Devil Stories Part 12

"After all," continued the visitor, "after all, if a dev--if a gentleman wishes to _live_, he must have more talents than one or two; and with us a fat face is an evidence of diplomacy."

"How so?"

"Why we are sometimes exceedingly pushed for provisions. You must know that, in a climate so sultry as mine, it is frequently impossible to keep a spirit alive for more than two or three hours; and after death, unless pickled immediately (and a pickled spirit is _not_ good), they will--smell--you understand, eh? Putrefaction is always to be apprehended when the souls are consigned to us in the usual way."

"Hiccup!--hiccup!--good G.o.d! how _do_ you manage?"

Here the iron lamp commenced swinging with redoubled violence, and the Devil half started from his seat;--however, with a slight sigh, he recovered his composure, merely saying to our hero in a low tone: "I tell you what, Pierre Bon-Bon, we _must_ have no more swearing."

The host swallowed another b.u.mper, by way of denoting thorough comprehension and acquiescence, and the visitor continued:

"Why, there are _several_ ways of managing. The most of us starve: some put up with the pickle: for my part I purchase my spirits _vivente corpore_, in which case I find they keep very well."

"But the body!--hiccup!--the body!!"

"The body, the body--well, what of the body?--oh! ah! I perceive. Why, sir, the body is not _at all_ affected by the transaction. I have made innumerable purchases of the kind in my day, and the parties never experienced any inconvenience. There were Cain and Nimrod, and Nero, and Caligula, and Dionysius, and Pisistratus, and--and a thousand others, who never knew what it was to have a soul during the latter part of their lives; yet, sir, these men adorned society. Why isn't there A--, now, whom you know as well as I? Is _he_ not in possession of all his faculties, mental and corporeal? Who writes a keener epigram? Who reasons more wittily? Who--but, stay! I have his agreement in my pocket-book."

Thus saying, he produced a red leather wallet, and took from it a number of papers. Upon some of these Bon-Bon caught a glimpse of the letters _Machi_--_Maza_--_Robesp_--with the words _Caligula_, _George_, _Elizabeth_. His Majesty selected a narrow slip of parchment, and from it read aloud the following words:

"In consideration of certain mental endowments which it is unnecessary to specify, and in further consideration of one thousand louis d'or, I, being aged one year and one month, do hereby make over to the bearer of this agreement all my right, t.i.tle, and appurtenance in the shadow called my soul. (Signed) A...."[15] (Here His Majesty repeated a name which I do not feel myself justified in indicating more unequivocally.)

[15] Query.--_Arouet?_

"A clever fellow that," resumed he; "but, like you, Monsieur Bon-Bon, he was mistaken about the soul. The soul a shadow, truly! The soul a shadow! Ha! ha! ha!--he! he! he!--hu! hu! hu! Only think of a _frica.s.seed_ shadow!"

"_Only_ think--hiccup!--of a _frica.s.seed_ shadow!" exclaimed our hero, whose faculties were becoming much illuminated by the profundity of His Majesty's discourse. "Only think of a--hiccup!--_frica.s.seed_ shadow!! Now, damme!--hiccup!--humph! If _I_ would have been such a--hiccup!--nincomp.o.o.p! _My_ soul, Mr.--humph!"

"_Your_ soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon?"

"Yes, sir--hiccup!--_my_ soul is--"

"What, sir?"

"_No_ shadow, damme!"

"Did you mean to say--"

"Yes, sir, _my_ soul is--hiccup!--humph!--yes, sir."

"Did you not intend to a.s.sert--"

"_My_ soul is--hiccup!--peculiarly qualified for--hiccup!--a--"

"What, sir?"

"Stew."

"Ha!"

"_Soufflee._"

"Eh!"

"_Frica.s.see._"

"Indeed!"

"_Ragout_ and _fricandeau_--and see here, my good fellow! I'll let you have it--hiccup!--a bargain." Here the philosopher slapped His Majesty upon the back.

"Couldn't think of such a thing," said the latter calmly, at the same time rising from his seat. The metaphysician stared.

"Am supplied at present," said His Majesty.

"Hic-cup!--e-h?" said the philosopher.

"Have no funds on hand."

"What?"

"Besides, very unhandsome in me--"

"Sir!"

"To take advantage of--"

"Hic-cup!"

"Your present disgusting and ungentlemanly situation."

Here the visitor bowed and withdrew--in what manner could not precisely be ascertained--but in a well-concerted effort to discharge a bottle at "the villain," the slender chain was severed that depended from the ceiling, and the metaphysician prostrated by the downfall of the lamp.

THE PRINTER'S DEVIL

As I was sitting in my armchair and preparing an essay on the Devil in literature, sleep overpowered me; the pen fell from my hands, and my head reclined upon the desk. I had been thinking so much about the Devil in my waking hours, that the same idea pursued me after I had fallen asleep. I heard a gentle rap at the door, and having bawled out as usual, "Come in," a little gentleman entered, wrapped in a large blue cloth cloak, with a slouched hat, and goggles over his eyes.

After bowing and sc.r.a.ping with considerable ceremony, he took off his hat, and threw his cloak over the back of a chair, when I immediately perceived that my visitor was no mortal. His face was hideously ugly; the skin appearing very much like wet paper, and the forehead covered with those cabalistic signs whose wondrous significance is best known to those who correct the press. On the end of his long hooked nose there seemed to me to be growing, like a carbuncle, the first letter of the alphabet, glittering with ink and ready to print. I observed, also, that each of his fingers and toes, or rather claws, was in the same manner terminated by one of the letters of the alphabet; and as he slashed round his tail to brush a fly off his nose, I noticed that the letter Z formed the extremity of that useful member. While I was looking with no small astonishment and some trepidation at my extraordinary visitor, he took occasion to inform me that he had taken liberty to call, as he was afraid I might forget him in the treatise which I was writing--an omission which he a.s.sured me would cause him no little mortification. "In me," says he, "you behold the prince and patron of printers' devils. My province is to preside over the h.e.l.l of books; and if you will only take the trouble to accompany me a little way, I will show you some of the wonders of that world."

As my imagination had lately been much excited by perusing Dante's _Inferno_, I was delighted with an adventure which promised to turn out something like his wonderful journey, and I readily consented to visit my new friend's dominions, and we sallied forth together. As we pursued our way, my conductor endeavoured to give me some information respecting the world I was about to enter, in order to prepare me for the wonders I should encounter there. "You must know," remarked he, "that books have souls as well as men; and the moment any work is published, whether successful or not, its soul appears in precisely the same form in another world; either in this domain, which is subject to me, or in a better region, over which I have no control. I have power only to exhibit the place of punishment for bad books, periodicals, pamphlets, and, in short, publications of every kind."

We now arrived at the mouth of a cavern, which I did not remember to have ever noticed before, though I had repeatedly pa.s.sed the spot in my walks. It looked to me more like the entrance to a coalmine than anything else, as the sides were entirely black. Upon examining them more closely, I found that they were covered with a black fluid which greatly resembled printer's ink, and which seemed to corrode and wear away the rocks of the cavern wherever it touched them. "We have lately received a large supply of political publications," said my companion; "and h.e.l.l is perfectly saturated with their maliciousness. We carry on a profitable trade upon the earth, by retailing this ink to the princ.i.p.al political editors. Unfortunately, it is not found to answer very well for literary publications, though they have tried it with considerable success in printing the London _Quarterly_ and several of the other important reviews."

The cavern widened as we advanced, and we came presently into a vast open plain, which was bounded on one side by a wall so high that it seemed to reach the very heavens. As we approached the wall I observed a vast gateway before us, closed up by folding doors. The gates opened at our approach, and we entered. I found myself in a warm sandy valley, bounded on one side by a steep range of mountains. A feeble light shone upon it, much like that of a sick chamber, and the air seemed confined and stifling like that of the abode of illness. My ears were a.s.sailed by a confused whining noise, as if all the litters of new-born puppies, kittens with their eyes unopened, and babes just come to light, in the whole world, were brought into one spot, and were whelping, mewing, and squalling at once. I turned in mute wonder to my guide for explanation; and he informed me that I now beheld the destined abode of all still-born and abortive publications; and the infantine noises which I heard were only their feeble wailing for the miseries they had endured in being brought into the world. I now saw what the feebleness of the light had prevented my observing before, that the soil was absolutely covered with books of every size and shape, from the little diamond almanac up to the respectable quarto. I saw folios there. These books were crawling about and tumbling over each other like blind whelps, uttering, at the same time, the most mournful cries. I observed one, however, which remained quite still, occasionally groaning a little, and appeared like an overgrown toad oppressed with its own heaviness. I drew near, and read upon the back, "_Resignation_, a Novel." The cover flew open, and the t.i.tle-page immediately began to address me. I walked off, however, as fast as possible, only distinguishing a few words about "the injustice and severity of critics;" "bad taste of the public;" "very well considering;" "first effort;" "feminine mind," &c. &c. I presently discovered a very important-looking little book, stalking about among the rest in a great pa.s.sion, kicking the others out of the way, and swearing like a trooper; till at length, apparently exhausted with its efforts, it sunk down to rise no more. "Ah ha!" exclaimed my little diabolical friend, "here is a new comer; let's see who he is;" and coming up, he turned it over with his foot so that we could see the back of it, upon which was printed "_The Monikins_, by the Author of, &c. &c." I noticed that the book had several marks across it, as if some one had been flogging the unfortunate work. "It is only the marks of the scourge," said my companion, "which the critics have used rather more severely, I think, than was necessary." I expected, after all the pa.s.sion I had seen, and the great importance of feeling, arrogance, and vanity the little work had manifested, that it would have some pert remarks to make to us; but it was so much exhausted that it could not say a word. At the bottom of the valley was a small pond of a milky hue, from which there issued a perfume very much like the smell of bread and b.u.t.ter. An immense number of thin, prettily bound ma.n.u.script books were soaking in this pond of milk, all of which, I was informed, were _Young Ladies' Alb.u.ms_, which it was necessary to souse in the slough, to prevent them from stealing pa.s.sages from the various works about them. As soon as I heard what they were, I ran away with all my speed, having a mortal dread of these books.

We had now traversed the valley, and, approaching the barrier of mountains, we found a pa.s.sage cut through, which greatly resembled the Pausilipo, near Naples; it was closed on the side towards the valley, only with a curtain of white paper, upon which were printed the names of the princ.i.p.al reviews, which my conductor a.s.sured me were enough to prevent any of the unhappy works we had seen from coming near the pa.s.sage.

As we advanced through the mountains, occasional gleams of light appeared before us, and immediately vanished, leaving us in darkness.

My guide, however, seemed to be well acquainted with the way, and we went on fearlessly till we emerged into an open field, lighted up by constant flashes of lightning, which glared from every side; the air was hot, and strongly impregnated with sulphur. "Each department of my dominions," said the Devil, "receives its light from the works which are sent there. You are now surrounded by the glittering but evanescent coruscations of the more recent novels. This department of h.e.l.l was never very well supplied till quite lately, though Fielding, Smollett, Maturin, and G.o.dwin, did what they could for us. Our greatest benefactors have been Disraeli, Bulwer, and Victor Hugo; and this glare of light, so painful to our eyes, proceeds chiefly from their books." There was a tremendous noise like the rioting of an army of drunken men, with horrible cries and imprecations, and fiend-like laughing, which made my blood curdle; and such a scrambling and fighting among the books, as I never saw before. I could not imagine at first what could be the cause of this, till I discovered at last a golden hill rising up like a cone in the midst of the plane, with just room enough for one book on the summit; and I found that the novels were fighting like so many devils for the occupation of this place.