“You are incorrigible, Lucio!” I said. “But your cheerfulness is very inspiriting. All I wanted to explain to you is this, that my book expresses a certain tone of thought which is not me. I, in my present self have no sympathy with it. I must have changed very much since I wrote it.”

“Changed? Why yes, I should think so!” and Lucio laughed heartily. “The possession of five millions changes a man considerably for the better – or worse! But you seem to be worrying yourself about nothing. Not one author in many centuries writes from his own heart or as he truly feels. When he does, he becomes immortal. This planet is too limited to hold more than one Homer, one Plato, one Shakespeare. Don’t distress yourself – you are neither of these three! You belong to the age, Tempest. Observe the signs of the time. Art is subordinate to the love of money – literature, politics and religion the same. You cannot escape from the general disease. The only thing to do is to make the best of it[18]. No one can reform it.”

He paused. I was silent.

“What I am going to say now,” he proceeded, “will sound ridiculous. In order to write with intense feeling, you must first feel. When you wrote this book of yours, you were almost a human hedgehog in the way of feeling. The ‘change’ you complain of is this: you have nothing to feel about.”

I was irritated.

“Do you take me for a callous creature?” I exclaimed. “You are mistaken in me, Lucio. I feel most keenly…”

“What do you feel?” he inquired, fixing his eyes steadily upon me. “There are hundreds of starving wretches in this metropolis, men and women on the brink of suicide because they have no hope of anything in this world or the next – do you feel for them? Do their grieves affect you? You know they do not, you know you never think of them, why should you? One of the chief advantages of wealth is the ability to shut out other people’s miseries from our personal consideration.”

I said nothing. He was right.

“Yesterday,” he went on in the same quiet voice, “a child was run over here[19], just opposite this hotel. It was only a poor child. Its mother ran shrieking out of a back-street, just to see the little bleeding body. She struck wildly with both hands at the men who were trying to lead her away. And then with a cry she fell face forward in the mud – dead. She was only a poor woman. I simply tell you the ‘sad incident’ as it occurred, and I am sure you are not sorry for the fate of either the child or its mother who died in the agony. Now don’t say you are, because I know you’re not!”

“How can one feel sorry for people one does not know or has never seen…” I began.

“Exactly! How is it possible? How can one feel, when one’s self is thoroughly comfortable? Thus, my dear Geoffrey, you must be content to let your book appear as the reflex and record of your past when you were in the sensitive stage. Now you are encased in a pachydermatous covering of gold, which adequately protects you from such influences.”

“You should have been an orator,” I said, rising and pacing the room to and fro in vexation. “But to me your words are not consoling, and I do not think they are true. Fame is easily enough secured.”

“Pardon me,” said Lucio with a deprecatory gesture. “Notoriety is easily secured – very easily. A few critics who have dined with you, will give you notoriety. But fame is the voice of the whole civilized public of the world.”

“The public!” I echoed contemptuously. “The public only care for trash.”

“It is a pity you should appeal to it then,” he responded with a smile. “If you think so little of the public why give it anything of your brain? The public is the author’s best friend and truest critic. But if you prefer to despise, I tell you what to do. Print just twenty copies of your book and present these to the leading reviewers. When they write about you (as they will do – I’ll take care of that) let your publisher advertise ‘First and Second Large Editions’ of the new novel by Geoffrey Tempest, are bought, one hundred thousand copies having been sold in a week!”

I laughed.

“It is a plan of action of many modern publishers,” I said. “But I don’t like it. I’ll win my fame legitimately if I can.”

“You can’t!” declared Lucio with a serene smile. “It’s impossible. You are too rich. That is not legitimate in literature.”

I went over to my table, rolled up my corrected proofs and directed them to the printers.

The door opened and closed – Lucio was gone. I remained alone. We had now been together for nearly a month, and I was no closer to the secret of his actual nature than I had been at first. Yet I admired him more than ever.

Rimanez and I went to the theater. We had entered the Earl of Elton’s box between the first and second acts of the play, and the Earl himself, an unimpressive, bald-headed, red-faced old gentleman, with fuzzy white whiskers, had risen to welcome us. His daughter had not moved. A minute or two later when he addressed her sharply, saying “Sibyl! Prince Rimanez and his friend, Mr. Geoffrey Tempest,” she turned her head and honoured us both with the chill glance. Her exquisite beauty smote me dumb and foolish. Lucio spoke to her, and I listened.

“At last, Lady Sibyl,” he said, bending towards her deferentially. “At last I have the honour of meeting you. I have seen you often, as one sees a star, – at a distance.”

She smiled, – a smile so slight and cold that it scarcely lifted the corners of her lovely lips.

“I do not think I have ever seen you,” she replied. “But my father speak of you constantly. So his friends are always mine.”

He bowed.

“To merely speak to Lady Sibyl Elton is sufficient to make the man happy,” he said. “To be her friend is to discover the lost paradise.”

She flushed. Rimanez turned to me, and placed a chair just behind hers.

“Will you sit here Geoffrey?” he suggested. “I want to have a business chat with Lord Elton.”

She smiled encouragingly as I approached her.

“You are a great friend of Prince Rimanez?” she asked softly, as I sat down.

“Yes, we are very intimate,” I replied. “He is a delightful companion.”

The curtain rose and the play was resumed. A very questionable play, about the ‘woman with the past’. I felt disgusted at the performance and looked at my companions. There was no sign of disapproval on Lady Sibyl’s fair countenance. Her father was bending forward eagerly.

“England has progressed!” said Rimanez.

“But, these women you know,” exclaimed Lord Elton, “these poor souls with a past – are very interesting!”

“Very!” murmured his daughter. “In fact it seems that for women with no such ‘past’ there can be no future! Virtue and modesty are quite out of date.”

I leaned towards her, half whispering,

“Lady Sibyl, I am glad to see this wretched play offends you.”

She turned her deep eyes on me in mingled surprise and amusement.

“Oh no, it doesn’t,” she declared. “I have seen so many like it. And I have read so many novels on just the same theme! I assure you, I am quite convinced that the so-called ‘bad’ woman is the only popular type with men. She gets all the enjoyment possible out of life, she frequently makes an excellent marriage. It is quite a mistake for women to be respectable, – they are dull.”

“Ah, now you are only joking!” I said with an indulgent smile. “You know that in your heart you think very differently!”

She made no answer, as just then the curtain went up again. At that very instant she turned to me and said,

“You are the famous Mr. Tempest, are you not?”

“Famous?” I echoed with a deep sense of gratification. “Well, I am scarcely that, yet! My book is not published.”

Her eyebrows arched themselves surprisedly.

“Your book? I did not know you had written one. When I asked if you were the famous Mr. Tempest, I meant to say were you the great millionaire.”

I bowed.

“How delightful it must be for you to have so much money!” she said. “And you are young too, and good-looking.”

I smiled.

“You are very kind, Lady Sibyl!”

“Why?” she asked laughing, such a delicious low laugh. “Because I tell you the truth? You are young and you are good-looking! Millionaires are generally such appalling creatures. And now tell me about your book!”

The performance was over. We all left the box together. Lucio and I raised our hats in farewell, and the Elton equipage rolled away. As we drove off, Lucio peered inquisitively at me and said,

“Well?”

I was silent.

“Don’t you admire her?” he went on. “I must confess she is cold, but snow often covers volcanoes! She has good features, and a naturally clear complexion.”

“She is perfectly beautiful,” – I said emphatically. “The dullest eyes must see that. There is not a fault to be found with her. And she is wise and cold.”

“Geoffrey, there are no obstacles in the way of your wooing and winning her, if such is your desire. Geoffrey Tempest, millionaire, will be a welcome suitor. Poor Lord Elton’s affairs are in a bad way – he is almost ruined. The American woman who is boarding with him…”

“Boarding with him!” I exclaimed.

Lucio laughed heartily.

“The Earl and Countess of Elton give the prestige of their home and protection to Miss Diana Chesney, the American, for the trifling sum of two thousand guineas per annum.”

“What a state!” I said, half angrily.

“Geoffrey, my friend, you are really amazingly inconsistent! Six weeks ago, what were you? A mere poor scribbler. Now, as millionaire, you think contemptuously of an Earl, because he is boarding an American heiress and launching her into society where she would never get without him. And you aspire, or probably mean to aspire to the hand of the Earl’s daughter, as if you yourself were a descendant of kings!”

“My father was a gentleman,” I said, with hauteur, “and a descendant of gentlemen. We were never common folk.”

Lucio smiled.

“I do not doubt it, my dear fellow. But a simple ‘gentleman’ is below – or above – an Earl. Which side will you choose? It really doesn’t matter nowadays. You occupy a good position, since you have money. And you do not know how it was made.”

“True!” I answered meditatively. Then, with a sudden flash of recollection I added,

“By the way I never told you that my deceased relative imagined that he had sold his soul to the devil, and that this vast fortune of his was the material result!”

Lucio laughed.

“No! Not possible!” he exclaimed derisively. “What an idea! Imagine any sane man believing in a devil! Ha, ha, ha! Well, well! The folly of human imaginations will never end! Here we are!”

He sprang lightly out as the brougham stopped at the Grand Hotel.

It was a fine frosty evening. At about eleven o’clock, we went to the private gambling club to which my companion had volunteered to introduce me as a guest. It was situated at the end of a mysterious little back street, and was an unpretentious looking house enough outside. But within, it was sumptuously though tastelessly furnished. A woman with painted eyes and dyed hair received us. Her looks and manner proclaimed her as one of those ‘pure’ ladies with a ‘past’ who are represented as such martyrs to the vices of men. Lucio said something to her apart, – whereupon she glanced at me deferentially and smiled. Then rang the bell. A discreet man-servant in sober black made his appearance. We trod on a carpet of the softest felt. I noticed that everything was rendered as noiseless as possible in this establishment.

On the upper landing, the servant knocked very cautiously at a side-door. A key turned in the lock, and we were admitted into a long double room, very brilliantly lit with lamps. It was crowded with men playing at rouge et noir and baccarat[20]. Some looked up as Lucio entered and nodded smilingly, others glanced inquisitively at me, but our entrance was otherwise scarcely noticed.

Lucio drew me along by the arm, sat down to watch the play. I followed his example. I recognized the faces of many well-known public men, men eminent in politics and society. But I betrayed no sign of surprise, and quietly observed the games and the gamesters. I was prepared to play and to lose. But I was not prepared however for the strange scene which soon occurred.

As soon as the game was finished, the players rose, and greeted Lucio with eagerness and effusion. I instinctively guessed from their manner that they looked upon him as an influential member of the club, a person to lend them money to gamble with. He introduced me to them all, and I perceived the effect my name had upon most of them. I was asked if I would join in a game of baccarat, and I readily consented. The stakes were ruinously high, but I had no need to falter for that. One of the players near me was a fair-haired young man, handsome in face. He had been introduced to me as Viscount Lynton. When he lost, as he mostly did, he laughed uproariously as though he were drunk or delirious. Lucio did not join us, but sat apart, quietly observant, and watching me. All the luck came my way, and I won steadily. The more I won the more excited I became, till presently my humour changed and I was seized by a whimsical desire to lose. I wished this for young Lynton’s sake. He seemed literally maddened by my constant winnings, and continued his foolhardy and desperate play. His eyes glittered with a hungry feverishness. The other gamesters concealed their feelings more cleverly. Again and again I gathered up the stakes, till at last the players rose, Viscount Lynton among them.

“Well, I’ve lost everything!” he said, with a loud laugh. “You must give me my chance of a revanche tomorrow, Mr. Tempest!”

I bowed.

“With pleasure!”

He called a waiter at the end of the room to bring him a brandy and soda, and meanwhile I was surrounded by the rest of the men, all of them repeating the Viscount’s suggestion of a ‘revanche,’ and strenuously urging upon me the necessity of returning to the club the next night. I readily agreed, and while we were in the midst of talk, Lucio suddenly addressed young Lynton.

“Will you make up another game with me?” he inquired. “I’ll start the bank with this,” – and he placed two notes of five hundred pounds each on the table.

There was a moment’s silence. The Viscount was thirstily drinking his brandy-and-soda, and glanced at the notes with covetous bloodshot eyes. Then he shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

“I can’t stake anything,” he said; “I’ve already told you I’ve lost everything.”

“Sit down, sit down, Lynton!” urged one man near him. “I’ll lend you some money.”

“Thanks, I’d rather not!” he returned, flushing a little. “I’m too much in your debt already. You go on, you fellows, and I’ll watch the play.”

“Let me persuade you Viscount Lynton,” said Lucio, looking at him with his dazzling inscrutable smile. “If you do not stake money, stake something trifling and merely nominal,” and here he took up a counter. “This frequently represents fifty pounds, – let it represent for once something that is not valuable like money, – your soul, for example!”

A burst of laughter broke from all the men. Lucio laughed softly with them.

“I really propose less than one hair of your head,” he continued, “because the hair is something, and the soul is nothing! Come! Will you risk that non-existent quantity for the chance of winning a thousand pounds?”

The Viscount turned upon us,

“Done!” he exclaimed; whereupon the party sat down.

The game was brief, and in its rapid excitement, almost breathless. Lucio rose, the winner. He smiled as he pointed to the counter which had represented Viscount Lynton’s soul.

“I have won!” he said quietly. “But you owe me nothing, my dear Viscount, inasmuch as you risked nothing! We played this game simply for fun. If souls had any existence of course I should claim yours!” He laughed. “Good-night! Tempest and I will give you, your full revenge tomorrow, and you will probably have the victory!”

Viscount Lynton shook Lucio’s hand heartily.

“You are an awfully good fellow!” he said, speaking hurriedly. “And I assure you seriously if I had a soul I should be very glad to part with it for a thousand pounds at the present moment. But I feel convinced I shall win tomorrow!”

“I am sure you will!” returned Lucio affably.

The Viscount smiled and left the club. As soon as the door had closed behind him, several of the gamesters exchanged sententious nods and glances.

“Ruined!” said one of them.

“His gambling debts are more than he can ever pay,” added another.

These remarks were made indifferently, as though one should talk of the weather, no sympathy was expressed. But I was not utterly vile. I inwardly resolved to write to Viscount Lynton that very evening, and tell him to consider his debt to me cancelled, as I should refuse to claim it. I met Lucio’s gaze fixed steadily upon me. He smiled, and in a few minutes we had left the club, and were out in the cold night air under a heaven of frostily sparkling stars. My companion laid his hand on my shoulder.

“Tempest, if you are going to be kind-hearted or sympathetic to undeserving rascals, I shall leave you!” he said, with a curious mixture of satire and seriousness in his voice. “I see you want to cancel Lynton’s debt, you are a fool. He is a born scoundrel, why should you compassionate him? From the time he first went to college till now, he has been doing nothing but live a life of degraded sensuality. He is a worthless rake, worse than a dog!”

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Примечания

washerwomen – прачки

so-called – так называемая

fellow-men – собратья

I found myself – я оказался

he is less cared for – о нём заботятся меньше

that won’t do – так не пойдёт

present age – наше время

the real and personal estate – движимое и недвижимое имущество

to match me in power – состязаться со мной в могуществе

leave much to be desired – оставляют много желать

needs must when the devil drives – нужно покориться, когда погоняет дьявол