabby clothes with that peculiar air of contempt commonly displayed by insolent menials to those whom they imagine are poor, overheard these words, and suddenly changing the derisive expression of his foxy face, bowed obsequiously as I passed. A thrill of disgust ran through me, mingled with a certain angry triumph,—the hypocritical reflex of this low fellow’s countenance, was, I knew, a true epitome of what I should find similarly reflected in the manner and attitude of all ‘polite’ society. For there the estimate of worth is no higher than a common servant’s estimate, and is taken solely from the money standard;—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 unhung. With vague thoughts such as these flitting over my mind, 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, being furthermore adorned by baskets of the most exquisite fruit and flowers, and in a few moments we were seated. The prince’s valet acted as head-waiter, and I noticed that now this man’s face, seen in the full light of the electric lamps, seemed very dark and unpleasant, even sinister in expression,—but in the performance of his duties he was unexceptionable, being quick, attentive, and deferential, so much so that I inwardly reproached myself for taking an instinctive dislike to him. His name was Amiel, and I found myself involuntarily watching his movements, they were so noiseless,—his very step suggesting the stealthy gliding of a cat or a tiger. He was assisted in his work by the two other attendants who served as his subordinates, and who were equally active and well-trained,—and presently I found myself enjoying the choicest meal I had tasted for many and many a long day, flavoured with such wine as connoisseurs might be apt to dream of, but never succeed in finding. I began to feel perfectly at my ease, and talked with freedom and confidence, the strong attraction I had for my new friend deepening with every moment I passed in his company.

      “Will you continue your literary career now you have this little fortune left you?” he inquired, when at the close of supper Amiel set the choicest cognac and cigars before us, and respectfully withdrew—“Do you think you will care to go on with it?”

      “Certainly I shall”—I replied—“if only for the fun of the thing. You see, with money I can force my name into notice 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, do not let either the Tokay we have been drinking, or the cognac we are going to drink, speak for you in such haste! 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 conventional 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 lot of aspiring genius, God departs and the devil walks in. Have you never heard that?”

      “Never!” I answered smiling.

      “Well, of course the saying is foolish, and sounds doubly ridiculous in this age when people believe in neither God nor devil. It implies however that 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 is not likely to cause a man to grovel”—I said—“It is the one thing necessary to strengthen his soaring powers and lift him to the greatest heights.”

      “You think so?” and my host lit his cigar with a grave and pre-occupied air—“Then I’m afraid, you don’t know much about what I shall call natural psychics. What belongs to the earth tends earthwards,—surely you realize that? Gold most strictly belongs to the earth,—you dig it out of the ground,—you handle it and dispose of it in solid wedges or bars—it is a substantial metal enough. Genius belongs to nobody knows where,—you cannot dig it up or pass it on, or do anything with it except stand and marvel—it is a rare visitant and capricious as the wind, and generally makes sad havoc among the conventionalities of men. It is as I said an ‘upper’ thing, beyond earthly smells and savours,—and those who have it always live in unknown high latitudes. But money is a perfectly level commodity,—level with the ground;—when you have much of it, you come down solidly on your flat soles and down you stay!” 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. Now I, for example,—you cannot imagine what great capabilities I had once!—a long time ago—before I became my own master!”

      “And you have them still I am sure”—I averred, looking expressively at his noble head and fine eyes.

      The strange subtle smile I had noticed once or twice before lightened his face. “Ah, you mean to compliment me!” he said—“You like my looks,—many people do. Yet after all there is nothing so deceptive as one’s outward appearance. The reason of this is that as soon as childhood is past, we are always pretending to be what we are not,—and thus, with constant practice from our youth up, we manage to make our physical frames complete disguises for our actual selves. It is really wise and clever of us,—for hence each individual is so much flesh-wall through which neither friend nor enemy can spy. Every man is a solitary soul imprisoned in a self-made den,—when he is quite alone he knows and frequently hates himself,—sometimes he even gets afraid of the gaunt and murderous monster he keeps hidden behind his outwardly pleasant body-mask, and hastens to forget its frightful existence in drink and debauchery. That is what I do occasionally,—you would not think it of me, would you?”

      “Never!” I replied quickly, for something in his voice and aspect moved me strangely—“You belie yourself, and wrong your own nature.”

      He laughed softly.

      “Perhaps I do!” he said carelessly—“This much you may believe of me—that I am no worse than most men! Now to return to the subject of your literary career,—you have written a book, you say,—well, publish it and see the result—if you only make one ‘hit’ that is something. And there are ways of arranging that the ‘hit’ shall be made. 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, and wished if I could, to comfort those who had suffered loss or sorrow—”

      Rimânez smiled compassionately.

      “Ah, it won’t do!” he interrupted—“I assure you it won’t;—it doesn’t fit the age. It might go down, possibly, if you could give a ‘first-night’ of it as it were to the critics, like one of my most intimate friends, Henry Irving,—a ‘first-night’ combined