Скорбота сатани

Chapter 7

           Now,howhadthishappened,Iaskedmyself?WhyhadIthusinvitedthepublictoacceptmeatafalsevaluation?Ipausedtoconsider—andIfoundthesuggestionpuzzling.HowcameItowritethebookatall,seeingthatitwasutterlyunlikemeasInowknewmyself?Mypen,consciouslyorunconsciously,hadwrittendownthingswhichmyreasoningfacultiesentirelyrepudiated—suchasbeliefinaGod—trustintheeternalpossibilitiesofman’sdivinerprogress—Icreditedneitherofthesedoctrines.WhenIimaginedsuchtranscendentalandfoolishdreamsIwaspoor—starving—andwithoutafriendintheworld;—rememberingallthis,Ipromptlysetdownmyso-called‘inspiration’totheactionofanill-nourishedbrain.Yettherewassomethingsubtleintheteachingofthestory,andoneafternoonwhenIwasrevisingsomeofthelastproofsheetsIcaughtmyselfthinkingthatthebookwasnoblerthanitswriter.Thisideasmotemewithasuddenpang—Ipushedmypapersaside,andwalkingtothewindow,lookedout.Itwasraininghard,andthestreetswereblackwithmudandslush—thefoot-passengersweredrenchedandmiserable—thewholeprospectwasdreary,andthefactthatIwasarichmandidnotintheleastliftfrommymindthedepressionthathadstolenonmeunawares.

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