"He wants all!"
Toppi said with determination:
"Don't you give him all. He promised to make me a prelate, but, all
the same, don't you give him all. One should save his money."
Every day I have unpleasant experiences with Toppi: people are
constantly foisting counterfeit coin on him. When they first gave him
some, he was greatly perturbed and was impressed with what I said to
him.
"You really astonish me, Toppi," I said, "it is ridiculous for an old
devil like you to accept counterfeit money from human beings, and
allow yourself to be fooled. You ought to be ashamed of yourself,
Toppi. I fear you will make a beggar of me."
Now, however, Toppi, entangled in the mesh of the counterfeit and the
genuine, seeks to preserve both the one and the other: he is quite
clever in money matters and the Cardinal tried in vain to bribe him.
Toppi--a prelate!...
But the shaven monkey does really want my three billions. Apparently
the belly of the Holy See is rumbling with hunger. I gazed long at
the well executed caricature of the Cardinal and the longer I gazed,
the less I liked it: no, there was something missing. The artist had
sensed the ridiculous pretty well, but I do not see that fire of spite
and malice which is in constant play beneath the gray ashes of terror.
The bestial and the human is here, but it is not molded into that
_extraordinary_ mask which, now that a long distance separates me from
the Cardinal and I no longer hear his heavy laughter, is beginning to
exercise a most disagreeable influence over me. Or is it because the
extraordinary is inexpressible through pencil?
In reality he is a cheap rascal, no better than a plain pickpocket,
and told me nothing new: he is human enough and wise enough to
cultivate that contemptuous laughter of his at the expense of the
rational. But he revealed _himself_ to me and do not take offense
at my American rudeness, dear reader: somewhere behind his broad
shoulders, cringing with terror, there gleamed also your dear
countenance. It was like a dream, you understand: it was as if some
one were strangling you, and you, in stifled voice, cried to heaven:
Murder! Police! Ah, you do not know that _third_, which is neither
life nor death, and I know _who_ it was that was strangling you with
his bony fingers!
But do I know? Oh, laugh at him who is laughing at you, comrade. I
fear your turn is coming to have some fun at my expense. Do I know? I
came to you from the innermost depths, merry and serene, blessed in
the consciousness of my Immortality.... And I am already hesitating. I
am already trembling before this shaven monkey's face which dares to
express its own low horror in such audaciously grand style: Ah, I have
not even sold my Immortality: I have simply crushed it in my sleep, as
does a foolish mother her newborn babe. It has simply faded beneath
your sun and rains. It has become a transparent cloth without design,
unfit to cover the nakedness of a respectable gentleman! This reeking
Wondergood swamp in which I am submerged to my eyes, envelops me with
mire, befogs my consciousness and stifles me with the unbearable
odors of decay. When do you usually begin to decay, my friend: on
the second, the third day or does it depend upon the climate? I am
already in the process of decay, and I am nauseated by the odor of my
entrails. Or are you so used to the work of the _worms_ that you take
it for the elevation of thought and inspiration?
My God, I forgot that I may have some fair readers, too! I most humbly
beg your pardon, worthy folk, for this uncalled for discussion of
odors. I am a most unpleasant conversationalist, milady, and as a
perfumer I am worse...no, still worse: I am a disgusting mixture of
Satan and an American bear, and I know not how to appreciate your good
taste....
No, I am still Satan! I still know that I am immortal and when my will
shall command me I will strangle myself with my own bony fingers. But
if I _should forget_?
Then I shall distribute my wealth among the poor and with you, my
friend, shall crawl up to the old shaven monkey. I shall cling with my
American face to his soft slipper, emitting blessings. I shall weep.
I shall rave with horror: "Save me from Death!" And the old monkey,
brushing the hair from his face, reclining comfortably, gleaming with
a holy light, illuminating all about it--and itself trembling with
fear and horror--will hastily continue to fool the world, the world
which so loves to be fooled!
But I am jesting. I wish to be serious now. I like Cardinal X. and I
shall permit him to begild himself with my gold. I am weary. I must
sleep. My bed and Wondergood await me. I shall extinguish the light
and in the darkness I shall listen for a moment to the clicking of
the counting machine within my breast. And then will come the great
pianist, a drunken genius, and begin drumming upon the black keys
of my brain. He knows everything and has forgotten everything, this
ingenious drunkard, and confuses the most inspiring landscapes with a
swamp.
That is--a dream.