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!
You know my good manners and, therefore, will believe me when I say
that I was cold and restrained like a gentleman who has just received
a legacy. But if you had put your ear to my belly you would have heard
violins playing within. Something about love, you understand. Oh,
you understand everything. And thus, with these violins did I come
to Magnus in the evening when the moon was shining brightly. Magnus
was alone. We were long silent and this indicated that an interesting
conversation awaited me. Finally I said:
"How is the Signorina's health?"...
But he interrupted me:
"We are facing a very difficult talk, Wondergood? Does that disturb
you?"
"Oh, no, not at all."
"Do you want wine? Well, never mind. I shall drink a little but you
need not. Yes, Wondergood?"
He laughed as he poured out the wine and here I noticed with
astonishment that he himself was _very_ excited: his large, white,
hangman's hands were quite noticeably trembling. I do not know exactly
just when my violins ceased--I think it was at that very moment.
Magnus gulped down two glasses of wine--he had intended to take only a
little--and, sitting down, continued:
"No, you ought not to drink, Wondergood. I need all your _senses_,
undimmed by anything...you didn't drink anything to-day? No? That's
good. Your _senses_ must be clear and sober. One must not take
anesthetics in such cases as...as...."
"As vivisection?"
He shook his head seriously in affirmation.
"Yes, vivisection. You have caught my idea marvelously. Yes, in cases
of vivisection of the soul. For instance, when a loving mother is
informed of the death of her son or...a rich man that he has become
penniless. But the senses, what can we do with the senses, we cannot
hold them in leash all our life! You understand, Wondergood? In the
long run, I am not in the least so cruel a man as I occasionally seem
even to myself and the _pain_ of others frequently arouses in me an
unpleasant, responsive trembling. That is not good. A surgeon's hand
must be firm."
He looked at his fingers: they no longer trembled. He continued with a
smile:
"However, wine helps some. Dear Wondergood, I swear by eternal
salvation, by which you love so to swear, that it is extremely
unpleasant for me to cause you this little...pain. Keep your senses,
Wondergood! Your senses, your senses! Your hand, my friend?"
I gave him my hand and Magnus enveloped my palm and fingers and held
them long in his own paw, strained, permeated with some kind of
electric currents. Then he let them go, sighing with relief.
"That's it. Just so. Courage, Wondergood!"