January 18.
On board the _Atlantic_.
This is exactly the tenth day since I have become human and am leading
this earthly life.
My loneliness is very great. I am not in need of friends, but I must
speak of Myself and I have no one to speak to. Thoughts alone are not
sufficient, and they will not become quite clear, precise and exact
until I express them in words. It is necessary to arrange them in a
row, like soldiers or telephone poles, to lay them out like a railway
track, to throw across bridges and viaducts, to construct barrows and
enclosures, to indicate stations in certain places--and only then will
everything become clear. This laborious engineering work, I think,
they call logic and consistency, and is essential to those who desire
to be wise. It is not essential to all others. They may wander about
as they please.
The work is slow, difficult and repulsive for one who is accustomed
to--I do not know what to call it--to embracing all in one breath and
expressing all in a single breath. It is not in vain that men respect
their thinkers so much, and it is not in vain that these unfortunate
thinkers, if they are honest and conscientious in this process of
construction, as ordinary engineers, end in insane asylums. I am but a
few days on this earth and more than once have the yellow walls of the
insane asylum and its luring open door flashed before my eyes.
Yes, it is extremely difficult and irritates one's "nerves." I have
just now wasted so much of the ship's fine stationery to express a
little ordinary thought on the inadequacy of man's words and logic.
What will it be necessary to waste to give expression to the great
and the unusual? I want to warn you, my earthly reader, at the very
outset, not to gape in astonishment. The _extraordinary cannot be
expressed_ in the language of your grumbling. If you do not believe
me, go to the nearest insane asylum and listen to the inmates: they
have all realized _Something_ and wanted to give expression to it. And
now you can hear the roar and rumble of these wrecked engines, their
wheels revolving and hissing in the air, and you can see with what
difficulty they manage to hold intact the rapidly dissolving features
of their astonished faces!
I see you are all ready to ply me with questions, now that you
learned that I am Satan in human form: it is so fascinating! Whence
did I come? What are the ways of Hell? Is there immortality there,
and, also, what is the price of coal at the stock exchange of Hell?
Unfortunately, my dear reader, despite my desire to the contrary,
if I had such a desire, I am powerless to satisfy your very proper
curiosity. I could have composed for your benefit one of those funny
little stories about horny and hairy devils, which appeal so much
to your meagre imagination, but you have had enough of them already
and I do not want to lie so rudely and ungracefully. I will lie to
you elsewhere, when you least expect it, and that will be far more
interesting for both of us.
And the truth--how am I to tell it when even my Name cannot be
expressed in your tongue? You have called me Satan and I accept the
name, just as I would have accepted any other: Be it so--I am Satan.
But my real name sounds quite different, quite different! It has an
extraordinary sound and try as I may I cannot force it into your
narrow ear without tearing it open together with your brain: Be it
so--I am Satan. And nothing more.
And you yourself are to blame for this, my friend: why is there so
little understanding in your reason? Your reason is like a beggar's
sack, containing only crusts of stale bread, while it is necessary
to have something more than bread. You have but two conceptions of
existence: life and death. How, then, can I reveal to you the _third_?
All your existence is an absurdity only because you do not have this
_third conception_. And where can I get it for you? To-day I am human,
even as you. In my skull is your brain. In my mouth are your cubic
words, jostling one another about with their sharp corners, and I
cannot tell you of the Extraordinary.
If I were to tell you that there are no devils I would lie. But if
I say that such creatures do exist I also deceive you. You see how
difficult it is, how absurd, my friend!
I can also tell you but little that you would understand of how I
assumed the human form, with which I began my earthly life ten days
ago. First of all, forget about your favorite, hairy, horny, winged
devils, who breathe fire, transform fragments of earthenware into gold
and change old men into fascinating youths, and having done all this
and prattled much nonsense, they disappear suddenly through a wall.
Remember: when _we_, want to visit your earth _we_ must always become
human. Why this is so you will learn after your death. Meanwhile
remember: I am a human being now like yourself. There is not the foul
smell of a goat about me but the fragrance of perfume, and you need
not fear to shake My hand lest I may scratch you with my nails: I
manicure them just as you do.
But how did it all happen? Very simply. When I first conceived the
desire to visit this earth I selected as the most satisfactory lodging
a 38-year-old American billionaire, Mr. Henry Wondergood. I killed
him at night,--of course, not in the presence of witnesses. But you
cannot bring me to court despite this confession, because the American
is ALIVE, and we both greet you with one respectful bow: I and
Wondergood. He simply rented his empty place to me. You understand?
And not all of it either, the devil take him! And, to my great regret
I can _return_ only through the same door which leads you too to
liberty: through death.
This is the most important thing. You may understand something of what
I may have to say later on, although to speak to you of such matters
in your language is like trying to conceal a mountain in a vest pocket
or to empty Niagara with a thimble. Imagine, for example, that you,
my dear King of Nature, should want to come closer to the ants, and
that by some miracle you became a real little ant,--then you may have
some conception of that gulf which separates Me now from what I was.
No, still more! Imagine that you were a sound and have become a mere
symbol--a musical mark on paper.... No, still worse!--No comparisons
can make clear to you that terrible gulf whose bottom even I do not
see as yet. Or, perhaps, there is no bottom there at all.
Think of it: for two days, after leaving New York, I suffered from
seasickness! This sounds queer to you, who are accustomed to wallow
in your own dirt? Well, I--I have also wallowed in it but it was not
queer at all. I only smiled once in thinking that _it_ was not I, but
Wondergood, and said:
"Roll on, Wondergood, roll on!"
There is another question to which you probably want an answer: Why
did I come to this earth and accept such an unprofitable exchange: to
be transformed from Satan, "the mighty, immortal chieftain and ruler"
into you? I am tired of seeking words that cannot be found. I will
answer you in English, French, Italian or German--languages we both
understand well. I have grown lonesome in Hell and I have come upon
the earth to lie and play.
You know what ennui is. And as for falsehood, you know it well too.
And as for _play_--you can judge it to a certain extent by your own
theaters and celebrated actors. Perhaps you yourself are playing a
little rôle in Parliament, at home, or in your church. If you are,
you may understand something of the _satisfaction_ of play. And, if
in addition, you are familiar with the multiplication table, then
multiply the delight and joy of play into any considerable figure and
you will get an idea of My enjoyment, of My play. No, imagine that you
are an ocean wave, which plays eternally and lives only in play--take
this wave, for example, which I see outside the porthole now and which
wants to lift our "Atlantic"...but, here I am again seeking words
and comparisons!
I simply want to play. At present I am still an unknown actor, a
modest débutante, but I hope to become no less a celebrity than your
own Garrick or Aldrich, after I have played what I please. I am proud,
selfish and even, if you please, vain and boastful. You know what
vanity is, when you crave the praise and plaudits even of a fool? Then
I entertain the brazen idea that I am a genius. Satan is known for his
brazenness. And so, imagine, that I have grown weary of Hell where
all these hairy and horny rogues play and lie no worse than I do, and
that I am no longer satisfied with the laurels of Hell, in which I but
perceive no small measure of base flattery and downright stupidity.
But I have heard of you, my earthly friend; I have heard that you
are wise, tolerably honest, properly incredulous, responsive to the
problems of eternal art and that you yourself play and lie so badly
that you might appreciate the playing of others: not in vain have you
so many _great actors_. And so I have come. You understand?
My stage is the earth and the nearest scene for which I am now bound
is Rome, the Eternal City, as it is called here, in your profound
conception of eternity and other simple matters. I have not yet
selected my company (would you not like to join it?). But I believe
that _Fate_ and _Chance_, to whom I am now subservient, like all your
earthly things, will realize my unselfish motives and will send me
worthy partners. Old Europe is so rich in talents! I believe that
I shall find a keen and appreciative audience in Europe, too. I
confess that I first thought of going to the East, which some of my
compatriots made their scene of activity some time ago with no small
measure of success, but the East is too credulous and is inclined
too much to poison and the ballet. Its gods are ludicrous. The East
still reeks too much of hairy animals. Its lights and shadows are
barbarously crude and too bright to make it worth while for a refined
artist as I am to go into that crowded, foul circus tent. Ah, my
friend, I am so vain that I even begin this Diary not without the
secret intention of impressing you with my modesty in the rôle of
_seeker_ of words and comparisons. I hope you will not take advantage
of my frankness and cease believing me.
Are there any other questions? Of the play itself I have no clear idea
yet. It will be composed by the same impresario who will assemble
the actors--_Fate_. My modest rôle, as a beginning, will be that of
a man who so loves his fellow beings that he is willing to give them
everything, his soul and his money. Of course, you have not forgotten
that I am a billionaire? I have three billion dollars. Sufficient--is
it not?--for one spectacular performance. One more detail before I
conclude this page.
I have with me, sharing my fate, a certain Irwin Toppi, my
secretary,--a most worthy person in his black frock coat and silk
top hat, his long nose resembling an unripened pear and his smoothly
shaven, pastor-like face. I would not be surprised to find a prayer
book in his pocket. My Toppi came upon this earth from _there_, i.e.
from Hell and by the same means as mine: he, too, assumed the human
form and, it seems, quite successfully--the rogue is entirely immune
from seasickness. However to be seasick one must have some brains
and my Toppi is unusually stupid--even for this earth. Besides, he
is impolite and ventures to offer advice. I am rather sorry that out
of our entire wealth of material I did not select some one better,
but I was impressed by his honesty and partial familiarity with the
earth: it seemed more pleasant to enter upon this little jaunt with
an experienced comrade. Quite a long time ago he once before assumed
the human form and was so taken by religious sentiments that--think
of it!--he entered a Franciscan monastery, lived there to a ripe old
age and died peacefully under the name of Brother Vincent. His ashes
became the object of veneration for believers--not a bad career for a
fool of a devil. No sooner did he enter upon this trip with Me than
he began to sniff about for incense--an incurable habit! You will
probably like him.
And now enough. Get thee hence, my friend. I wish to be alone. Your
shallow reflection upon this wall wears upon me. I wish to be alone
or only with this Wondergood who has leased his abode to Me and seems
to have gotten the best of Me somehow or other. The sea is calm. I
am no longer nauseated but I am afraid of something. I am afraid! I
fear this darkness which they call night and descends upon the ocean:
here, in the cabin there is still some light, but there, on deck,
there is terrible darkness, and My eyes are quite helpless. These
silly reflectors--they are worthless. They are able to reflect things
by day but in the darkness they lose even this miserable power. Of
course I shall get used to the darkness. I have already grown used to
many things. But just now I am ill at ease and it is horrible to think
that the mere turn of a key obsesses me with this blind ever present
darkness. Whence does it come?
And how brave men are with their dim reflectors: they see nothing
and simply say: it is dark here, we must make a light! Then they
themselves put it out and go to sleep. I regard these braves with
a kind of cold wonder and I am seized with admiration. Or must one
possess a great mind to appreciate horror, like Mine? You are not
such a coward, Wondergood. You always bore the reputation of being a
hardened man and a man of experience!
There is one moment in the process of my assumption of the human
form that I cannot recollect without horror. That was when for the
first time I heard the beating of My heart. This regular, loud,
metronome-like sound, which speaks as much of death as of life, filled
me with the hitherto inexperienced sensation of horror. Men are always
quarrelling about accounts, but how can they carry in their breasts
_this_ counting machine, registering with the speed of a magician the
fleeting seconds of life?
At first I wanted to shout and to run back _below_, before I could
grow accustomed to life, but here I looked at Toppi: this new-born
fool was calmly brushing his top hat with the sleeve of his frock
coat. I broke out into laughter and cried:
"Toppi, the brush!"
We both brushed ourselves while the counting machine in my breast was
computing the seconds and, it seemed to me, adding on a few for good
measure. Finally, hearing its brazen beating, I thought I might not
have time enough to finish my toillette. I have been in a great hurry
for some time. Just what it was I would not be able to complete I
did not know, but for two days I was in a mad rush to eat and drink
and even sleep: the counting machine was beating away while I lay in
slumber!
But I never rush now. I know that I will manage to get through and my
moments seem inexhaustible. But the little machine keeps on beating
just the same, like a drunken soldier at a drum. And how about the
very moments it is using up now. Are they to be counted as equal to
the great ones? Then I say it is all a fraud and I protest as a honest
citizen of the United States and as a merchant.
I do not feel well. Yet I would not repulse even a friend at this
moment. Ah! In all the universe I am alone!
February 7, 1914.
Rome, Hotel "Internationale."
I am driven mad whenever I am compelled to seize the club of a
policeman to bring order in my brain: facts, to the right! thoughts,
to the left! moods, to the rear--clear the road for His Highness,
Conscience, which barely moves about upon its stilts. I am compelled
to do this: otherwise there would be a riot, an abrecadebra, chaos.
And so I call you to order, gentleman--facts and lady-thoughts. I
begin.
Night. Darkness. The air is balmy. There is a pleasant fragrance.
Toppi is enchanted. We are in Italy. Our speeding train is approaching
Rome. We are enjoying our soft couches when, suddenly, crash!
Everything flies to the devil: the train has gone out of its mind. It
is wrecked. I confess without shame that I am not very brave, that
I was seized with terror and seemed to have lost consciousness. The
lights were extinguished and with much labor I crawled out of the
corner into which I had been hurled. I seemed to have forgotten the
exit. There were only walls and corners. I felt something stinging and
beating at Me, and all about nothing but darkness. Suddenly I felt a
body beneath my feet. I stepped right upon the face. Only afterwards
did I discover that the body was that of George, my lackey, killed
outright. I shouted and my obliging Toppi came to my aid: he seized
me by the arm and led me to an open window, as both exits had been
barricaded by fragments of the car and baggage. I leaped out, but
Toppi lingered behind. My knees were trembling. I was groaning but
still he failed to appear. I shouted. Suddenly he reappeared at the
window and shouted back:
"What are you crying about? I am looking for our hats and your
portfolio."
A few moments later he returned and handed me my hat. He himself had
his silk top hat on and carried the portfolio. I shook with laughter
and said:
"Young man, you have forgotten the umbrella!"
But the old buffoon has no sense of humor. He replied seriously:
"I do not carry an umbrella. And do you know, our George is dead and
so is the chef."
So, this fallen carcass which has no feelings and upon whose face one
steps with impunity is our George! I was again seized with terror and
suddenly my ears were pierced with groans, wild shrieks, whistlings
and cries! All the sounds wherewith these braves wail when they are
crushed. At first I was deafened. I heard nothing. The cars caught
fire. The flames and smoke shot up into the air. The wounded began to
groan and, without waiting for the flesh to roast, I darted like a
flash into the field. What a leap!
Fortunately the low hills of the Roman Campagna are very convenient
for this kind of sport and I was no means behind in the line of
runners. When, out of breath, I hurled myself upon the ground, it
was no longer possible to hear or see anything. Only Toppi was
approaching. But what a terrible thing this heart is! My face touched
the earth. The earth was cool, firm, calm and here I liked it. It
seemed as if it had restored my breath and put my heart back into its
place. I felt easier. The stars above were calm. There was nothing
for them to get excited about. They were not concerned with things
below. They merely shine in triumph. That is their eternal ball. And
at this brilliant ball the earth, clothed in darkness, appeared as an
enchanting stranger in a black mask. (Not at all badly expressed? I
trust that you, my reader, will be pleased: my style and my manners
are improving!)
I kissed Toppi in the darkness. I always kiss those I like in the
darkness. And I said:
"You are carrying your human form, Toppi, very well. I respect you.
But what are we to do now? Those lights yonder in the sky--they are
the lights of Rome. But they are too far away!"
"Yes, it is Rome," affirmed Toppi, and raised his hand: "do you hear
whistling?"
From somewhere in the distance came the long-drawn, piercing,
shrieking of locomotives. They were sounding the alarm.
"Yes, they are whistling," I said and laughed.
"They are whistling!" repeated Toppi smiling. He never laughs.
But here again I began to feel uncomfortable. I was cold, lonely,
quivering. In my feet there was still the sensation of treading upon
corpses. I wanted to shake myself like a dog after a bath. You must
understand me: it was the first time that I had seen and felt your
corpse, my dear reader, and if you pardon me, it did not appeal to me
at all. Why did it not protest when I walked over its face? George had
such a beautiful young face and he carried himself with much dignity.
Remember your face, too, may be trod upon. And will you, too, remain
submissive?
We did not proceed to Rome but went instead in search of the nearest
night lodging. We walked long. We grew tired. We longed to drink, oh,
how we longed to drink! And now, permit me to present to you my new
friend, Signor Thomas Magnus and his beautiful daughter, Maria.
At first we observed the faint flicker of a light. As we approached
nearer we found a little house, its white walls gleaming through a
thicket of dark cypress trees and shrubbery. There was a light in one
of the windows, the rest were barricaded with shutters. The house had
a stone fence, an iron gate, strong doors. And--silence. At first
glance it all looked suspicious. Toppi knocked. Again silence. I
knocked. Still silence. Finally there came a gruff voice, asking from
behind the iron door:
"Who are you? What do you want?"
Hardly mumbling with his parched tongue, my brave Toppi narrated the
story of the catastrophe and our escape. He spoke at length and then
came the click of a lock and the door was opened. Following behind
our austere and silent stranger we entered the house, passed through
several dark and silent rooms, walked up a flight of creaking stairs
into a brightly lighted room, apparently the stranger's workroom.
There was much light, many books, with one open beneath a low lamp
shaded by a simple, green globe. We had not noticed this light in the
field. But what astonished me was the silence of the house. Despite
the rather early hour not a move, not a sound, not a voice was to be
heard.
"Have a seat."
We sat down and Toppi, now almost in pain, began again to narrate his
story. But the strange host interrupted him:
"Yes, a catastrophe. They often occur on our roads. Were there many
victims?"
Toppi continued his prattle and the host, while listening to him, took
a revolver out of his pocket and hid it in a table drawer, adding
carelessly:
"This is not--a particularly quiet neighborhood. Well, please, remain
here."
For the first time he raised his dark eyebrows and his large dim eyes
and studied us intently as if he were gazing upon something savage in
a museum. It was an impolite and brazen stare. I arose and said:
"I fear that we are not welcome here, Signor, and----"
He stopped Me with an impatient and slightly sarcastic gesture.
"Nonsense, you remain here. I will get you some wine and food. My
servant is here in the daytime only, so allow me to wait on you. You
will find the bathroom behind this door. Go wash and freshen up while
I get the wine. Make yourself at home."
While we ate and drank--with savage relish, I confess--this
unsympathetic gentleman kept on reading a book as if there were no
one else in the room, undisturbed by Toppi's munching and the dog's
struggle with a bone. I studied my host carefully. Almost my height,
his pale face bore an expression of weariness. He had a black, oily,
bandit-like beard. But his brow was high and his nose betrayed good
sense. How would you describe it? Well, here again I seek comparisons.
Imagine the nose betraying the story of a great, passionate,
extraordinary, secret life. It is beautiful and seems to have been
made not out of muscle and cartilage, but out of--what do you call
it?--out of thoughts and brazen desires. He seems quite brave too. But
I was particularly attracted by his hands: very big, very white and
giving the impression of self-control. I do not know why his hands
attracted me so much. But suddenly I thought: how beautifully exact
the number of fingers, exactly ten of them, ten thin, evil, wise,
crooked fingers!