The Sorrows of Satan: or, The Strange Experience of One Geoffrey Tempest, Millionaire: A Romance — John Stuart Mill — John Shaqi
The Sorrows of Satan: or, The Strange Experience of One Geoffrey Tempest, Millionaire: A Romance
John Stuart Mill · en
Every eye was turned on his fine figure and striking countenance, as
with one hand he beckoned the guests,--between the double line of lit
torches he stood,--a picture for a painter, with those dark eyes of his
alit with such strange mirth as could not be defined, and the sweet,
half-cruel, wonderfully attractive smile playing upon his lips;--and
with one accord the whole company trooped pell-mell after him, shouting
their applause and delight. Who could resist him!--not one in that
assemblage at least;--there are few 'saints' in society! As I went with
the rest, I felt as though I were in some gorgeous dream,--my senses
were all in a whirl,--I was giddy with excitement and could not stop to
think, or to analyse the emotions by which I was governed. Had I
possessed the force or the will to pause and consider, I might possibly
have come to the conclusion that there was something altogether beyond
the ordinary power of man displayed in the successive wonders of this
brilliant 'gala,'--but I was, like all the rest of society, bent merely
on the pleasure of the moment, regardless of how it was procured, what
it cost me, or how it affected others. How many I see and know to-day
among the worshippers of fashion and frivolity who are acting precisely
as I acted then! Indifferent to the welfare of everyone save themselves,
grudging every penny that is not spent on their own advantage or
amusement, and too callous to even listen to the sorrows or difficulties
or joys of others when these do not in some way, near or remote, touch
their own interests, they waste their time day after day in selfish
trifling, wilfully blind and unconscious to the fact that they are
building up their own fate in the future,--that future which will prove
all the more a terrible Reality in proportion to the extent of our
presumption in daring to doubt its truth.
More than four hundred guests sat down to supper in the largest
pavilion,--a supper served in the most costly manner and furnished with
luxuries that represented the utmost pitch of extravagance. I ate and
drank, with Sybil at my side, hardly knowing what I said or did in the
whirling excitement of the hour,--the opening of champagne-bottles, the
clink of glasses, the clatter of plates, the loud hum of talk
interspersed with monkey-like squeals or goat-like whinnies of laughter,
over-ridden at intervals by the blare of trumpet-music and drums,--all
these sounds were as so much noise of rushing waters in my ears,--and I
often found myself growing abstracted and in a manner confused by the
din. I did not say much to Sibyl,--one cannot very well whisper
sentimental nothings in the ear of one's betrothed when she is eating
ortolans and truffles. Presently, amid all the hubbub, a deep bell
struck twelve times, and Lucio stood up at the end of one of the long
tables, a full glass of foaming champagne in his hand--
"Ladies and gentlemen!"
There was a sudden silence.