Satan's Diary

“Here’s my face: strike!”

I do not know why I am so concerned about my face, but it does concern me greatly. I confess, man, that it worries me very much indeed. No, a mere trifle. I will simply subdue my spirit. Let them beat me! When the spirit is crushed the operation is no more painful or humiliating than it would be if I were to beat my overcoat on its hanger…

…But I have forgotten that I am not alone and being in your company have fallen into impolite meditation. For a half hour I have been silent over this sheet of paper and it seemed all the time as if I had been talking and quite excitedly! I forgot that it is not enough to think, that one must also speak! What a shame it is, man, that for the exchange of thoughts we must resort to the service of such a poor and stealthy broker as the word – he steals all that is precious and defiles the best thoughts with the chatter of the market place. In truth, this pains me much more than death or the beating.

I am terrified by the necessity of silence when I come upon the extraordinary, which is inexpressible. Like a rivulet I run and advance only as far as the ocean: in the depths of the latter is the end of my murmuring. Within me, however, motionless and omnipresent, rocking to and fro, is the ocean. It only hurls noise and surf upon the earth, but its depths are dumb and motionless and quite without any purpose are the ships sailing on its surface. How shall I describe it?

Before I resolved to enroll myself as an earthly slave I did not speak to Maria or to Magnus… Why should I speak to Maria when her beckoning is clear, like her gaze? But having become a slave I went to Magnus to complain and to seek advice – apparently the human begins thus.

Magnus heard me in silence and, as it seemed to me, with some inner excitement. He works day and night, virtually knowing no rest, and the complicated business of the liquidation of my property is moving forward as rapidly in his hands as if he had been engaged in such work all his life. I like his heroic gestures and his contempt for details: when he cannot unravel a situation he hurls millions out of the window with the grace of a grandee. But he is weary and his eyes seem larger and darker on the background of his dim face. Only now have I learned from Maria that he is tortured by frequent headaches.

My complaints against life, I fear, have failed to arouse any particular sympathy on his part: No matter what the accusations I brought against man and the life he leads, Magnus would reply impatiently:

“Yes, yes, Wondergood. That is what being a man means. Your misfortune is that you discovered this rather late and are now quite unnecessarily aroused. When you shall have experienced at least a part of that which now terrifies you, you will speak in quite a different tone. However, I am glad that you have dropped your indifference: you have become, much more nervous and energetic. But whence comes this immeasurable terror in your eyes? Collect yourself, Wondergood!”

I laughed.

“Thank you. I am quite collected. Apparently it is the slave, in expectation of the whip, who peers at you from within my eye. Have patience, Magnus. I am not quite acclimated to the situation. Tell me, shall I or shall I not be compelled to commit…murder?”

“Quite possibly.”

“And can you tell me how this happens?”

Both of us looked simultaneously at his white hands and Magnus replied somewhat ironically:

“No, I will not tell you that. But if you wish I will tell you something else: I will tell you what it means to accept man to the very end – it is this that is really worrying you, is it not?”

And with much coolness and a sort of secret impatience, as if another thought were devouring his attention, he told me briefly of a certain unwilling and terrible murderer. I do not know whether he was telling me a fact or a dark tale created for my personal benefit, but this was the story: It happened long ago. A certain Russian, a political exile, a man of wide education yet deeply religious, as often happens in Russia, escaped from katorga, and after long and painful wandering over the Siberian forests, he found refuge with some non-conformist sectarians. Huge, wooden, fresh huts in a thick forest, surrounded by tall fences; great bearded people, large ugly dogs – something on that order. And in his very presence, soon after his arrival, there was to be performed a monstrous crime: these insane mystics, under the influence of some wild religious fanaticism, were to sacrifice an innocent lamb, i.e., upon a home-made altar, to the accompaniment of hymns, they were to kill a child. Magnus did not relate all the painful details, limiting himself solely to the fact that it was a seven year old boy, in a new shirt, and that his young mother witnessed the ceremony. All the reasonable arguments, all the objections of the exile that they were about to perform a great sacrilege, that not the mercy of the Lord awaited them but the terrible tortures of hell, proved powerless to overcome the fierce and dull stubbornness of the fanatics. He fell upon his knees, begged, wept and tried to seize the knife – at that moment the victim, stripped, was already on the table while the mother was trying desperately to control her tears and cries – but he only succeeded in rousing the mad anger of the fanatics: they threatened to kill him, too…

Magnus looked at me and said slowly with a peculiar calm:

“And how would you have acted in that case, Mr. Wondergood?”

“Well, I would have fought until I was killed?”

“Yes! He did better. He offered his services and with his own hand, with appropriate song, he cut the boy’s throat. You are astonished? But he said: ‘Better for me to take this terrible sin and punishment upon myself than to surrender into the arms of hell these innocent fools.’ Of course, such things happen only with Russians and, it seems to me, he himself was somewhat deranged. He died eventually in an insane asylum.”

Following a period of silence, I asked:

“And how would you have acted, Magnus?”

And with still greater coolness, he replied:

“Really, I do not know. It would have depended on the moment. It is quite possible I would have left those beasts, but it is also possible that I too…human madness is extremely contagious, Mr. Wondergood!”

“Do you call it only madness?”

“I said: human madness. But it is you who are concerned in this, Wondergood: how do you like it? I am off to work. In the meantime, devote yourself to discerning the boundary of the human, which you are now willing to accept in its entirety, and then tell me about it. You have not changed your intention, I hope, of remaining with us?”

He laughed and went away, patronizingly polite. And I remained to think. And so I think: where is the boundary?

I confess that I have begun to fear Magnus somewhat…or is this fear one of the gifts of my complete human existence? But when he speaks to me in this fashion I become animated with a strange confusion, my eyes move timidly, my will is bent, as if too great and strange a load had been put upon it. Think, man: I shake his big hand with reverence and find joy in his caress! This is not true of me before, but now, in every conversation, I perceive that this man can go further than I in everything.

I fear I hate him. If I have not yet experienced love, I know not hatred either, and it will be strange indeed if I should be compelled to begin by hating the father of Maria!.. In what a fog we do live, man! I have just merely mentioned the name of Maria, her clear gaze has only touched my soul and already my hatred of Magnus is extinguished (or did I only conjure it up?) and extinguished also is my fear of man and life (or did I merely invent it?) and great joy, great peace has descended upon me.

It is as if I were again a white schooner on the glassy ocean; as if I held all answers in my hand and were merely too lazy to open it and read therein, as if immortality had returned to me…ah, I can speak no more, oh, man! Let me press your hand?

April 6, 1914.

The good Toppi approves all my actions. He amuses me greatly, this good Toppi. As I expected, he has completely forgotten his true origin: he regards all my reminders of our past as jests. Sometimes he laughs but more often he frowns as if he were hurt, for he is religious and considers it an insult to be compared with a “horny” devil, even in jest: he himself is now convinced that devils have horns. His Americanism, at first pale and weak, like a pencil sketch, has now become filled with color, and I, myself, am ready to believe all the nonsense given out by Toppi as his life – it is so sincere and convincing. According to him, he has been in my service about fifteen years and particularly amusing it is to hear his stories of his youth.

Apparently he, too, has been touched by the charms of Maria: my decision to surrender all my money to her father astonished him much less than I expected. He merely chewed his cigar for a moment and asked:

“And what will he do with your money?”

“I do not know, Toppi.”

He raised his brow and frowned:

“You are joking, Mr. Wondergood?”

“You see, Toppi: just now we, i.e., Magnus is occupied in converting my estate into gold and jamming it into banks, in his name, of course. You understand?”

“How can I fail to understand, Mr. Wondergood?”

“These are all preliminary, essential steps. What may happen further…I do not know yet.”

“Oh, you are jesting again?”

“You must remember, old man, that I myself did not know what to do with my money. It is not money that I need but new activity. You understand? But Magnus knows. I do not know yet what his plans are but it is what Magnus said that is important to me: ‘I will compel you to work, Wondergood!’ Oh, Magnus is a great man. You will see that for yourself, Toppi!”

Toppi frowned again and replied:

“You are master of your money, Mr. Wondergood.”

“Ah, you have forgotten everything, Toppi! Don’t you remember about that play? That I wanted to play?”

“Yes, you did say something about it. But I thought you were joking.”

“No, I was not joking. I was only mistaken. They do play here but this is not a theater. It is a gambling house and so I gave all my money to Magnus: let him break the bank. You understand? He is the banker, he will manage the game and I shall simply do the betting… Quite a life, eh?”

Apparently the old fool understood nothing. He kept raising and lowering his eyebrows and again inquired:

“And how soon may we expect your betrothal to Signorina Maria?”

“I do not know yet, Toppi. But that is not the thing. I see you are dissatisfied. You do not trust Magnus?”

“Oh, Signor Magnus is a worthy man. But one thing I do fear, Mr. Wondergood, if you will permit me to be frank: he is a man who does not believe. This seems strange to me: how can the father of Signorina Maria be a non-believer? Is that not so? Permit me to ask: do you intend to give anything to his Eminence?”

“That depends now on Magnus.”

“Oh! On Signor Magnus? So, so. And do you know that His Eminence has already been to see Signor Magnus? He was here a few days ago and spent several hours in this study. You were not at home at that time.”

“No, I do not know. We have not spoken about that, but have no fear: we will find something for the cardinal. Confess, old man: you are quite enchanted with that old monkey?”

Toppi glanced at me sharply and sighed. Then he lapsed into thought…and strange as it may seem – something akin to a monkey appeared in his countenance, as in the cardinal’s. Later, from somewhere deep within him, there appeared a smile. It illumined his hanging nose, rose to his eyes and blazed forth within them in two bright, little flames, not devoid of wanton malice. I looked at him in astonishment and even with joy: yes that was my old Toppi, risen from his human grave… I am convinced that his hair again has the smell of fur instead of oil! Gently I kissed his brow – old habits cannot be rooted out – and exclaimed:

“You are enchanting, Toppi! But what was it that gave you such joy?”

“I waited to see whether he would show Maria to the cardinal?”

“Well?”

“He did not!”

“Well?”

But Toppi remained silent. And as it had come so did the smile disappear, slowly: at first the hanging nose grew pale and became quite indistinct, then all at once the flames within his eyes went out – and again the old dejection, sourness and odor of church hypocrisy buried him who had been resurrected for a moment. It would have been useless to trouble the ashes with further questions.

This happened yesterday. A warm rain fell during the day but it cleared up towards evening and Magnus, weary and apparently suffering with headache, suggested that we take a ride into the Campagna. We left our chauffeur behind, a practice peculiar to all our intimate trips. His duties were performed by Magnus, with extraordinary skill and daring. On this occasion, his usual daring reached the point of audacity: despite the ever-thickening twilight and the muddy road, Magnus drove the automobile at such mad speed that more than once did I look up at his broad, motionless back. But that was only at first: the presence of Maria, whom I supported with my arm (I do not dare say embraced!) soon brought me to the loss of all my senses. I cannot describe it all to you – so that you would really feel it – the aromatic air of the Campagna, which caressed my face, the magnificence and charm of our arrow-like speed, my virtual loss of all sensation of material weight, of the complete disappearance of body, when I felt myself a speeding thought, a flying gaze…

But still less can I tell you of Maria. Her Madonna gaze whitened in the twilight, like marble; like the mysterious silence and perfect beauty of marble was her gentle, sweet and wise silence. I barely touched her slender, supple figure, but if I had been embracing within the hollow of my hand the entire firmness of earth and sky I could not have felt a more complete mastery of the whole world! Do you know what a line is in measurement? Not much, – is that not so? And it was only by the measure of a line that Maria bent her divine form to me – no, no more than that! But what would you say, man, if the sun, coming down from its course just one line were to come closer to you by that distance? Would you not consider it a miracle?

My existence seemed unbounded, like the universe, which knows neither your time nor distance. For a moment there gleamed before me the wall of my unconsciousness, that unconquerable barrier against which the spirit of him who has donned the human form beats in vain, – and as quickly did it disappear: it was swallowed, without sound or conflict, by the waves of my new sea. Even higher they rose, enshrouding the world. There was no longer anything to remember for me or to know: my new human soul remembered all and commanded all. I am a man!

What gave me the idea that I hate Magnus? I looked at this motionless, erect and firm human back and thought that behind it a heart was beating. I thought of how painful and terrible it was for it to remain firm and erect and of how much pain and suffering had already fallen to the lot of this human creature, no matter how proud it might appear or dejected. And suddenly I realized to the extent of pain and tears, how much I loved Magnus, this very same Magnus! He speeds so wildly and has no fear! And the very moment I sensed this, Maria’s eyes turned upon me… Ah, they are as bright at night as they are by day! But at that moment there was a troubled look within them. They were asking: Why these tears?

What could I say in reply with the aid of weak words! I silently took Maria’s hand and pressed it to my lips. And without taking her gaze off me, shining in cold, marble luster, she quietly withdrew her hand – and I became confused – and again gave it to me, taking off her glove. Will you permit me to discontinue, man? I do not know who you are, you who are reading these lines, and I rather fear you…your swift and daring imagination. Moreover, a gentleman feels ill at ease in speaking of his success with the ladies. Besides, it was time to return: on the hills the lights of Tivoli were already gleaming and Magnus reduced his speed.

We were moving quite slowly on the return trip and Magnus, grown merry, wiping his brow with his handkerchief, now and then addressed brief remarks to us. There is one thing I will not conceal: her unquestionable womanliness emphasizes the completeness of my transformation. As we walked up the broad stairs of my palazzo, amid its princely wealth and beauty, I suddenly thought:

“Why not send all this adventure to the devil? Why not simply wed and live like a prince in this palace? There will be freedom, children, laughter, just earthly happiness and love.”

And again I looked at Magnus. He seemed strange to me: “I will take your money!” Then I saw the stern gaze of my Maria – and the contradiction between her love and this plan of simple, modest happiness was so great and emphatic that my thought did not even require an answer. I now recollect this thought accidentally as a curiosity of “Toppism.” Let me call it “Toppism” in honor of my perfect Toppi.

The evening was charming. At Magnus’ request, Maria sang. You cannot imagine the reverence with which Toppi listened to her singing! He dared not utter a word to Maria, but on leaving he shook my hand long and with particular warmth. Then, similarly, he shook the hand of Magnus. I also rose to retire.

“Do you intend to do some work yet, Magnus?”

“No. Don’t you want to go to sleep, Wondergood? Come to my room. We’ll chat a bit. Incidentally, there is a paper for you to sign. Do you want any wine?”

“Oh, with pleasure, Magnus. I love conversation at night.”

We drank the wine. Magnus, whistling something out of tune, silently walked the carpet, while I, as usual, reclined in a chair. The Palazzo was all silence, like a sarcophagus, and this reminded me of that stirring night when Mad Mars raved behind the wall. Suddenly, Magnus exclaimed loudly, without hesitation:

“The affair is progressing splendidly.”

“So?”

“In two weeks everything will be completed. Your swollen, scattered wealth, in which one can be lost as in a wood, will be transformed into a clear, concise and exact sack of gold…to be more correct – into a mountain. Do you know the exact estimate of your money, Wondergood?”

“Oh, don’t, Magnus. I don’t want to know it. Moreover, it’s your money.”

Magnus looked at me quickly and said sharply:

“No, it’s yours.”

I shrugged my shoulders. I did not want to argue. It was so quiet and I so enjoyed watching this strong man silently pacing to and fro. I still remembered his motionless, stern back, behind which I could clearly see his heart. He continued, after a pause:

“Do you know, Wondergood, that the Cardinal has been here?”

“The old monkey? Yes, I know. What did he want?”

“The same thing. He wanted to see you but I did not feel like taking you away from your thoughts.”

“Thanks. Did you drive him out?”

Magnus replied angrily:

“I am sorry to say, – no. Don’t put on airs, Wondergood: I have already told you that we must be careful of him as long as we remain here. But you are quite right. He is an old, shaven, useless, evil, gluttonous, cowardly monkey!”

“Ah, ah! Then why not show him the door?”

“Impossible.”

“I believe you, Magnus. And what does this king I hear about want, he who is to visit us some of these days?”

“Ex-king. Probably the same thing. You should receive him yourself, of course.”

“But only in your presence. Otherwise I refuse. You must understand, my friend, that from that memorable night on I have been merely your disciple. You find it impossible to drive out the old monkey? Very well, let him remain. You say we must receive some ex-king? Very well, receive him. But I would rather be hanged on the first lamppost than to do so without knowing your reason.”

“You are jesting again, Wondergood.”

“No, I am quite serious, Magnus. But I swear by eternal salvation that I know not what we are doing or intend to do. I am not reproaching you. I am not even questioning you: as I have already told you, I trust you and am ready to follow your directions. That you may not again reproach me with levity and impracticability, I may add a little business detail: Maria and her love are my hostages. Moreover, I do not yet know to what you intend to devote your energy, of whose boundlessness I am becoming more convinced each day; what plans and ends your experience and mind have set before you. But of one thing I have no doubt: they will be huge plans, great objects. And I, too, shall always find something to do beside you…at any rate this will be much better than my brainless old women and six secretaries. Why do you refuse to believe in my modesty, as I believe in your…genius. Imagine that I am come from some other planet, from Mars, for instance, and wish in the most serious manner possible, to pass through the experience of a man… It is all very simple, Magnus!”

Magnus frowned at me for a few moments and suddenly broke into laughter:

“You certainly are a pilgrim from some other planet, Wondergood!.. And what if I should devote your gold to doing evil?”

“Why? Is that so very interesting?”

“Hm!.. You think that is not interesting?”

“Yes, and so do you. You are too big a man to do little evil, just as billions constitute too much money, while honestly as far as great evil is concerned, I know not yet what great evil is? Perhaps it is really great good? In my recent contemplations, there…came to me a strange thought: Who is of greater use to man – he who hates or he who loves him? You see, Magnus, how ignorant I still am of human affairs and…how ready I am for almost anything.”

Without laughter and, with what seemed to me, extreme curiosity, Magnus measured me with his eyes, as if he were deciding the question: is this a fool I see before me, or the foremost sage of America? Judging by his subsequent question he was nearer the second opinion:

“So, if I have correctly understood your words, you are afraid of nothing, Mr. Wondergood?”

“I think not.”

“And murder…many murders?”

“You remember the point you made in your story about the boy of the boundary of the human? In order that there may be no mistake, I have moved it forward several kilometers. Will that be enough?”

Something like respect arose in Magnus’ eyes…the devil take him, though, he really considers me a clod! Continuing to pace the room, he looked at me curiously several times, as if he were trying to recall and verify my remark. Then, with a quick movement, he touched my shoulders:

“You have an active mind, Wondergood. It is a pity I did not come to know you before.”

“Why?”

“Just so. I am interested to know how you will speak to the king: he will probably suggest something very evil to you. And great evil is great good. Is that not so?”

He again broke into laughter and shook his head in a friendly fashion.

“I don’t think so. The chances are he will propose something very silly.”

“Hm!.. And is that not great wisdom?” He laughed again but frowned suddenly and added seriously: “Do not feel hurt, Wondergood. I liked what you said very much and it is well you do not put any questions to me at this time: I could not answer them just now. But there is something I can say even now…in general terms, of course. Are you listening?”

“I am all attention.”

Magnus seated himself opposite me and, taking a sip of wine, asked with strange seriousness:

“How do you regard explosives?”

“With great respect.”

“Yes? That is cold praise, but, I dare say, they don’t deserve much more. Yet, there was a time when I worshiped dynamite as I do frankness…this scar on my brow is the result of my youthful enthusiasm. Since then I have made great strides in chemistry – and other things – and this has cooled my zeal. The drawback of every explosive, beginning with powder, is that the explosion is confined to a limited space and strikes only the things near at hand: it might do for war, of course, but it is quite inadequate where bigger things are concerned. Besides, being a thing of material limitations, dynamite or powder demands a constantly guiding hand: in itself, it is dumb, blind and deaf, like a mole. To be sure, in Whitehead’s mine we find an attempt to create consciousness, giving the shell the power to correct, so to speak, certain mistakes and to maintain a certain aim, but that is only a pitiful parody on eyesight…”