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.