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The Floating Press - Marie Corelli

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294 pages

English

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Geoffrey Tempest is a destitute author on the brink of financial ruin who suddenly finds himself awash in money, friends, and influence -- thanks in large part to his enigmatic and charming new acquaintance Lucio. Despite the fact that many of his long-time pals are suspicious of Lucio, Tempest doesn't question Lucio's motives or largesse. Just who is this mysterious stranger who has turned Tempest's world upside-down?

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 mars 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775562122
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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THE SORROWS OF SATAN
OR THE STRANGE EXPERIENCE OF ONE GEOFFREY TEMPEST, MILLIONAIRE
* * *
MARIE CORELLI

*
The Sorrows of Satan Or the Strange Experience of One Geoffrey Tempest, Millionaire First published in 1895 ISBN 978-1-77556-212-2 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX Chapter XX Chapter XXI Chapter XXII Chapter XXIII Chapter XXIV Chapter XXV Chapter XXVI Chapter XXVII Chapter XXVIII Chapter XXIX Chapter XXX Chapter XXXI Chapter XXXII Chapter XXXIII Chapter XXXIV Chapter XXXV Chapter XXXVI Chapter XXXVII Chapter XXXVIII Chapter XXXIX Chapter XL Chapter XLI Chapter XLII Endnotes
Chapter I
*
Do you know what it is to be poor? Not poor with the arrogant povertycomplained of by certain people who have five or six thousand a year tolive upon, and who yet swear they can hardly manage to make both endsmeet, but really poor,—downright, cruelly, hideously poor, with apoverty that is graceless, sordid and miserable? Poverty that compelsyou to dress in your one suit of clothes till it is wornthreadbare,—that denies you clean linen on account of the ruinouscharges of washerwomen,—that robs you of your own self-respect, andcauses you to slink along the streets vaguely abashed, instead ofwalking erect among your fellow-men in independent ease,—this is thesort of poverty I mean. This is the grinding curse that keeps down nobleaspiration under a load of ignoble care; this is the moral cancer thateats into the heart of an otherwise well-intentioned human creature andmakes him envious and malignant, and inclined to the use of dynamite.When he sees the fat idle woman of society passing by in her luxuriouscarriage, lolling back lazily, her face mottled with the purple and redsigns of superfluous eating,—when he observes the brainless and sensualman of fashion smoking and dawdling away the hours in the Park, as ifall the world and its millions of honest hard workers were createdsolely for the casual diversion of the so-called 'upper' classes,—thenthe good blood in him turns to gall, and his suffering spirit rises infierce rebellion, crying out—"Why in God's name, should this injusticebe? Why should a worthless lounger have his pockets full of gold by merechance and heritage, while I, toiling wearily from morn till midnight,can scarce afford myself a satisfying meal?"
Why indeed! Why should the wicked flourish like a green bay-tree? I haveoften thought about it. Now however I believe I could help to solve theproblem out of my own personal experience. But ... such an experience!Who will credit it? Who will believe that anything so strange andterrific ever chanced to the lot of a mortal man? No one. Yet it istrue;—truer than much so-called truth. Moreover I know that many menare living through many such incidents as have occurred to me, underprecisely the same influence, conscious perhaps at times, that they arein the tangles of sin, but too weak of will to break the net in whichthey have become voluntarily imprisoned. Will they be taught, I wonder,the lesson I have learned? In the same bitter school, under the sameformidable taskmaster? Will they realize as I have been forced todo,—aye, to the very fibres of my intellectual perception,—the vast,individual, active Mind, which behind all matter, works unceasingly,though silently, a very eternal and positive God? If so, then darkproblems will become clear to them, and what seems injustice in theworld will prove pure equity! But I do not write with any hope of eitherpersuading or enlightening my fellow-men. I know their obstinacy toowell;—I can gauge it by my own. My proud belief in myself was, at onetime, not to be outdone by any human unit on the face of the globe. AndI am aware that others are in similar case. I merely intend to relatethe various incidents of my career in due order exactly as theyhappened,—leaving to more confident heads the business of propoundingand answering the riddles of human existence as best they may.
During a certain bitter winter, long remembered for its arctic severity,when a great wave of intense cold spread freezing influences not aloneover the happy isles of Britain, but throughout all Europe, I, GeoffreyTempest, was alone in London and well-nigh starving. Now a starving manseldom gets the sympathy he merits,—so few can be persuaded to believein him. Worthy folks who have just fed to repletion are the mostincredulous, some of them being even moved to smile when told ofexisting hungry people, much as if these were occasional jests inventedfor after-dinner amusement. Or, with that irritating vagueness ofattention which characterizes fashionable folk to such an extent thatwhen asking a question they neither wait for the answer nor understandit when given, the well-dined groups, hearing of some one starved todeath, will idly murmur 'How dreadful!' and at once turn to thediscussion of the latest 'fad' for killing time, ere it takes to killingthem with sheer ennui . The pronounced fact of being hungry soundscoarse and common, and is not a topic for polite society, which alwayseats more than sufficient for its needs. At the period I am speaking ofhowever, I, who have since been one of the most envied of men, knew thecruel meaning of the word hunger, too well,—the gnawing pain, the sickfaintness, the deadly stupor, the insatiable animal craving for merefood, all of which sensations are frightful enough to those who are,unhappily, daily inured to them, but which when they afflict one who hasbeen tenderly reared and brought up to consider himself a'gentleman,'—God save the mark! are perhaps still more painful to bear.And I felt that I had not deserved to suffer the wretchedness in which Ifound myself. I had worked hard. From the time my father died, leavingme to discover that every penny of the fortune I imagined he possessedwas due to swarming creditors, and that nothing of all our house andestate was left to me except a jewelled miniature of my mother who hadlost her own life in giving me birth,—from that time I say, I had putmy shoulder to the wheel and toiled late and early. I had turned myUniversity education to the only use for which it or I seemedfitted,—literature. I had sought for employment on almost every journalin London,—refused by many, taken on trial by some, but getting steadypay from none. Whoever seeks to live by brain and pen alone is, at thebeginning of such a career, treated as a sort of social pariah. Nobodywants him,—everybody despises him. His efforts are derided, hismanuscripts are flung back to him unread, and he is less cared for thanthe condemned murderer in gaol. The murderer is at least fed andclothed,—a worthy clergyman visits him, and his gaoler willoccasionally condescend to play cards with him. But a man gifted withoriginal thoughts and the power of expressing them, appears to beregarded by everyone in authority as much worse than the worst criminal,and all the 'jacks-in-office' unite to kick him to death if they can. Itook both kicks and blows in sullen silence and lived on,—not for thelove of life, but simply because I scorned the cowardice ofself-destruction. I was young enough not to part with hope tooeasily;—the vague idea I had that my turn would come,—that theever-circling wheel of Fortune would perchance lift me up some day as itnow crushed me down, kept me just wearily capable of continuingexistence,—though it was merely a continuance and no more. For aboutsix months I got some reviewing work on a well-known literary journal.Thirty novels a week were sent to me to 'criticise,'—I made a habit ofglancing hastily at about eight or ten of them, and writing one columnof rattling abuse concerning these thus casually selected,—theremainder were never noticed at all. I found that this mode of actionwas considered 'smart,' and I managed for a time to please my editor whopaid me the munificent sum of fifteen shillings for my weekly labour.But on one fatal occasion I happened to change my tactics and warmlypraised a work which my own conscience told me was both original andexcellent. The author of it happened to be an old enemy of theproprietor of the journal on which I was employed;—my eulogistic reviewof the hated individual, unfortunately for me, appeared, with the resultthat private spite outweighed public justice, and I was immediatelydismissed.
After this I dragged on in a sufficiently miserable way, doing 'hackwork' for the dailies, and living on promises that never becamerealities, till, as I have said, in the early January of the bitterwinter alluded to, I found myself literally penniless and face to facewith starvation, owing a month's rent besides for the poor lodging Ioccupied in a back street not far from the British Museum. I had beenout all day trudging from one newspaper office to another, seeking forwork and finding none. Every available post was filled. I had alsotried, unsuccessfully, to dispose of a manuscript of my own,—a work offiction which I knew had some merit, but which all the 'readers' in thepublishing offices appeared to find exceptionally worthless. These'readers' I learned, were most of them novelists themselves, who readother people's productions in their spare moments and passed judgment onthem. I hav