Buy the blackest paint available, take the largest brush you can find and, with a broad line, divide my life into Yesterday and Today. Take the staff of Moses and divide the stream of Time and dry it up clear down to its bed⁠—then only will you sense my Today.

Ave, Caesar, moriturus te salutat!

I do not want to lie. There is not yet in me, oh man, any love for you, and if you have hastened to open your arms to me, please close them: the time has not yet come for passionate embraces. Later, at some other date, we shall embrace, but meanwhile, let us be cold and restrained, like two gentlemen in misfortune. I cannot say that my respect for you has grown to any extent, although your life and your fate have become my life and my fate: let the facts suffice that I have voluntarily placed my neck beneath the yoke and that one and the same whip are furrowing our backs.

Yes, that is quite sufficient for the present. You have observed that I no longer use a super-capital in writing the word “I”?⁠—I have thrown it out together with the revolver. This is a sign of submission and equality. You understand? Like a king, I have taken the oath of allegiance to your constitution. But I shall not, like a king, betray this vow: I have preserved from my former life a respect for contracts. I swear I will be true to your comrades-at-hard-labor and will not make any attempt to escape alone!

For the last few nights, before I took this decision, I thought much upon our life. It is wretched. Don’t you think so? It is difficult and humiliating to be this little thing called man, the cunning and avaricious little worm that crawls, hastily multiplies itself and lies, turning away its head from the final blow⁠—the worm that no matter how much it lies, will perish just the same at the appointed hour. But I will be a worm. Let me, too, beget children, let the unthinking foot also crush my unthinking head at the appointed hour⁠—I meekly accept all consequences. We are both of us humiliated, comrade, and in this alone there is some consolation: you will listen to my complaints and I⁠—to yours. And if the matter should ultimately reach the state of litigation, why the witnesses will all be ready! That is well: When one kills in the public square there are always eyewitnesses.

I will lie, if necessary. I will not lie in that free play of lying with which even prophets lie, but in that enforced manner of lying employed by the rabbit, which compels him to hide his ears, to be gray in summer and white in winter. What can one do when behind every tree a hunter with a rifle is concealed! This lying may appear to be ignoble from one point of view and may well call forth condemnation upon us, but you and I must live, my friend. Let bystanders accuse us to their heart’s content, but, when necessary, we will lie like wolves, too! we will spring forward, suddenly, and seize the enemy by the throat: one must live, brother, one must live, and are we to be held responsible for the fact that there is such great lure and such fine taste in blood! In reality neither you nor I are proud of our lying, of our cowardice or of our cruelty, and our bloodthirstiness is certainly not a matter of conviction.

But however hideous our life may be, it is still more miserable. Do you agree with that? I do not love you yet, oh man, but on these nights I have been more than once on the verge of tears when I thought of your suffering, of your tortured body, and of your soul, relinquished to eternal crucifixion. It is well for a wolf to be a wolf. It is well for a rabbit to be a rabbit. But you, man, contain both God and Satan⁠—and, oh, how terrible is the imprisonment of both in that narrow and dark cell of yours! Can God be a wolf, tearing throats and drinking blood! Can Satan be a rabbit, hiding his ears behind his humped back! No, that is intolerable. I agree with you. That fills life with eternal confusion and pain and the sorrow of the soul becomes boundless.

Think of it: of three children that you beget, one becomes a murderer, the other the victim and the third, the judge and executioner. And each day the murderers are murdered and still they continue to be born; and each day the murderers kill conscience and conscience kills the murderers. And all are alive: the murderers and conscience. Oh, what a fog we live in! Give heed to all the words spoken by man from the day of his birth and you will think: this is God! Look at all the deeds of man from his very first day and you will exclaim in disgust: this is a beast! Thus does man struggle with himself for thousands of years and the sorrow of his soul is boundless and the suffering of his mind is terrible and horrible, while the final judge is slow about his coming.⁠ ⁠… But he will never come. I say this to you: we are forever alone with our life.

But I accept this, too. Not yet has the earth endowed me with my name and I know not who I am: Cain or Abel? But I accept the sacrifice as I do murder. I am everywhere with you and everywhere I follow you, Man. Let us weep together in the desert, knowing that no one will give heed to us⁠ ⁠… or perhaps someone will? You see: you and I are beginning to have faith in someone’s Ear and soon I will begin to believe in a triangular Eye⁠ ⁠… it is really impossible that such a concert should have no hearer, that such a spectacle should be wasted on the desert air!

I think of the fact that no one has yet beaten me, and I am afraid. What will become of my soul when someone’s grubby hand strikes me on the face.⁠ ⁠… What will become of me! For I know that no earthly revenge could return my face to me. And what will then become of my soul?

I swear I will become reconciled even to this. Everywhere with you and after you, man. What is my face when you struck the face of your own Christ and spat into his eyes? Everywhere with you! And if necessary, I myself will strike at Christ with the hand with which I now write: I go with you to all ends, man. They beat us and they will continue to beat us. We beat Christ and will still beat him.⁠ ⁠… Ah, bitter is our life, almost unbearable!

Only a while ago, I rejected your embraces. I said they were premature. But now I say: let us embrace more firmly, brother, let us cling closely to each other⁠—it is so painful, so terrible to be alone in this life when all exits from it are closed. And I know not yet wherein there is more pride and liberty: in going away voluntarily, whenever one wishes, or in accepting, without resistance, the hand of the executioner? In calmly placing one’s hands upon his breast, putting one foot forward and, with head proudly bent backward, to wait calmly:

“Do thy duty, executioner!”

Or:

“Soldiers, here’s my breast: fire!”

There is something plastic in this pose and it pleases me. But still more am I pleased with the fact that once again my greater Ego is rising within me at the striking of this pose. Of course, the executioner will not fail to do his duty and the soldiers will not lower their rifles, but the important thing is the line, the moment, when before my very death itself I shall suddenly find myself immortal and broader than life itself. It is strange, but with one turn of the head, with one phrase, expressed or conceived at the proper moment, I could, so to speak, halt the function of my very spirit and the entire operation would be performed outside of me. And when death shall have finally performed its role of redeemer, its darkness would not eclipse the light, for the latter will have first separated itself from me and scattered into space, in order to reassemble somewhere and blaze forth again⁠ ⁠… but where?

Strange, strange.⁠ ⁠… I sought to escape from men⁠—and found myself at that wall of Unconsciousness known only to Satan! How important, indeed, is the pose! I must make note of that. But will the pose be as convincing and will it not lose in plasticity if instead of death, the executioner and the firing squad I should be compelled to say something else⁠ ⁠… well, something like:

“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 nonconformist 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 homemade 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?

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 nonbeliever? 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.⁠ ⁠…”

“And you want your ‘dynamite’ to have consciousness, will and eyes?”

“You are right. That is what I want. And my new dynamite does have these attributes: will, consciousness, eyes.”

“And what is your aim? But this sounds⁠ ⁠… terrible.”

Magnus smiled faintly.

“Terrible? I fear your terror will turn to laughter when I give you the name of my dynamite. It is man. Have you never looked at man from this point of view, Wondergood?”

“I confess⁠—no. Does dynamite, too, belong to the domain of psychology? This is all very ridiculous.”

“Chemistry, psychology!” cried Magnus, angrily: “that is all because knowledge has been subdivided into so many different subjects, just as a hand with ten fingers is now a rarity. You and your Toppi⁠—all of us are explosive shells, some loaded and ready, others still to be loaded. And the crux of the matter lies, you understand, in how to load the shell and, what is still more important: how to explode it. You know, of course, that the method of exploding various preparations depends upon their respective compositions?”

I am not going to repeat here the lecture on explosives given me by Magnus with great zeal and enthusiasm: it was the first time I had seen him in such a state of excitement. Despite the absorbing interest of the subject, as my friends the journalists would say, I heard only half the things he was saying and concentrated most of my attention on his skull, the skull which contained such wide and dangerous knowledge. Whether it was due to the conviction carried in Magnus’ words, or to pure weariness⁠—I know not which⁠—this round skull, blazing with the flames of his eyes, gradually assumed the character of a real, explosive shell, of a bomb, with the fuse lit for action.⁠ ⁠… I trembled when Magnus carelessly threw upon the table a heavy object resembling a cake of grayish-yellow soap, and exclaimed involuntarily:

“What’s that?”

“It looks like soap or wax. But it has the force of a devil. One half of this would be enough to blow St. Peter’s into bits. It is a capricious Devil. You may kick it about or chop it into pieces, you may burn it in your stove, it will remain ever silent: a dynamite shell may tear it apart yet it will not rouse its wrath. I may throw it into the street, beneath the hoofs of horses; the dogs may bite at it and children may play with it⁠—and still it remains indifferent. But I need only apply a current of high pressure to it⁠—and the force of the explosion will be monstrous, limitless. A strong but silly devil!”

With equal carelessness, bordering almost upon contempt, Magnus threw his devil back into the table drawer and looked at me sternly. My eyebrows twitched slightly:

“I see you know your subject to perfection, and I rather like this capricious devil of yours. But I would like to hear you discuss man.”

Magnus laughed:

“And was it not of him I have just spoken? Is not the history of this piece of soap the history of your man, who can be beaten, burned, hacked to bits, hurled beneath the hoofs of horses, thrown to the dogs, torn into shreds⁠—without rousing his consuming wrath or even his anger? But prick him with something⁠—and the explosion will be terrible⁠ ⁠… as you will learn, Mr. Wondergood.”

He laughed again and rubbed his white hands with pleasure: he scarcely remembered at that moment that human blood was already upon them. And is it really necessary for man to remember that? After a pause commensurate with the respect due to the subject, I asked:

“And do you know how to make a man explode?”

“Certainly.”

“And would you consider it permissible to give me this information?”

“Unfortunately it is not so easy or convenient because the current of high pressure would require too much elucidation, dear Wondergood.”

“Can’t you put it briefly?”

“Oh, briefly. Well, it is necessary to promise man some miracle.”

“Is that all?”

“That is all.”

“Lies once more? The old monkey?”

“Yes, lies again. But not the old monkey. It is not that I have in mind. Neither crusades nor immortality in heaven. This is the period of other miracles and other wonders. He promised resurrection to the dead. I promise resurrection to the living. His followers were the dead. Mine⁠ ⁠… ours⁠—are the living.”

“But the dead did not arise. How about the living?”

“Who knows? We must make an experiment. I cannot yet confide in you the business end of the enterprise but I warn you: the experiment must be conducted on a very large scale. You are not afraid, Mr. Wondergood?”

I shrugged my shoulders indicating nothing definite. What could I answer? This gentleman carrying upon his shoulders a bomb instead of a head again split me into two halves, of which man, alas, was the lesser one. As Wondergood, I confess without shame, I felt cruel fear and even pain: just as if the monstrous explosion had already touched my bones and were now breaking them⁠ ⁠… ah, but where is my endless happiness with Maria, where the boundless peace of mind, where the devil is that white schooner? No, as Great Immortal Curiosity, as the genius of play and eternal movement, as the rapacious gaze of unclosing eyes I felt⁠—I confess this, too, without shame⁠—great joy, bordering upon ecstasy! And with a shiver of delight I mumbled:

“What a pity I did not know that before.”

“Why a pity?”

“Oh, just so. Do not forget that I am come from another planet and am only now getting acquainted with man. So what shall we do with this⁠—planet⁠—Magnus?”

He laughed again:

“You are a strange fellow, Wondergood! With this planet? We will give it a little holiday. But enough jesting. I do not like it!” He frowned angrily and looked at me sternly, like an old professor⁠ ⁠… the manner of this gentleman was not distinguished by flippancy. When it seemed to him that I had grown sufficiently serious he shook his head in approval and asked: “Do you know, Wondergood, that the whole of Europe is now in a very uneasy state?”

“War?”

“Possibly war. Everybody is secretly expecting it. But war precedes the belief in the kingdom of miracles. You understand: we have lived too long in simple faith in the multiplication table, we are tired of the multiplication table, we are filled with ennui and anxiety on this straight road whose mire is lost in infinity. Just now all of us are demanding some miracle and soon the day will come when we will demand the miracle immediately! It is not I alone who wants an experiment on a large scale⁠—the whole world is preparing it⁠ ⁠… ah, Wondergood, in truth, life would not be worth the candle if it were not for these highly interesting moments! Highly interesting!” He greedily rubbed his hands.

“You are pleased?”

“As a chemist, I am in ecstasy. My shells are already loaded, without being themselves conscious of the fact, but they will know it well enough when I apply the torch. Can you imagine the sight when my dynamite will begin to explode, its consciousness, its will, its eyes directed straight upon its goal?”

“And blood? Perhaps my reminder is out of place but I remember an occasion when you spoke of blood with much excitement.”

Magnus fixed his long gaze upon me: something akin to suffering appeared in his eyes: But this was not the prick of conscience or pity⁠—it was the emotion of a mature and wise man whose thoughts had been interrupted by the foolish question of a child: “Blood,” he said, “what blood?”

I recalled to him his words on that occasion and told him of my strange and extremely unpleasant dream about the bottles, filled with blood instead of wine, and so easily broken. Weary, with his eyes closed, he listened to my tale and sighed heavily.

“Blood!”⁠—he murmured: “blood! that’s nonsense. I told you many trite things on that occasion, Wondergood, and it is not worth while to recall them. However, if this gives you fear, it is not too late.”

I replied resolutely:

“I fear nothing. As I have already said, I shall follow you everywhere. It is my blood that is protesting⁠—you understand?⁠—not my consciousness or will. Apparently I shall be the first to be fooled by you: I, too, seek a miracle. Is not your Maria a miracle? I have been repeating the multiplication table night and day and I have grown to hate it like the bars of a prison. From the point of view of your chemistry, I am quite loaded and I ask but one thing: blow me up as quickly as possible!”

Magnus agreed sternly:

“Very well. In about two weeks. Are you satisfied?”

“Thank you. I hope that Signorina Maria will then become my wife?”

Magnus laughed.

“Madonna?”

“Oh, I don’t understand your smile⁠ ⁠… and, I must say, my hope is altogether in conformity with the regard I bear for your daughter, Signor Magnus.”

“Don’t excite yourself, Wondergood. My smile was not about Maria but about your faith in miracles. You are a splendid fellow, Wondergood. I am beginning to love you like a son. In two weeks you will receive everything and then we shall conclude a new and strong pact. Your hand, comrade!”

For the first time he shook my hand in a strong, comradely fashion. I would have kissed him if there had been a simple human head instead of a bomb upon his shoulders. But to touch a bomb! Not even in the face of my utmost respect for him!

That was the first night that I slept like one slain and the stone walls of the palace did not press upon me. The walls were brushed by the explosive power of Magnus’ speech, while the roof melted away beneath the starry coverlet of Maria: my soul departed into the realms of her calm love and refuge. The mountain Tivoli and its fires⁠—that was what I saw as I fell into slumber.

Before knocking at my door, His Majesty, the ex-King E. had knocked at no small number of entrances in Europe. True to the example of his apostolic ancestors, who believed in the gold of Israel, he particularly liked to approach Jewish bankers; I believe that the honor done me by his visit was based upon his firm conviction that I was a Jew. Although His Majesty was visiting Rome incognito, I, warned of his visit, met him at the foot of the stairs and bowed low to him⁠—I think that is the requirement of etiquette. Then, also in accordance with etiquette, we introduced ourselves, he⁠—his adjutant, I⁠—Thomas Magnus.

I confess I had not a very flattering opinion of the former king and that is why he astonished me all the more with his high opinion of himself. He gave me his hand politely but with such haughty indifference, he looked at me with such complete self-confidence, as if he were gazing at a being of a lower order, he walked ahead of me so naturally, sat down without invitation, gazed upon the walls and furniture in such frankly royal manner, that my entire uneasiness due to my unfamiliarity with etiquette disappeared immediately. It was only necessary to follow this fellow, who appeared to know everything so well. In appearance he was quite a young man, with fresh complexion and magnificent coiffure, somewhat worn out but sufficiently well-preserved, with colorless eyes and a calm, brazenly protruding lower lip. His hands were beautiful. He did not try to conceal that he was bored by my American face, which appeared Jewish to him, and by the necessity of asking me for money: he yawned slightly after seating himself and said:

“Sit down, gentlemen.”

And with a slight command of the hand he ordered the adjutant to state the nature of his proposal. He paid no attention to Magnus at all, and while the fat, red and obliging adjutant was stealthily narrating the story of the “misunderstanding” which caused the departure of His Majesty from his country⁠—His Majesty was nonchalantly examining his feet. Finally, he interrupted his representative’s speech with the impatient remark:

“Briefer, Marquis. Mr.⁠ ⁠… Wondergood is as well familiar with this history as we are. In a word, these fools kicked me out. How do you regard it, dear Wondergood?”

“How do I regard it?” I bowed low:

“I am glad to be of service to Your Majesty.”

“Well, yes, that’s what they all say. But will you give me any money? Continue, Marquis.”

The Marquis, smiling gently at me and Magnus (despite his obesity he looked quite hungry) continued to weave his thin flimsy web about the misunderstanding, until the bored king again interrupted him:

“You understand: these fools thought that I was responsible for all their misfortunes. Wasn’t that silly, Mr. Wondergood? And now they are worse off than ever and they write: ‘Come back, for God’s sake. We are perishing!’ Read the letters, Marquis.”

At first the king spoke with a trace of excitement but apparently any effort soon wearied him. The Marquis obediently took a packet of papers from the portfolio and tortured us with the complaints of the orphaned subjects, begging their lord to return. I looked at the king: he was no less bored than we were. It was so clear to him that the people could not exist without him that all confirmations of this seemed superfluous.⁠ ⁠… And I felt so strange: whence does this miserable man get so much happy confidence? There was no doubt that this bird, unable to find a crumb for himself, sincerely believed in the peculiar qualities of his personage, capable of bestowing upon a whole people marvelous benefactions. Stupidity? Training? Habit? At that moment the marquis was reading the plea of some correspondent, in which, through the web of official mediocrity and the lies of swollen phrases, gleamed the very same confidence and sincere call. Was that, too, stupidity and habit?

“And so forth, and so forth,” interrupted the king listlessly: “that will do, Marquis, you may close your portfolio. Well, what you think of it, dear Mr. Wondergood?”

“I will be bold enough to say to Your Majesty that I am a representative of an old, democratic republic and.⁠ ⁠…”

“Stop, Wondergood! Republic, democracy! That’s nonsense. You know well enough yourself that a king is a necessity. You, in America, will have a king, too, some day. How can you get along without a king: who will be responsible for them before God? No, that’s foolish.”

This creature was actually getting ready to answer for the people before God! And he continued with the same calm audacity:

“The king can do everything. And what can a president do? Nothing. Do you understand, Wondergood⁠—Nothing! Why, then, do you want a president who can do nothing?”⁠—he deigned to twist his lower lip into a sarcastic smile.⁠—“It is all nonsense, invented by the newspapers. Would you, for example, take your president seriously, Mr. Wondergood?”

“But representative government.⁠ ⁠…”

“Fi! Excuse me, Mr. Wondergood (he recalled my name with great difficulty) but what fool will pay any attention to the representatives of the people? Citizen A will pay heed to Citizen B and Citizen B will pay heed to Citizen A⁠—is that not so? But who will compel their obedience if both of them are wise? No, I, too, have studied logic, Mr. Wondergood and you will permit me to indulge in a laugh!”

He laughed slightly and said with his usual gesture:

“Continue, Marquis.⁠ ⁠… No, let me do it. The King can do everything, Wondergood, you understand?”

“But the law.⁠ ⁠…”

“Ah, this fellow, too, speaks of law. Do you hear, Marquis? No, I really can’t understand what you want this law for! That all may suffer equitably! However, if you are so keen on having law, law you shall have. But who will give it to you, if not I?”

“But the representatives of the people.⁠ ⁠…”

The king directed his colorless eyes upon me, almost in despair:

“Ah, again citizen A and B! But can’t you understand, dear Wondergood? What kind of a law is it if they themselves make it? What wise man will agree to obey it? No, that’s nonsense. Is it possible that you yourself obey this law, Wondergood?”

“Not only I, Your Majesty, but the whole of America.⁠ ⁠…”

His eyes measured me with sympathy.

“Pardon me, but I don’t believe it. The whole of America! Well, in that case they simply don’t understand what law is⁠—do you hear, Marquis, the whole of America! But that’s not the thing. I must return, Wondergood. You’ve heard what the poor devils write?”

“I am happy to see that the road is open for you, my lord.”

“Open? You think so? Hm! No, I need money. Some write and others don’t, you understand?”

“Perhaps they don’t know how to write, my lord?”

“They? Oh! You should have seen what they wrote against me. I was quite flustered. What they need is the firing squad.”

“All of them?”

“Why all of them? Some of them will be enough. The rest of them will simply be scared to death. You understand, Wondergood, they have simply stolen my power from me and now, of course, will simply refuse to return it. You can’t expect me to see to it that no one robs me. And these gentlemen,”⁠—he indicated the blushing Marquis⁠—“to my sorrow did not manage to guard my interests.”

The Marquis mumbled confusedly:

“Sire!”

“Now, now, I know your devotion, but you were asleep at the switch just the same? And now there is so much trouble, so much trouble!”⁠—he sighed lightly. “Did not Cardinal X. tell you I needed money, Mr. Wondergood? He promised to. Of course I will return it all and⁠ ⁠… however, you should take this matter up with the Marquis. I have heard that you love people very much, Mr. Wondergood?”

A faint smile flitted over the dim face of Magnus. I bowed slightly.

“The Cardinal told me so. That is very praiseworthy, Mr. Wondergood. But if you do love people you will certainly give me money. I don’t doubt that in the least. They must have a king. The newspapers are merely prattling nonsense. Why do they have a king in Germany, a king in England, a king in Italy, and a hundred other kings? And don’t we need a king too?”

The adjutant mumbled:

“A misunderstanding.⁠ ⁠…”

“Of course a misunderstanding. The Marquis is quite right. The newspapers call it a revolution, but believe me, I know my people; it is simply a misunderstanding. They are now weeping themselves. How can they get along without a king? There would be no kings at all then. You understand? What nonsense! They now talk of no God, too. No, we must do a little shooting, a little shooting!”

He rose quickly and this time shook my hand with a patronizing smile and bowed to Magnus.

“Goodbye, goodbye, my dear Wondergood. You have a magnificent figure.⁠ ⁠… Oh, what a splendid fellow! The Marquis will drop in to see you one of these days. There was something more I wanted to say. Oh, yes: I hope that you in America will have a king, too, in the near future⁠ ⁠… that is very essential, my friend. Moreover, that’s bound to be the end! Au revoir!”

We escorted His Majesty with the same ceremony. The Marquis followed and his bowed head, divided into two halves by the part in his reddish hair, and his red face bore the expression of hunger and constant failure.⁠ ⁠… Ah, he has so frequently and so fruitlessly orated about that “misunderstanding”! The King, apparently, also recalled at that moment his vain knocking about at other thresholds: his bloodless face again filled with grayish ennui and in reply to my parting bow, he opened wide his eyes, as if in astonishment, with the expression: what more does this fool want? Ah, yes, he has money. And lazily he asked:

“And so, you’ll not forget, Mr.⁠ ⁠… friend!” And his automobile was magnificent and just as magnificent was the huge chauffeur, resembling a gendarme, attired for the new role. When we had reascended the stairs (our respectful lackeys meanwhile gazing upon me as on a royal personage) and entered our apartments, Magnus fell into a long, ironic silence. I asked:

“How old is this creature?”

“Didn’t you know, Wondergood? That’s bad. He is 32 years old. Perhaps less.”

“Did the Cardinal really speak of him and ask you to give him money?”

“Yes⁠—from what you may have left after the Cardinal’s wants are attended to.”

“That is probably due to the fact that the monarchist form of government is also in vogue in heaven. Can you conceive of a republic of saints and the administration of the world on the basis of popular representation? Think of it: even devils will then receive the vote. A King is most necessary, Wondergood. Believe me.”

“Nonsense! This is not worthy even of a jest.”

“I am not jesting. You are mistaken. And pardon me for being so direct, my friend: in his discussion about kings he was above you, this time. You saw only a creature, a countenance of purely material limitations and ridiculous. He conceived himself to be a symbol. That is why he is so calm and there is no doubt that he will return to his beloved people.”

“And will do a little shooting.”

“And will do a little shooting. And will throw a little scare into them. Ah, Wondergood, how stubborn you are in your refusal to part with the multiplication table! Your republic is a simple table, while a king⁠—do you realize it?⁠—is a miracle! What can there be simpler, sillier and more hopeless than a million bearded men, governing themselves⁠—and how wonderful, how miraculous when this million of bearded fellows are governed by a creature! That is a miracle! And what possibilities it gives rise to! It seemed very funny to me when you spoke with so much warmth about the law, this dream of the devil. A king is necessary for the precise purpose of breaking the law, in order that the will may be above the law!”

“But laws change, Magnus.”

“To change is only to submit to necessity and to new law, which was unknown to you before. Only by breaking the law do you elevate the will. Prove to me that God himself is subject to his own laws, i.e., to put it simply, that he cannot perform miracles, and tomorrow your shaven monkey will share the fate of loneliness and all the churches will be turned into horse stables. The miracle, Wondergood, the miracle⁠—that is what holds human beings on this cursed earth!”

Magnus emphasized these words by banging the table with his fist. His face was gloomy. In his dark eyes there flickered unusual excitement. Speaking as if he were threatening someone, he continued:

“He believes in miracles and I envy him. He is insignificant, he is really what you might call a creature, but he believes in miracles. And he has already been a king and will be a king again! And we!⁠ ⁠…”

He waved his hand contemptuously and began to pace the carpet like an angry captain on the deck of his vessel. With much respect I gazed upon his heavy, explosive head and blazing eyes: for the first time I realized what Satanic ambitions there were concealed in this strange gentlemen. “And we!” Magnus noticed my gaze and shouted angrily:

“Why do you look at me like that, Wondergood? It’s silly! You are thinking of my ambition? That’s foolish, Wondergood! Would not you, a gentleman of Illinois, also like to be⁠ ⁠… well, at least, Emperor of Russia, where the will is still above the law?”

“And on what particular throne have you your eye, Magnus?” I replied, no longer concealing my irony.

“If you are pleased to think of me so flatteringly, Wondergood, I will tell you that I aim much higher. Nonsense, my friend! Only bloodless moralists have never dreamt of a crown, just as only eunuchs have never tempted themselves with the thought of woman. Nonsense! But I do not seek a throne⁠—not even the Russian throne: it is too cramping.”

“But there is another throne, Signor Magnus: the throne of God.”

“But why only the throne of God? And have you forgotten Satan’s, Mr. Wondergood?”

And this he said to Me⁠ ⁠… or did the whole street know that my throne was vacant? I bowed my head respectfully and said:

“Permit me to be the first to greet you⁠ ⁠… Your Majesty.”

Magnus turned on me in wild wrath, gnashing his teeth, like a dog over a contested bone. And this angry atom wants to be Satan! This handful of earth, hardly enough for one whiff for the Devil, is dreaming to be crowned with my crown! I bowed my head still lower and dropped my eyes: I felt the gleaming flame of contempt and divine laughter blazing forth within them. I realized that it must not be given to my honored ward to know this laughter. I do not know how long we remained silent, but when our eyes met again they were clear, pure and innocent, like two bright rays in the shade. Magnus was the first to speak:

“And so?” he said.

“And so?” I replied.

“Will you order money for the king?”

“The money is at your disposal, my dear friend.”

Magnus looked at me thoughtfully.

“It’s not worth while,” he decided. “This miracle is old stuff. It requires too many police to compel belief. We shall perform a better miracle.”

“Oh, undoubtedly. We shall contrive a better device. In two weeks?”

“Yes, about that!” replied Magnus cordially.

We shook hands warmly in parting and in about two hours the gracious king sent each of us a decoration: some sort of a star for me and something else for Magnus. I rather pitied the poor idiot who continued to play his lone hand.

Maria is somewhat indisposed and I hardly see her. Magnus informed me of her illness⁠—and lied about it: for some reason he does not want me to see her. Does he fear anything?

Again Cardinal X. called on him in my absence. Nothing is being said to me about the “miracle.”

But I am patient⁠—and I wait. At first this was rather boresome but recently I have found a new pastime and now I am quite content. It is the Roman museums, where I spend my mornings, like a conscientious American who has just learned to distinguish between a painting and a piece of sculpture. But I have no Baedecker with me and I am strangely happy that I don’t understand a thing about it all: marble and painting. I merely like it.

I like the odor of the sea in the museums. Why the sea?⁠—I do not know: the sea is far away and I rather expected the odor of decay. And it is so spacious here⁠—much more spacious than the Campagna. In the Campagna I see only space, over which run trains and automobiles. Here I swim in time. There is so much time here! Then, too, I rather like the fact that here they preserve with great care a chip of a marble foot or a stony sole with a bit of the heel. Like an ass from Illinois, I simply cannot understand what value there is in this, but I already believe that it is valuable and I am touched by your careful thrift, little man! Preserve it! Go on breaking the feet of live men. That is nothing. But these you must preserve. It is good, indeed, when living, dying, ever changing men, for the space of 2,000 years, take such good care of a chip of marble foot.

When I enter the narrow museum from the Roman street, where every stone is drowned in the light of the April sun, its transparent and even shadow seems to me a peculiar light, more durable than the expensive rays of the sun. As far as I recollect it is thus that eternity doth shine. And these marbles! They have swallowed as much sunlight as an Englishman whiskey before they were driven into this place that they do not fear night at all.⁠ ⁠… And I, too, do not fear the night when I am near them. Take care of them, man!

If this is what you call art, what an ass you are, Wondergood. Of course, you are cultured, you look upon art with reverence as upon religion and you have understood as much of it as that ass did on which the Messiah entered Jerusalem. And what if there should be a fire? Yesterday this thought troubled me all day and I went with it to Magnus. But he seems extremely occupied with something and could not, at first, understand what I was driving at.

“What’s the trouble, Wondergood? You want to insure the Vatican⁠—or something else? Make it clearer?”

“Oh! to insure!” I exclaimed in anger: “you are a barbarian, Thomas Magnus!”

At last he understood. Smiling cordially, he stretched, yawned and laid some paper before me.

“You really are a gentleman from Mars, dear Wondergood. Don’t contradict, and sign this paper. It is the last one.”

“I will sign, but under one condition. Your explosion must not touch the Vatican.”

He laughed again:

“Would you be sorry? Then you had better not sign. In general, if you are sorry about anything⁠—about anything at all⁠—it would be better for us to part before it is too late. There is no room for pity in my game and my play is not for sentimental American girls.”

“If you please.⁠ ⁠…” I signed the paper and threw it aside. “But it seems as if you have earnestly entered upon the duties of Satan, dear Magnus!”

“And does Satan have duties? Poor Satan! Then I don’t want to be Satan!”

“Neither duties nor obligations?”

“Neither duties nor obligations.”

“And what then?”

He glanced at me quickly with his gleaming eyes and replied with one short word, which cut the air before my face:

“Will.”

“And⁠ ⁠… the current of high pressure?”

Magnus smiled patronizingly:

“I am very glad that you remember my words so well, Wondergood. They may be of use to you some day.”

Cursed dog. I felt so much like striking him that I⁠—bowed particularly low and politely. But he restrained me with a gracious gesture, pointing to a chair:

“Where are you going, Wondergood? Sit down. We have seen so little of each other of late. How is your health?”

“Fine, thank you. And how is the health of Signorina Maria?”

“Not particularly good. But it’s a trifle. A few more days of waiting and you.⁠ ⁠… So you like the museums, Wondergood? There was a time when I, too, gave them much time and feeling. Yes, I remember, I remember.⁠ ⁠… Don’t you find, Wondergood, that man, in mass, is a repulsive being?”

I raised my eyes in astonishment:

“I do not quite understand this change of subject, Magnus. On the contrary, the museums have revealed to me a new and more attractive side of man.⁠ ⁠…”

He laughed.

“Love for mankind?⁠ ⁠… Well, well, do not take offense at the jest, Wondergood. You see: everything that man does in crayon is wonderful⁠—but repulsive in painting. Take the sketch of Christianity, with its sermon on the Mount, its lilies and its ears of corn, how marvelous it is! And how ugly is its picture with its sextons, its funeral pyres and its Cardinal X.! A genius begins the work and an idiot, an animal, completes it. The pure and fresh wave of the ocean tide strikes the dirty shore⁠—and returns dirty, bearing back with it corks and shells. The beginning of love, the beginning of the Roman Empire and the great revolution⁠—how good are all beginnings! And their end? And even if a man here and there has managed to die as beautifully as he was born, the masses, the masses, Wondergood, invariably end the liturgy in shamelessness!”

“Oh, but what about the causes, Magnus?”

“The causes? Apparently we find concealed here the very substance of man, of animal, evil and limited in the mass, inclined to madness, easily inoculated with all sorts of disease and crowning the widest possible road with a standstill. And that is why Art is so much above Man!”

“I do not understand.”

“What is there incomprehensible about it? In art it is the genius who begins and the genius completes. You understand: the genius! the fool, the imitator or the critic is quite powerless to change or mar the paintings of Velasquez, the sculpture of Angelo or the verse of Homer. He can destroy, smash, break, burn or deface, but he is quite powerless to bring them down to his own level⁠—and that is why he so detests real art. You understand, Wondergood? His paw is helpless!”

Magnus waved his white hand and laughed.

“But why does he guard and protect it so assiduously?”

“It is not he who guards and protects. This is done by a special species of faithful watchmen”⁠—Magnus laughed again: “and did you observe how uncomfortable they feel in the museum?”

“Who⁠—they?”

“Well, those who came to view the things! But the most ridiculous phase of the whole business is not that the fool is a fool but that the genius unswervedly worships the fool as a neighbor and fellow being and anxiously seeks his devastating love. As if he were a savage himself, the genius does not understand that his true neighbor is a genius similar to himself and he is eternally opening his embraces to the near⁠—human⁠ ⁠… who eagerly crawls into them in order to abstract the watch from his vest pocket! Yes, my dear Wondergood, it is a most laughable point and I fear.⁠ ⁠…”

He lapsed into thought, fixing his eyes upon the floor: thus apparently do human beings gaze into the depths of their own graves. And I understood just what this genius feared, and once again I bowed before the Satanic mind which in all the world recognized only itself and its own will. Here was a god who would not share his power with Olympus! And what a contempt for mankind! And what open contempt for me! Here was a grain of earth that could make the devil himself sneeze!

And do you know how I concluded that evening? I took my pious Toppi by the neck and threatened to shoot him if he did not get drunk with me. And drunk we did get! We began in some dirty little café and continued in some night taverns where I generously filled some black-eyed bandits with liquor, mandolin players and singers, who sang to me of Maria: I drank like a farm hand who had just arrived in the city after a year of sober labor. Away with the museums! I remember that I shouted much and waved my hands⁠—but never did I love my Maria so tenderly, so sweetly and so painfully as in that smoke of drink, permeated with the odor of wine, oranges and some burning fat, in this wide circle of black bearded stealthy faces and rapaciously gleaming eyes, amid the melodious strains of mandolins which opened for me the very vestibules of heaven and hell!

I vaguely remember some very accommodating but pompous murderers, whom I kissed and forgave in the name of Maria. I remember that I proposed that all of us go to drink in the Coliseum, in the very place where martyrs used to die but I do not know why we did not do it⁠—I believe there were technical difficulties. And how splendid Toppi was! At first he drank long and silently, like an archbishop. Then he suddenly began to perform interesting feats. He put a bottle of Chianti on his nose, the wine running all over him. He tried to perform some tricks with cards but was immediately caught by the affable bandits who brilliantly repeated the same trick. He walked on all fours and sang some religious verses through his nose. He cried and suddenly announced frankly that he was a devil.

We walked home staggering along the street, bumping into walls and lampposts and hilariously enjoying ourselves like two students. Toppi tried to pick a quarrel with some policemen, but, touched by their politeness, he ended by conferring his stern blessing upon them, saying gloomily:

“Go and sin no more.”

Then he confessed with tears that he was in love with a certain signorina, that his love was requited and that he must therefore resign his spiritual calling. Saying this, he lay down upon a stony threshold and fell into a stubborn sleep. And thus I left him.

Maria, Maria, how you tempt me! Not once have I touched your lips. Yesterday I kissed only red wine⁠ ⁠… but whence come these burning traces on my lips? But yesterday I stood upon my knees, Madonna, and covered you with flowers: but yesterday I timidly laid hands upon the hem of your garment, and today you are only a woman and I want you. My hands are trembling. The obstacles, the halls, the paces and the thresholds separating us drive me mad. I want you! I did not recognize my own eyes in the mirror: there is a thick shadow upon them. I breathe heavily and irregularly, and all day long my thoughts are wandering lustfully about your naked breast. I have forgotten everything.

In whose power am I? It bends me like soft, heated iron. I am deafened, I am blinded by my own heat and sparks. What do you do, man, when that happens to you? Do you simply go and take the woman? Do you violate her? Think: it is night now and Maria is so close by. I can approach her room without a sound⁠ ⁠… and I want to hear her cries! But suppose Magnus bars the road for me? I will kill Magnus.

Nonsense.

No, tell me, in whose power am I? You ought to know that man? Today, just before evening, as I was seeking to escape from myself and Maria, I wandered about the streets, but it was worse there: everywhere I saw men and women, men and women. As if I had never seen them before! They all appeared naked to me. I stood long at Monte-Picio and tried to grasp what a sunset was but could not: before me there passed by in endless procession those men and women, gazing into each other’s eyes. Tell me⁠—what is Woman? I saw one⁠—very beautiful⁠—in an automobile. The sunset threw a rosy glow upon her pale face and in her ears there glistened two diamond sparks. She gazed upon the sunset and the sunset gazed on her, but I could not endure it: sorrow and love gripped my heart, as if I were dying. There behind her were trees, green, almost black.

Maria! Maria!

Perfect calm reigned upon the sea. From a high precipice I gazed long upon a little schooner, motionless in the blue expanse. Its white sails were rigidly still and it seemed as happy as on that memorable day. And, again, great calm descended upon me, while the holy name of Maria resounded purely and peacefully, like the Sabbath bells on the distant shore.

There I lay upon the grass, my face toward the sky. The good earth warmed my back, while my eyes were pierced with warm light, as if I had thrust my face into the sun. Not more than three paces away there lay an abyss, a steep precipice, a dizzying wall, and it was delightful to imbibe the odor of grass and the Spring flowers of Capri. There was also the odor of Toppi, who was lying beside me: when he is heated by the sun he emits the smell of fur. He was all sunburned, just as if he had been smeared with coal. In general, he is a very amiable old Devil.

The place where we lay is called Anacapri and constitutes the elevated part of the island. The sun had already set when we began our trip downward and a half moon had risen in the sky. But there was the same quiet and warmth and from somewhere came the strains of mandolins in love, calling to Maria. Maria everywhere! But my love breathed with great calm, bathed in the pure moonlight rays, like the little white houses below. In such a house, at one time, did Maria live, and into just such a house I will take her in about four days.

A high wall along which the road ran, concealed the moon from us and here we beheld the statue of an old Madonna, standing in a niche, high above the road and the surrounding bushes. Before her burned with a weak flame the light of an image-lamp, and she seemed so alive in her watchful silence that my heart grew cold with sweet terror. Toppi bowed his head and mumbled a prayer, while I removed my hat and thought:

How high above this earthly vessel, filled with moonlit twilight and mysterious charms, you stand. Thus does Maria stand above my soul.⁠ ⁠…

Enough! Here again the extraordinary begins and I must pause. We shall soon drink some champagne and then we shall go to the café. I understand they expect some mandolin players from Naples there today. Toppi would rather be shot than follow me: his conscience troubles him to this day. But it is good that I will be alone.

… Night. My palace is dead and silent, as if it were one of the ruins of ancient Rome. Beyond the large window lies the garden: it is transparent and white with the rays of the moon and the vaporous pole of the fountain resembles a headless vision in a silver veil. Its splash is scarcely heard through the thick windowpane⁠—as if it were the sleepy mumbling of the night guard.

Yes, this is all beautiful and⁠ ⁠… how do you put it?⁠—it breathes with love. Of course, it would be good to walk beside Maria over the blue sand of the garden path and to trample upon her shadow. But I am disturbed and my disquiet is wider than love. In my attempts to walk lightly I wander about the room, lean against the wall, recline in silence in the corners, and all the time I seem to hear something. Something far away, a thousand kilometers from here. Or is this all lodged in my memory⁠—that which I strain my ear to catch? And the thousand kilometers⁠—are they the thousand years of my life?

You would be astonished if you saw how I was dressed. My fine American costume had suddenly become unbearably heavy, so I put on my bathing suit. This made me appear thin, tall and wiry. I tried to test my nimbleness by crawling about the floor, suddenly changing the direction, like a noiseless bat. But it is not I who am restless. It is my muscles that are filled with this unrest, and I know not what they want. Then I began to feel cold. I dressed and sat down to write. I drank some wine and drew down the curtains to shut the white garden from my eyes. Then I examined and fixed my Browning. I intend to take it with me tomorrow for a friendly chat with Magnus.

You see, Thomas Magnus has some collaborators. That is what he calls those gentlemen unknown to me who respectfully get out of my way when we meet, but never greet me, as if we were meeting in the street and not in my house. There were two of them when I went to Capri. Now they are six, according to what Toppi tells me, and they live here. Toppi does not like them. Neither do I. They seem to have no faces. I could not see them. I happened to think of that just now when I tried to recall them.

“These are my assistants,” Magnus told me today without trying in the least to conceal his ridicule.

“Well, I must say, Magnus, they have had bad training. They never greet me when we meet.”

“On the contrary, dear Wondergood! They are very well-mannered. They simply cannot bring themselves to greet you without a proper introduction. They are⁠ ⁠… extremely correct people. However, you will learn all tomorrow. Don’t frown. Be patient, Wondergood! Just one more night!”

“How is Signorina Maria’s health?”

“Tomorrow she will be well.” He placed his hand upon my shoulder and brought his dark, evil, brazen eyes closer to my face: “The passion of love, eh?”

I shook off his hand and shouted:

“Signor Magnus! I.⁠ ⁠…”

“You?”⁠—he frowned at me and calmly turned his back upon me: “Till tomorrow, Mr. Wondergood!”

That is why I loaded my revolver. In the evening I was handed a letter from Magnus: he begged my pardon, said his conduct was due to unusual excitement and he sincerely sought my friendship and confidence. He also agreed that his collaborators are really ill-mannered folk. I gazed long upon these hasty illegible lines and felt like taking with me, not my revolver, but a cannon.

One more night, but how long it is!

There is danger facing me.

I feel it and my muscles know it, too. Do you think that I am merely afraid? I swear by eternal salvation⁠—no! I know not where my fear has disappeared, but only a short while ago I was afraid of everything: of darkness, death and the most inconsequential pain. And now I fear nothing. I only feel strange⁠ ⁠… is that how you put it: strange?

Here I am on your earth, man, and I am thinking of another person who is dangerous to me and I myself am⁠—man. And there is the moon and the fountain. And there is Maria, whom I love. And here is a glass and wine. And this is⁠—my and your life. Or did I simply imagine that I was Satan once? I see it is all an invention, the fountain and Maria and my very thoughts on the man⁠—Magnus, but the real my mind can neither unravel nor understand. I assiduously examine my memory and it is silent, like a closed book, and I have no power to open this enchanted volume, concealing the whole past of my being. Straining my eyesight, I gaze into the bright and distant depth from which I came upon this pasteboard earth⁠—but I see nothing in the painful ebb and flow of the boundless fog. There, behind the fog, is my country, but it seems⁠—it seems I have quite forgotten the road.

I have again returned to Wondergood’s bad habit of getting drunk alone and I am slightly drunk now. No matter. It is the last time. I have just seen something after which I wish to see nothing else. I felt like taking a look at the white garden and to imagine how it would feel to walk beside Maria over the path of blue sand. I turned off the light in the room and opened wide the draperies. And the white garden arose before me, like a dream, and⁠—think of it!⁠—over the path of blue sand there walked a man and a woman⁠—and the woman was Maria! They walked quietly, trampling upon their own shadows, and the man embraced her. The little counting machine in my breast beat madly, fell to the floor and broke, when, finally, I recognized the man⁠—it was Magnus, only Magnus, dear Magnus, the father. May he be cursed with his fatherly embraces!

Ah, how my love for Maria surged up again within me! I fell on my knees before the window and stretched out my hands to her.⁠ ⁠… To be sure, I had already seen something of that kind in the theater, but it’s all the same to me: I stretched out my hands⁠—was I not alone and drunk! Why should I not do what I want to do? Madonna! Then I suddenly drew down the curtain!

Quietly, like a web, like a handful of moonlight, I will take this vision and weave it into night dreams. Quietly!⁠ ⁠… Quietly!⁠ ⁠…