II

February 22.

Rome, Villa Orsini.

Magnus was not at home. I was received by Maria.

A glorious peace has suddenly descended upon me. In wondrous calm I

breathe at this moment. Like a schooner, its sails lowered, I doze in

the midday heat of the slumbering ocean. Not a stir. Not a ripple. I

fear to move or to open wide my eyes, dazzled by the rays of the sun.

I breathe silently, and I would not rouse the slightest wave upon the

boundless smoothness of the sea. And quietly I lay down my pen.

February 23.

Villa Orsini.

Thomas Magnus was not at home and, to my great surprise, I was

received by Maria.

I do not suppose you would be interested in how I greeted her and what

I mumbled in the first few moments of our meeting. I can only say that

I mumbled and that I felt a strong impulse to laugh. I could not lift

my eyes to gaze upon Maria until my thoughts cast off their soiled

garb and donned clean attire. As you see, I did not lose consciousness

altogether! But in vain did I take these precautions: _that_ torture

did not follow. Maria's gaze was clear and simple and it contained

neither searching, penetrating fire nor fatal forgiveness. It was calm

and clear, like the sky of the Campagna and--I do not know how it

happened--it penetrated my entire being.

She met me in the garden. We sat down by the gate, from which vantage

point we had a good view of the Campagna. When you gaze at the

Campagna you cannot prattle nonsense. No, it was she who gazed at the

Campagna and I gazed into her eyes--clear to the seventh sky, where

you end the count of your heavens. We were silent or--if you regard

the following as conversation--we spoke:

"Are those mountains?"

"Yes, those are the mountains of Albania. And there--is Tivoli."

She picked out little white houses in the distance and pointed them

out to me and I felt a peculiar calm and joy in Maria's gaze. The

suspicious resemblance of Maria to the Madonna no longer troubled

me: how can I possibly be troubled by the fact that you resemble

_yourself_? And came a moment when a great peace of mind descended

upon _me_. I have no words of comparison whereby to reveal to you that

great and bright calm.... I am forever conjuring up before me that

accursed schooner with its lowered sails, on which I never really

sailed, for I am afraid of seasickness! Or is it because on this night

of my loneliness, my road is being illuminated by the _Star of the

Seas_? Well, yes, I was a schooner, if you so desire it, and if this

is not agreeable to you I was _All_. Besides I was _Nothing_. You see

what nonsense emerges out of all this talk when Wondergood begins to

seek words and comparisons.

I was so calm that I even soon began to gaze into Maria's eyes:

I simply _believed_ them. This is deeper than mere gazing. When

necessary I shall find those eyes again. In the meantime I shall

remain a schooner with sails lowered. I shall be _All_ and I shall be

_Nothing_. Only once did a slight breeze stir my sails, but only for

a moment: that was when Maria pointed out the Tiberian road to me,

cutting the green hills like a white thread, and asked whether I had

ever traversed it before.

"Yes, occasionally, Signorina."

"I often gaze upon this road and think that it must be extremely

pleasant to traverse it by automobile."

"Have you a swift car, Signor?"

"Oh, yes, Signorina, very swift! But those," I continued in gentle

reproach, "who are themselves limitless distances and endlessness are

in no need of any movement."

Maria and an automobile! A winged angel entering a trolley car for

the sake of speed! A swallow riding on a turtle! An arrow on the

humpy back of a hod carrier! Ah, all comparisons lie: why speak of

swallows and arrows, why speak of any movement for Maria, who embraces

all distances! But it is only now that I thought of the trolley and

the turtle. At that time I felt so calm and peaceful, I was deep in

such bliss that I could think of nothing except that countenance of

eternity and undying light!

A great calm came upon Me on that day and nothing could disturb my

endless bliss. It was not long before Thomas Magnus returned, and a

flying fish, gleaming for a moment above the ocean, could no more

disturb its blue smoothness than did Magnus disturb me. I _received_

him into my heart. I swallowed him calmly and felt no heavier burden

in my stomach than a whale does after swallowing a herring. It was

gratifying to find Magnus hospitable and merry. He pressed my hand

and his eyes were bright and kind. Even his face seemed less pale and

not as weary as usual.

I was invited to breakfast...lest it worry you, let me say right

now that I remained until late in the evening. When Maria had retired

I told Magnus of the visit of Cardinal X. His merry face darkened

slightly and in his eyes appeared his former hostile flame.

"Cardinal X.? He _came_ to see you?"

I narrated to him in detail my conversation with "the shaven monkey,"

and remarked that he had impressed me as a scoundrel of no small

caliber. Magnus frowned and said sternly:

"You laugh in vain, Mr. Wondergood. I have long known Cardinal X.

and...I have been keeping a close eye on him. He is evil, cruel

and dangerous. Despite his ridiculous exterior, he is as cunning,

merciless and revengeful as Satan!"

And you, too, Magnus! Like Satan! This blue-faced, shaven

orang-outang, this caressing gorilla, this monkey cavorting before a

looking-glass! But I have exhausted my capacity for insult. Magnus'

remark fell like a stone to the bottom of my bliss. I listened further:

"His flirting with the Socialists, his jokes at the expense of Galileo

are all lies. Just as the enemies of Cromwell hanged him after his

death, so would Cardinal X. burn the bones of Galileo with immense

satisfaction: to this day he regards the movement of the earth as a

personal affront. It is an old school, Mr. Wondergood; he will stop at

nothing to overcome obstacles, be it poison or murder, which he will

take care to attribute to the misfortune of accident. You smile but

I cannot discuss the Vatican smilingly, not so long as it contains

such...and it will always produce some one like Cardinal X. Look

out, Mr. Wondergood: You have landed within the sphere of his vision

and interests, and, let me assure you, that scores of eyes are now

watching you...perhaps me, too. Be on your guard, my friend!"

Magnus was quite excited. Fervently I shook his hand:

"Ah, Magnus!... But when will you agree to help me?"

"But you know that I do not like human beings. It is _you_ who loves

them Mr. Wondergood, not I."

A gleam of irony appeared in his eyes.

"The Cardinal says that it is not at all necessary to love people in

order to be happy.... The contrary, he says!"

"And who told you that I want to make people happy? Again, it is _you_

who wants to do that, not I. Hand over your billions to Cardinal X.

His recipe for happiness is not worse than other patent medicines. To

be sure, his recipe has one disadvantage: while dispensing _happiness_

it destroys _people_...but is that important? You are too much of a

business man, Mr. Wondergood, and I see that you are not sufficiently

familiar with the world of our inventors of the Best Means for the

Happiness of Mankind: These means are more numerous than the so-called

best tonics for the growth of hair. I myself was a dreamer at one

time and invented one or two in my youth...but I was short on

chemistry and badly singed my hair in an explosion. I am very glad I

did not come across your billions in _those_ days. I am joking, Mr.

Wondergood, but if you wish to be serious, here is my answer: keep on

growing and multiplying your hogs, make four of your three billions,

continue selling your conserves, provided they are not too rotten, and

cease worrying about the happiness of Mankind. As long as the world

likes good ham it will not deny you its love and admiration!"

"And how about those who have no means to buy ham?"

"What do you care about them? It is their belly--pardon me for the

expression--that is rumbling with hunger, not yours. I congratulate

you upon your new home: I know the Villa Orsini very well. It is a

magnificent relic of Old Rome."

I balked at the prospect of another lecture on my palace! Yes, Magnus

had again shoved me aside. He did it brusquely and roughly. But his

voice lacked sternness and he gazed at me softly and kindly. Well,

what of it? To the devil with humanity, its happiness and its ham!

I shall try later to bore an entrance into Magnus' brain. In the

meantime leave me alone with my great peace and...Maria. Boundless

peace and...Satan!--isn't that a splendid touch in my play? And what

kind of a liar is he who can fool only others? To lie to oneself and

believe it--that is an art!

After breakfast all _three_ of us walked over the downy hills and

slopes of the Campagna. It was still early Spring and only little

white flowers gently brightened the young, green earth. A soft breeze

diffused the scents of the season, while little houses gleamed in

distant Albano. Maria walked in front of us, stopping now and then and

casting her heavenly eyes upon everything they could envisage. When I

return to Rome I shall order my brush-pusher to paint Madonna thus:

On a carpet of soft green and little white flowers. Magnus was so

frank and merry that I again drew his attention to Maria's resemblance

to the Madonna and told him of the miserable brush-pushers in

search of a model. He laughed, agreed with me in my opinion of the

aforementioned resemblance, and grew wistful.

"It is a _fatal_ resemblance, Mr. Wondergood. You remember that heavy

moment when I spoke to you of _blood_? Already there is blood at the

feet of Maria...the blood of one noble youth whose memory Maria and

I cherish. There are fatal faces, there are fatal _resemblances_ which

confuse our souls and lead to the abyss of self destruction. I am the

father of Maria, and yet I myself hardly dare to touch her brow with

my lips. What insurmountable barriers does love raise for itself when

it dares to lift its eyes upon Maria?"

This was the only moment of that happy day when my ocean became

overcast with heavy clouds, as tangled as the beard of "Mad King

Lear," while a wild wind shook the sails of my schooner. But I lifted

my eyes to Maria, I met her gaze. It was bright and calm, like the

sky above us--and the wild wind disappeared without trace, bearing

away with it fragments of the darkness. I do not know whether you

understand these sea comparisons, which I consider quite inadequate.

Let me explain: I again grew quite calm. What is that noble Roman

youth to me, who himself unable to find _comparisons_ was hurled over

the head of his Pegasus? I am a white-winged schooner and beneath me

is an entire ocean, and was it not written of Her: the _Incomparable_?

The day was long and quiet and I was charmed with the precision with

which the sun rolled down from its height to the rim of the earth,

with the measured pace with which the stars covered the heavens, the

large stars first, then the little ones, until the whole sky sparkled

and gleamed. Slowly grew the darkness. Then came the rosy moon, at

first somewhat rusty, then brilliant, and swam majestically over the

road made free and warm by the sun. But more than anything else did

I and Magnus feel charmed when we sat in the half-darkened room and

heard Maria: she played the harp and sang.

And listening to the strains of the harp I realized why man likes

music produced by taut strings: I was myself a taut string and even

when the finger no longer touched me, the sound continued to vibrate

and died so slowly that I can still hear it in the depths of my soul.

And suddenly I saw that the entire air was filled with taut and

trembling strings: they extend from star to star, scatter themselves

over the earth and penetrate my heart...like a network of telephone

wires through a central station,--if you want more simple comparisons.

And there was _something else_ I understood when I heard _Maria's_

voice....

No, you are simply an animal, Wondergood! When I recall your loud

complaints against love and its songs, cursed with the curse of

monotony--is that not your own expression?--I feel like sending you

off to a barn. You are a dull and dirty animal and I am ashamed that

for a whole hour I listened to your silly bellowing. You may hold

words in contempt, you may curse your embraces, but do not touch Love,

my friend: only through love has it been given to you to obtain a

glimpse into Eternity! Away, my friend! Leave Satan to himself, he

who in the very blackest depths of man has suddenly come upon new and

unexpected flames. Away! You must not see the _joy_ and _astonishment_

of Satan!

The hour was late. The moon indicated midnight when I left Magnus

and ordered the chauffeur to drive by way of the Numentinian road: I

feared lest this great calm might slip away from me, and I wanted to

overtake it in the depths of the Campagna. But the speed of the car

broke the silence and I left my machine. It went to sleep at once

beneath the light of the moon over its own shadow and looked like

a huge, gray stone barring the road. For the last time its lights

gleamed upon Me and it became transformed into something invisible. I

was left alone with my shadow.

We walked along the white road, I and my shadow, stopping occasionally

and then again resuming our march. I sat down on a stone along the

road and the black shadow hid behind my back. And here a great quiet

descended upon the earth, upon the world. Upon my chilled brow I felt

the cool touch of the moon's kiss.

March 2.

Rome, Villa Orsini.

I pass my days in deep solitude. My earthly existence is beginning

to trouble me. With every hour I seem to _forget_ what I have left

behind the wall of _human_ things. My _eyesight_ is weakening. I can

hardly see behind that wall. The shadows behind it scarcely move

and I can no longer distinguish their outline. With every second my

sense of _hearing_ grows duller. I hear the quiet squeak of a mouse,

fussing beneath the floor but I am deaf to the thunders rolling above

my head. The silence of delusion envelops me and I desperately strain

my ears to catch the voices of frankness. I left them behind that

impenetrable wall. With each moment _Truth_ flees from Me. In vain

my words try to overtake it: they merely shoot by. In vain I seek to

surround it in the tight embraces of my thoughts and rivet it with

chains: the prison disappears like air and my embraces envelop nothing

but emptiness. Only yesterday it seemed to me that I had caught my

prey. I imprisoned it and fastened it to the wall with a heavy chain,

but when I came to view it in the morning--I found nothing but a

shackled skeleton. The rusty chains dangled loosely from its neck

while the skull was nodding to me in brazen laughter.

You see, I am again seeking comparisons, only to have the _Truth_

escape me! But what can I do when I have left all my weapons at _home_

and must resort to your poor arsenal? Let God himself don this human

form and He will immediately begin to speak to you in exquisite French

or Yiddish and He will be unable to say _more_ than it is possible

to say in exquisite French or Yiddish. God! And I am only Satan, a

modest, careless, human Devil!

Of course, it was careless of me. But when I looked upon _your

human_ life from _beyond_...no, wait: You and I have just been

caught in a lie, old man! When I said from _Beyond_ you understood

at once it must have been very far away. Yes? You may have already

determined, perhaps, the approximate number of miles. Have you not

at your disposal a limitless number of zeros? Ah, it is not true.

My "_Beyond_" is as close as your "_Here_," and is no further away

than _this_ very spot. You see what nonsense, what a lie you and I

are pirouetting about! Cast away your meter and your scales and only

listen as if behind your back there were no ticking of a clock and in

your breast there were no counting machine. And so: when I looked upon

your life from _Beyond_ it appeared to Me a great and merry game of

immortal fragments.

Do you know what a puppets' show is? When one doll breaks, its place

is taken by another, but the play goes on. The music is not silenced,

the auditors continue to applaud and it is all very interesting. Does

the spectator concern himself about the fate of the fragments, thrust

upon the scrap heap? He simply looks on in enjoyment. So it was with

me, too. I heard the beat of the drums, and watched the antics of the

clowns. And I so love immortal play that I felt like becoming an actor

myself. Ah, I did not know then that it is not a _play_ at all. And

that the scrap heap was terrible when one becomes a puppet himself

and that the broken fragments reeked with blood. You deceived me, my

friend!

But you are astonished. You knit your brow in contempt and ask: Who

is this Satan who does not _know_ such _simple_ things? You are

accustomed to respect the Devil. You listen to the commonest dog as

if he were speaking ex cathedra. You have surrendered to me your

last dollar as if I were a professor of white and black magic and

suddenly I reveal myself an ignoramus in the most elementary matters!

I understand your disappointment. I myself have grown to respect

mediums and cards. I am ashamed to confess that I cannot perform a

single trick or kill a bedbug by simply casting my eye upon it, but

even with my finger. But what matters most to me is truth: Yes, I did

not know your _simplest_ things! Apparently the blame for this is for

that _divide_ which separates us. Just as you do not know _my_ real

Name and cannot pronounce a simple thing like that, so I did not know

_yours_, my earthly shadow, and only now, in great ecstasy do I begin

to grasp the wealth that is in you. Think of it: such a simple matter

as counting I had to learn from Wondergood. I would not even be able

to button my attire if it were not for the experienced and dexterous

fingers of that fine chap Wondergood!

Now I am human, like you. The limited sensation of my being I regard

as my _knowledge_ and with respect I now touch my own nose, when

necessity arises: it is not merely a nose--it is an axiom! I am now

myself a struggling doll in a theater of marionettes. My porcelain

head moves to the right and to the left. My hands move up and down. I

am merry, I am gay. I am at play. I know everything...except: whose

hand it is that pulls the string behind Me. And in the distance I can

see the scrap heap from which protrude two little feet clad in ball

slippers....

No, this is not the _play_ of the _Immortal_ that I sought. It no

more resembles merriment than do the convulsions of an epileptic

a good negro dance! Here any one is what he is and here every one

seeks not to be what he is. And it is this endless process of fraud

that I mistook for a merry theater: what a mistake, how silly it was

of "almighty, immortal"...Satan! Here every one is dragging every

one else to court: the living are dragging the dead, the dead--the

living. The history of the former is the history of the latter. And

God, too, is History! And this endless nonsense, this dirty stream of

false witnesses, of perjurers, of false judges and false scoundrels I

mistook for the _play_ of immortals! Or have I landed in the _wrong_

place? Tell Me, stranger: whither does _this_ road lead? You are pale.

Your trembling finger points in the direction of...ah, the scrap

heap!

Yesterday, I questioned Toppi about his former life, the first time he

donned the human form: I wanted to know how a doll feels when its head

is cracking and the thread which moves it is severed. We lit our pipes

and with steins of beer before us, like two good Germans, we ventured

into the realm of philosophy. It developed, however, that this

numbskull has _forgotten_ everything and my questions only confused

him.

"Is it possible that you have really forgotten everything, Toppi!"

"Wait till you die and you will learn all about it yourself. I do not

like to think of it. What good is it?"

"Then it is not good?"

"And have you ever heard of any one praising it?"

"Quite true. No one has yet showered praises upon it."

"And no one will, I know!"

We sat silent.

"And do you remember, Toppi, whence you have come?"

"From Illinois,--the same place you come from."

"No, I am speaking of _something else_. Do you remember whence you

came? Do you recollect your real Name?"

Toppi looked at me strangely, paled slightly and proceeded to clean

his pipe. Then he arose and without lifting his eyes, said:

"I beg you not to speak to me _thus_, Mr. Wondergood. I am an

honest citizen of the United States and I do not understand your

insinuations."

But he remembers. Not in vain did he grow pale. He is seeking to

forget and will forget soon enough! This double play of earth and

heaven is too much for him and he has surrendered entirely to the

earth! There will come a time when he will take me off to an insane

asylum or betray me to Cardinal X. if I dare to speak to him of Satan.

"I respect you, Toppi. You are quite a man," I said and kissed his

brow: I always kiss the brow of people I love.

Again I departed for the green Campagna desert: I follow the best

models: when I am ill at ease I go into the desert. There I called

for Satan and cursed his name but he would not answer me. I lay there

long in the dust, pleading, when from somewhere in the depths of the

desert I heard the muffled tread of feet, and a bright light helped

Me to arise. And again I saw the Eden I had left behind, its green

tents and unfading sunrise, its quiet lights upon the placid waters.

And again I _heard_ the silent murmurs of lips born of Immaculate

Conception while toward my eyes I saw approaching Truth. And I

stretched out my hands to Her and pleaded: Give me back my liberty!--

"_Maria!_"

Who called: Maria? Satan again departed, the lights upon the placid

waters were extinguished and Truth, frightened, disappeared--and again

I sit upon the earth wearing my human form and gazing dully upon the

painted world. And on my knees rested my shackled hands.

"Maria!"

...It is painful for me to admit that all this is really an

invention: the coming of Satan with his "light and ringing step," the

gardens of Eden and my shackled hands. But I needed your attention

and I could not get it without these gardens of Eden and these

chains, the two extremes of your life. The gardens of Eden--how

beautiful! Chains--how terrible! Moreover, all this talk is much more

entertaining than merely squatting on a hill, cigar in one's _free_

hand, thinking lazily and yawning while awaiting the arrival of the

chauffeur. And as far as _Maria_ is concerned, I brought her into

the situation because from afar I could see the black cypress trees

above the Magnus home. An involuntary association of ideas...you

understand.

Can a man with such sight really see Satan? Can a person of such dull

_ear_ hear the so-called "murmurs" born of Immaculate Conception?

Nonsense! And, please, I beg of you, call Me just Wondergood. Call me

just Wondergood until the day when I crack my skull open with that

plaything which opens the _most narrow_ door into _limitless_ space.

Call me just Henry Wondergood, of Illinois: you will find that I will

respond promptly and obligingly.

But if, some day, you should find my head crushed, examine carefully

its _fragments_: there, in red ink will be engraved the proud name of

Satan! Bend thy head, in reverence and bow to him--but do not do me

the honor of accompanying my fragments to the scrap heap: one should

never bow so respectfully to chains cast off!

March 9, 1914.

Rome, Villa Orsini.

Last night I had an important conversation with Thomas Magnus. When

Maria had retired I began as usual to prepare to return home but

Magnus detained me.

"Why go, Mr. Wondergood? Stay here for the night. Stay here and

listen to the barking of Mars!"

For several days dense clouds had been gathering over Rome and a heavy

rain had been beating down upon its walls and ruins. This morning I

read in a newspaper a very portentous weather bulletin: _cielo nuvolo

il vento forte e mare molto agitato._ Toward evening the threat turned

into a storm and the enraged sea hurled across a range of ninety

miles its moist odors upon the walls of Rome. And the real Roman sea,

the billowy Campagna, sang forth with all the voices of the tempest,

like the ocean, and at moments it seemed that its immovable hills,

its ancient waves, long evaporated by the sun, had once more come to

life and moved forward upon the city walls. Mad Mars, this creator

of terror and tempest, flew like an arrow across its wide spaces,

crushed the head of every blade of grass to the ground, sighed and

panted and hurled heavy gusts of wind into the whining cypress trees.

Occasionally he would seize and hurl the nearest objects he could

lay his hands upon: the brick roofs of the houses shook beneath his

blows and their stone walls roared as if inside the very stones the

imprisoned wind was gasping and seeking an escape.

We listened to the storm all evening. Maria was calm but Magnus was

visibly nervous, constantly rubbed his white hands and listened

intently to the antics of the wind: to its murderous whistle, its

roar and its signs, its laughter and its groans...the wild-haired

artist was cunning enough to be slayer and victim, to strangle and to

plead for mercy at one and the same time! If Magnus had the moving

ears of an animal, they would have remained immovable. His thin nose

trembled, his dim eyes grew dark, as if they reflected the shadows of

the clouds, his thin lips were twisted into a quick and strange smile.

I, too, was quite excited: it was the first time since I became human

I had heard such a storm and it raised in me a white terror: almost

with the horror of a child I avoided the windows, beyond which lay

the night. Why does it not come here, I thought: can the window pane

possibly keep it out if it should wish to break through?...

Some one knocked at the iron gates several times, the gates at which I

and Toppi once knocked for admission.

"That is my chauffeur, who has come to fetch me," said I: "we must

admit him."

Magnus glanced at me from the corner of his eye and remarked sadly:

"There is no road on that side of the house. There is nothing but

field there. That is mad Mars who is begging for admittance."

And as if he had actually heard his words, Mars broke out into

laughter and disappeared whistling. But the knocking was soon resumed.

It seemed as if some one were tearing off the iron gates and several

voices, shouting and interrupting each other, were anxiously speaking;

an infant was heard weeping.

"Those must be people who have lost their way...you hear--an infant!

We must open the gates."

"Well, we'll see," said Magnus angrily.

"I will go with you, Magnus."

"Sit still, Wondergood. This friend of mine, here, is quite

enough...." He quickly drew _that_ revolver from the table drawer and

with a peculiar expression of love and even gentleness he grasped it

in his broad hand and carefully hid it in his pocket. He walked out

and we could hear the cry that met him at the gate.

On that evening I somehow avoided Maria's eyes and I felt quite ill at

ease when we were left alone. And suddenly I felt like sinking to the

floor, and kneeling before her so that her dress might touch my face:

I felt as if I had hair on my back, that sparks would at any moment

begin to fly if some one were to touch it and that this would relieve

me. Thus, in my mind, I moved closer and closer to Her, when Magnus

returned and silently put the revolver back into the drawer. The

voices at the door had ceased and the knocking, too.

"Who was that?"...asked Maria.

Magnus angrily shook off the drops of rain upon his coat.

"Crazy Mars. Who else did you expect?"

"But I thought I heard you speak to him?" I jested, trying to conceal

the shiver produced by the cold brought in by Magnus.

"Yes, I told him it was not polite--to drag about with him such

suspicious company. He excused himself and said he would come no

more," Magnus laughed and added: "I am convinced that all the

murderers of Rome and the Campagna are to-night threatening to

ambush people and hugging their stilettos as if they were their

sweethearts...."

Again came a muffled and timid knock.

"Again!" cried Magnus, angrily, as if Mad Mars had really promised to

knock no more. But the knock was followed by the ring of a bell: it

was my chauffeur. Maria retired, while I, as I have already said, had

been invited by Magnus to remain overnight, to which I agreed, after

some hesitation: I was not at all taken by Magnus and his revolver,

and still less was I attracted by the silly darkness.

The kind host himself went out to dismiss the chauffeur. Through the

window I could see the bright lights of the lanterns of the machine

and for a moment I yearned to return home to my pleasant sinners,

who were probably imbibing their wine at that moment in expectation

of my return.... Ah, I have long since abandoned philanthropy and am

now leading the life of a drunkard and a gambler. And again, as on

that first night, the quiet little white house, this _soul_ of Maria,

looked terrible and suspicious: this revolver, these stains of _blood_

upon the white hands...and, maybe there are more stains like these

here.

But it was too late to change my mind. The machine had gone and

Magnus, by the light, had not a _blue_, but a very black and beautiful

beard and his eyes were smiling pleasantly. In his broad hand he

carried not a weapon, but two bottles of wine, and from afar he

shouted merrily:

"On a night like this there is but one thing to do, to drink wine.

Even Mars, when I spoke to him, looked drunk to me...the rogue! Your

glass, Mr. Wondergood!"

But when the glasses had been filled, this merry drunkard hardly

touched the wine and sitting deep in his chair asked me to drink and

to talk. Without particular enthusiasm, listening to the noise of

the wind and thinking about the length of the night before us, I told

Magnus of the new and insistent visits of Cardinal X. It seemed to me

that the Cardinal had actually put spies on my trail and what is more

strange: he has managed to gain quite an influence over the unbribable

Toppi. Toppi is still the same devoted friend of mine but he seems

to have grown sad, goes to confessional every day and is trying to

persuade me to accept Catholicism.

Magnus listened calmly to my story and with still greater reluctance

I told him of the many unsuccessful efforts to open my purse: of

the endless petitions, badly written, in which the truth appears

to be falsehood because of the boresome monotony of tears, bows

and naïve flattery; of crazy inventors, of all sorts of people

with hasty projects, gentlemen who seek to utilize as quickly as

possible their temporary absence from jail--of all this hungry mass

of humanity aroused by the smell of _weakly_ protected billions. My

secretaries--there are six of them now--hardly manage to handle all

this mess of tears on paper, and the madly babbling fools who fill the

doors of my palace.

"I fear that I will have to build me an underground exit: they are

watching me even at nights. They are aiming at me with picks and

shovels, as if they were in the Klondike. The nonsense published

by these accursed newspapers about the billions I am ready to give

away to every fool displaying a wound in his leg, or an empty pocket,

has driven them out of their senses. I believe that some night they

will divide me into portions and eat me. They are organizing regular

pilgrimages to my palace and come with huge bags. My ladies, who

regard me as their property, have found for me a little Dante Inferno,

where we take daily walks in company with the society that storms my

place. Yesterday we examined an old witch whose entire worth consists

in the fact that she has outlived her husband, her children and her

grandchildren, and is now in need of snuff. And some angry old man

refused to be consoled and even would not take any money until all

of us had smelled the old putrid wound in his foot. It was indeed a

horrible odor. This cross old fellow is the pride of my ladies, and

like all favorites, he is capricious, and temperamental. And...are you

tired of listening to me, Magnus. I could tell you of a whole flock of

ragged fathers, hungry children, green and rotten like certain kinds

of cheese, of noble geniuses who despise me like a negro, of clever

drunkards with merry, red noses.... My ladies are not very keen on

drunkards, but I love them better than any other kind of goods. And

how do you feel about it, Signor Magnus?"

Magnus was silent. I too was tired of talking. Mad Mars alone

continued his antics: he was now ensconced upon the roof, trying to

bite a hole in the center, and crushing the tiles as he would a lump

of sugar. Magnus broke the silence:

"The newspapers seem to have little to say about you recently. What is

the matter?"

"I pay the interviewers not to write anything. At first I drove

them away but they began interviewing my horses and now I pay them

for their silence by the line. Have you a customer for my villa,

Magnus? I shall sell it together with the artists and the rest of its

paraphernalia."

We again grew silent and paced up and down the room: Magnus rose first

and then sat down. I followed and sat down too. In addition, I drank

two more glasses of wine while Magnus drank none.... His nose is never

red. Suddenly he said with determination:

"Do not drink any more wine, Wondergood."

"Oh, very well. I want no more wine. Is that all?"

Magnus continued to question me at long intervals. His voice was sharp

and stern, while mine was...melodious, I would say.

"There has been a great change in you, Wondergood."

"Quite possible, thank you, Magnus."

"There used to be more life in you. Now you rarely jest. You have

become very morose, Wondergood."

"Oh!"

"You have even grown thin and your brow is sallow. Is it true that you

get drunk every night in the company of your...friends?"

"It seems so."

"...that you play cards, squander your gold, and that recently some

one had been nearly murdered at your table?"

"I fear that is true. I recollect that one gentleman actually tried to

pierce another gentleman with his fork. And how do you know all about

that?"

He replied sternly and significantly:

"Toppi was here yesterday. He wanted to see...Maria but I myself

received him. With all due respect to you, Wondergood, I must say that

your secretary is unusually stupid."