Part 6

Cardinal X. jumped up from his chair and gently touched my shoulder with two of his aristocratic fingers:

"Oh, I am not hurrying you, my good Mr. Wondergood. It was you who were hurrying me. I am even convinced that you will at first refuse me, but when, after some little experience, you will have realized the real _needs_ of man.... I, too, love man, Mr. Wondergood, to be sure, not so passionately and...."

He departed with the same grimaces, bearing himself with dignity and dispensing blessings all about him. I saw him again through the window at the entrance of the palace, while the coachman was bringing up the carriage: he was speaking into the ear of one of his abbés, whose face resembled a black plate. The Cardinal's countenance no longer reminded me of a monkey: it was rather the face of a shaven, hungry, tired lion. This able actor needed no dressing room for his make-up! Behind him stood a tall lackey, all dressed in black, reminding one of an English baronet. Whenever His Eminence turned about in his direction, he would respectfully lift his faded silk hat.

* * * * *

Following the departure of His Eminence I was surrounded by a merry group of friends, with whom I had filled the spare rooms of my palace for the purpose of alleviating my loneliness and ennui. Toppi looked proud and happy: he was so satiated with blessings that he fairly bulged. The artists, decorators and others--whatever you call them--were greatly impressed by the Cardinal's visit, and spoke with much glee of the remarkable expression of his face and the grandeur of his manner! The Pope himself.... But when I remarked with the naïveté of a Redskin that he reminded me of a monkey, the shrewd canailes burst into loud laughter and one of them immediately sketched a portrait of Cardinal X.--in a cage. I am not a moralist to judge other people for their petty sins: they will get what is due them on their Judgment Day--and I was much pleased by the cleverness of the laughing beasts. They do not appear to have much faith in _love_ for one's _fellow beings_ and if I should rummage about among their drawings, I would probably find a pretty good sketch of the ass Wondergood. I like that. I find relief in communion with my little, pleasant sinners, from the babbling of the great and disagreeable saints...whose hands are covered with blood.

Then Toppi asked me: "And how much does he want?"

"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.

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.