If this blackbearded fellow were only playing, I confess I would have found a worthy partner.
A dozen pickaninnies could not have licked off the honeyed expression my face assumed at Magnus’ promise to transmit my greetings to Maria. All the way back to my hotel I smiled idiotically at the coachman’s back and afterwards bestowed a kiss on Toppi’s brow—the canaile still maintains an odor of fur, like a young devil.
“I see there was profit in your visit,” said Toppi significantly. “How is Magnus’...daughter? You understand?”
“Splendid, Toppi, splendid! She said that my beauty and wisdom reminded her of Solomon’s!”
Toppi smiled condescendingly at my unsuccessful jest. The honeyed expression left my face and rust and vinegar took the place of the sugar. I locked myself in my room and for a long time continued to curse Satan for falling in love with a woman.
You consider yourself original, my earthly friend, when you fall in love with a woman and begin to quiver all over with the fever of love. And I do not. I can see the legions of couples, from Adam and Eve on; I can see their kisses and caresses; I can hear the words so cursedly monotonous, and I begin to detest my own lips daring to mumble the mumbling of others, my eyes, simulating the gaze of others, my heart, surrendering obediently to the click of the lock of a house of shame. I can see all these excited animals in their groaning and their caresses and I cry with revulsion at my own mass of bones and flesh and nerves! Take care, Satan in human form, Deceit is coming over You!
Won’t you take Maria for yourself, my earthly friend? Take her. She is yours, not mine. Ah, if Maria were my slave, I would put a rope around her neck and would take her, naked, to the market place: Who will buy? Who will pay the most for this unearthly beauty? Ah, do not hurt the poor blind merchant: open wide your purses, jingle louder your gold, generous gentlemen!...
What, she will not go? Fear not, Signor, she will come and she will love you.... This is simply her maidenly modesty, Sir! Shall I tie the other end of the rope about her and lead her to your bed, kind sir? Take the rope along with you. I charge nothing for that. Only rid me of this heavenly beauty! She has the face of the radiant Madonna. She is the daughter of the honorable Thomas Magnus and both of them are thieves: he stole his white hands and she—her pristine face! Ah....
But I am beginning to play with you, dear reader? That is a mistake: I have simply taken the wrong note book. No, it is not a mistake. It is worse. I play because my loneliness is very great, very deep—I fear it has no bottom at all! I stand on the edge of an abyss and hurl words, many heavy words, into it, but they fall without a sound. I hurl into it laughter, threats and moans. I spit into it. I fling into it heaps of stones and rocks. I throw mountains into it—and still it remains silent and empty. No, really, there is no bottom to this abyss and we toil in vain, you and I, my friend!
...But I see your smile and your cunning laugh: you understand why I spoke so sourly of loneliness.... Ah, ’tis love! And you want to ask whether I have a mistress?