Скорбь сатаны

Chapter 35

           Ilived—howstrangeitseemsthatIshouldbewritingnowofmyself,aspastanddonewith!—yes,Ilivedinadreamy,moreorlessidyllicstateofmind,thinkingwithoutbeingconsciousofthought,fulloffanciesconcerningtheflowers,treesandbirds—wishingforthingsofwhichIknewnothing—imaginingmyselfaqueenattimes,andagain,apeasant.Iwasanomnivorousreader—andIwasspeciallyfondofpoetry.IusedtoporeoverthemysticverseofShelley,andjudgedhimthenasasortofdemi-god;—andnever,evenwhenIknewallabouthislife,couldIrealizehimasamanwithathin,shriekingfalsettovoiceand‘loose’notionsconcerningwomen.ButIamquitesureitwasgoodforhisfamethathewasdrownedinearlyyouthwithsomanymelancholyanddramaticsurroundings—itsavedhim,Iconsider,fromapossiblyviciousandrepulsiveoldage.IadoredKeatstillIknewhehadwastedhispassiononaFannyBrawn—andthentheglamourofhimvanished.Icanoffernoreasonforthis—Imerelysetdownthefact.ImadeaheroofLordByron—infacthehasalwaysformedformetheonlyheroicaltypeofpoet.Stronginhimselfandpitilessinhisloveforwomen,hetreatedthemforthemostpartastheymerited,consideringthesingularandunworthyspecimensofthesexitwashismisfortunetoencounter.Iusedtowonder,whenreadingthesemen’samorouslines,whetherlovewouldevercomemyway,andwhatbeatificstateofemotionIshouldthenenjoy.

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