When I awakened, I was alone. I did not awaken in Branlon.
When I awakened, I was surrounded by black rocks heavily veined with silver. Here and there, among these rocks, sat vultures, regarding me with hard eyes. Before me, upon a ledge in these rocks, a black onyx clock ticked sardonically. There was no sound anywhere except this inexorable and hungry ticking. Behind me I found to be perched upright a seated skeleton. My head rested between its gaunt legs. There was not any sound except the clock’s ticking. The ticking of this clock and the cold gaze of the waiting vultures seemed to deride the picked bones of a world and of a woman that had once been my delight.
Among these depressing circumstances I had become Smire. Yet do you not misunderstand me! My circumstances would have depressed most divine beings. The God of Branlon they did not trouble with any excessive despairings. Truly, Branlon had vanished. And I lamented my loss of Branlon. Yet I did not doubt my ability to create another realm no whit less lovely. Tana had vanished likewise. I dared not question that through some final triumph of my perhaps exceptional abilities Tana would be restored to me, if the God of Branlon so desired. To question the power of a god is hubris; and hubris is an offence which I have always avoided with extreme caution.
In brief, I did desire Tana. So I could not doubt I would be successful in recovering her by-and-by. In her deformed hands lay my happiness; nay heart had been made her kingdom forever. Life had not any meaning unless it was decreed that at long last my dream princess should be restored to me.
Pending this happy outcome, this outcome which I might not presume to dispute, the fact seemed more immediately urgent that the uncrowned and low-fallen God of Branlon had somehow become Smire. That appeared strange; yet in view of the visiting cards which I found in my pocket, I could not well question the metamorphosis. Every one of these cards was engraved “Smire.” To the lower right-hand corner of each card was engraved “Poietes.” Nor was that all. Both the inner lining of my collar and the neckband the wanderer’s narrative of my shirt, as well as one corner of my handkerchief, I found to have been touched by the iron hand of destiny,—which had even gone so far as to employ indelible ink when it wrote “Smire” in all these places. There was no disputing such miracles without falling into hubris, that overweening self-confidence which begets ruin. So I bowed civilly before destiny’s indelible ink. I granted, with due politeness, that in point of fact I had now entered a third incarnation, in which I was Smire and a poet by profession.
Moreover, I reflected, it is customary for sublime personages, such as monarchs and motion picture stars, to travel incognito. This rule might well apply to deposed gods. In this way did I consent, in my deep mind, to become Smire the vagabond poet; and with a stout heart I set forth to look for my lost kingdom in Branlon.
As yet, under the will of Moera, who makes the mythologies, the God of Branlon has not as yet recovered Branlon. Truly, during my travels about the other lands beyond common-sense I have encountered many matters of considerable interest. I have fared as a wanderer among all myths, without any cowardly condonation of the base laws of probability. Yet touching my heroic exploits as Smire the Eternal Wanderer, I shall not speak at this season, lest a recital already somewhat prolonged should become tedious.
Let it suffice, O most noble Queen,—and let it content you also, O loud-snoring King,—that to-day I am neither Smirt nor Smith. I am merely Smire. I remain none the less that which I have always been at heart, in that I am still a poet,—a poietes, a “maker,” a creative artist. I, who made Branlon for the contentment of dreamers, must nowadays make ballads for the native inhabitants of dreamland. The difference is not large. In the words of a writer toward whom chronology alone forbids me to direct your admiration. I remain to-day, as I always have remained, one of that small band, standing out as isolated figures far separated down the ages, who have the gift of speech; and who are not workers in this or that, not ploughmen nor carpenters nor followers for gain of any craft; but who serve the Muses and the leader of their choir, the God of the Silver Bow.
V. FIDELITY OF THE BEREAVED
Thus was it, they say in Branlon, that during this fine afternoon Smire recounted the hard destiny allotted to him by Moera, and gave a resume of his inter-mythic travels. He ceased at length, toward eight o’clock in the evening; and having finished his relation, rested. Night had now fallen, a good while ago, with tropic suddenness; but from the gold-fretted ceiling of the banquet hall hung nineteen flaming lamps of pink alabaster; and upon the side walls torches also overpowered the darkness of night.
Well, and during this recital Queen Elissa remarked, to herself, in a style suitably epic:
“Ah! by what fatal disasters has the dear hero been tossed! what toils he has endured! This is a most wondrous guest who has come to my domains. In bearing how graceful he appears! in manly fortitude and in retiring modesty how imposing! What surroundings were so happy as to produce him, what parents blessed with such offspring? I am fully persuaded (nor is my belief groundless) that the looks and words of this simply divine creature will dwell forever fixed in my soul.”
Thus spoke Sidonian Elissa; and in all parts of her generous nature were kindled unseen flames.
So, when Smire had ended his speaking, the Queen of Carthage signed to her slaves. They removed the unconscious Iarbus, who was doubly drugged by the Queen’s opium and the oratory of Smire.
The Queen arose. She sat down upon the gold-and-ivory couch beside Smire, in the quiet room which was now emptied of all persons except these two.
“Your story affects me,” she said. “The greatness of your misfortunes, O divine Smirt—”
“Ah, but I am not Smirt any longer, madame.”
“Yes, that is true. As I was saying, then, the greatness of your misfortunes, O divine Smith—”
“Come now, dear lady, but let us honor the ink of destiny, which has decreed I shall not be Smith, either!”
“The principle is the same,” she returned, reverently. “And as I so often think, that is the main thing, after all. For as I was about to say, the greatness of your misfortunes, O divine Smire, is less wonderful than are the sweet sound of your voice and the majestic beauty of your person.”
“That is a principle which far too many women have carried to extreme lengths, my dear lady,” he replied, with heroic modesty. “Nevertheless, your remarks, if not unfamiliar, are kind; and kindness, but above all the kindness of a crowned queen to a landless stranger, and to a lost wanderer in a world of broken dreams, is a fine virtue.”
“Yet I am wholly unwilling,” the Queen said, with firmness, “ever to marry again. I cannot bear even to consider the notion.”
“Fidelity also is a virtue,” he returned, approvingly; “and continence likewise, now that I think of it, is a quality which I have known many other noble ladies to cherish very nobly in conversation.”
“Still—” said the Queen.
“Yes,” said Smire; and Smire shrugged.
“Still,” said the Queen, conscientiously, “it may be my duty to Carthage to provide Carthage with a king who will conduct the affairs of Carthage more gloriously than it is possible for a woman to handle such matters. I believe that was why I promised to marry Iarbus—though whatever I could have been thinking about at the time, I simply do not see!”
“But I see, madame. I see that your patriotism is ardent; and that your willingness for self-sacrifice is a large deal more ardent. Both are great virtues.”
“—Not that Iarbus makes any special difference,” the Queen continued. “He is too black, in the first place, and in the second place, it is obvious that no more desirable king could be found to rule over Carthage than a god. So it seems my plain duty to give up Iarbus.”
“That, in so far as it goes, Elissa, is perhaps logic. I cannot say. It is not permitted me to decide these large questions of statecraft, because I am only a cashiered god, a deity in retirement, a divinity turned poet.”
The Queen answere
d, “Yes, but to begin with, and for a brand-new city like Carthage, that seems enough.”
Smire laughed. He said then, with his not-ever-failing affability:
“Before logic all poets are dumb. Am I to consider this a proposal of marriage?”
“If you require of me that formality, divine Smire, I can deny you nothing, for I know the importance which most men attach to such ceremonies.”
“Well,” Smire agreed, chivalrously, with a slight yawn, which he concealed, “well, I will think over your quite flattering suggestion.”
“Yet you would do well to think about it at once, dear Smire: for about us dark night has arisen; and that the night brings good counsel is a good Punic proverb.”
“I agree, then,” says Smire, “to sleep upon this matter; and in fact, I am already drowsing.”
“That is well,” the Queen considered: “for sleep, within reasonable limits, is alike the nourisher and the reviver of fond love, says yet another Punic proverb.”
“Meanwhile, O Queen, pending at all events our betrothal, let us”—and Smire, coughing, now shifted his position on the couch they were sharing, and he took the Queen’s hand in his hand, protectively—“let us honor the virtue of patience.”
“Let us obey rather the sublime virtue of truth, O divine one. For does this not assure me?”
“Oh, but come now!” said Smire.
“Does not,” the Queen asked, fondly, “this sublime, huge, manly virtue assure me that your will has decided upon a shared future for us two, dear Smire?”
“Undoubtedly, the will wantons, most noble lady,” he replied, fidgeting somewhat under the personal application of the Queen’s logic. “But the wits remain incorruptible, here in my skull, beyond the reach of any caresses. No person who has been married as often as I have been married can regard marriage frivolously or without some little distrust. So I must prefer to sleep upon this question of our legalized union; and to decide it in the cool light of morning.”
“Yet to decide rightly, O divine Smire, you will need wisdom.”
“Alas, Elissa, but in all matrimonial matters I, who have had wives beyond the modest reaches of arithmetic, am wise, and somewhat over wise, if wisdom be the child of experience.”
“Even so, Smire, it is a Punic proverb that upon the wise man’s pillow two heads are better than one.”
“To me, madame, that is a new proverb. Nor am I certain as to its truth.”
“You will be certain,” the Queen assured him—as she arose, and put out the nineteen lamps, and snuffed all the torches with an iron extinguisher, and (subsequently to folding up her saffron-colored robe, upon the serving table, with commendable neatness) resumed her place at the side of sublime Smire,—“yes, O beloved, you shall be entirely convinced as to the sweet reasonableness of this proverb, in good time for breakfast.”
“Oh, very well!” said Smire, amiably.
So was it that the illustrious wanderer consented during this night season to accept the devotion of Elissa, who, after all, was a handsome young woman and the mistress of a fine mythical kingdom. Moreover, you could not but admire her, as being a properly brought-up person who pursued her every desire with the abettance of sound moral principles.
“For it is quite time, my dear Smire,” she was pointing out, by-and-by, “that you should settle down to the realities of life as these realities, whether for better or worse, have to be confronted by everybody. I so often think that. Now, as I was saying, Branlon was more beautiful than Carthage, it may be; but Carthage is a well-to-do fabulous city well known in great myths. And when once we are married, beloved, everything that is in Carthage—except only its women—shall be yours. I really must protect its women, after what I have just been through with, you incredible monster. And moreover—but what was I saying? Oh, yes, I was saying that Carthage is better than a forest, what with the palaces and the fine shipping trade, especially a mislaid forest. Though of course I have always loved nature”—she added, conscientiously,—“and I only wish we could all be more natural. I have very often wished that.”
“What is Carthage or any other kingdom to me,” he replied, dolorously,—“whose appointed kingdom is Branlon, and whose heart is given to Tana utterly?”
“No man, my friend, is all heart. His heart languishes, it may be, just as my own heart languishes at all times for my lost husband Sychaeus. But the other organs of both men and women retain their vigor, as we may both perceive even now in complete darkness. For love—as I have often thought, and a great comfort too it has been to me, dear Smire, in my widowhood—for love is immortal.”
“Indeed, Elissa, but—at any rate, locally—your arguments are convincing. Yes, I can well imagine, in this deep darkness, that you are Tana, a bit stoutened up; and that it is love of Tana which now animates me.” After that, followed silence. Then the Queen said: “Oh, but, my dear, dear friend, your love of Tana will be the death of me! Nevertheless, it would not be right of me to discourage the undying love which you show for Tana. Indeed, I can well sympathize, because as an unprotected young widow, but, then, I have told you about that, and at all events, no sensible man wants a bean-pole. Yes, I can well sympathize, who have lost my Sychaeus, because to Sychaeus my heart shall always remain faithful.”
“Just so, Elissa,—and it is not at all as if I had meant you were actually fat,—just so will my heart always belong to Tana undividedly. Yet, as you say, the body of man is complex. It is subject to aspirings, to perturbations and to spasms which are not merely cardiac.”
“That is equally true about women, dear friend, as you have now quadruply discovered.”
“Four,” replied Smire, “is an unlucky number.” And he continued, after a prolonged pause:
“Ouf! So in our bereavement, Elissa, we can but console each other as we best may.”
“Ah, ah!” said the Queen; “aié! Indeed, dear Smire, to do that is our plain duty to the departed. We cannot doubt that our lost loved ones desire our happiness as whole-heartedly as we wish for theirs. We should not question that it would be to both of them a great comfort to know we are not wholly forlorn during their absence.”
“That is logic, very certainly, Elissa, even though, from what I remember about Tana, she would add to that same great comfort by boxing my jaws and by scratching your eyes out. Nevertheless, in strict logic, it ought to please our dear dead tremendously to know that—if but in a symbolic fashion—we are commemorating their burial and prefiguring their resurrection. Yes, it is well that we should pay these repeated tributes to their memory; for than loyalty there is no virtue more praiseworthy.”
Thereafter yet another silence ensued.
“But you, Smire,” said the Queen, with the soft sighing of a woman fully flooded with blissfulness, “you are not merely praiseworthy. Your unflagging love for Tana is simply incredible, even in a divine being who happens to be three different persons, all at the same time.”
“Nor can I quite believe, Elissa, that you are now rewarding in fond reverie the devotion of a sedate clergyman, such as I had understand your Sychaeus to be during the days and the nights also of his living.”
“Sychaeus,” said the Queen, proudly, “was the High Priest of Baal-Melkart, of that great Male Principle which begets all life. He won this supreme honor, I must tell you, in a competitive examination open to the clergy of entire Northern Africa. He served very worthily his chosen god. Sychaeus was in all respects a devoted and incessant husband. But you, O divine Smire,”—she added, with delighted, hushed laughter—“you have shown me with an unanswerable logic, which depends sanely upon a sane facing of the Trinity of Material Dimensions, that the servant of no god is divine.”
“Hah, and what does that mean, Elissa?”
“In the morning, dear Smire, after we have been married, it will perhaps be proper for me to handle with a wife’s frankness this sublime point of theology. But not just at present, my friend. So long as I remain the inconsolable widow of Sychaeus, I must ke
ep to my fixed rule not ever to disparage him in his own bed, no matter with whom I may happen to be sharing it.”
“And as a heart-broken widower,” said Smire, “I applaud your reticence. It shows a wholly proper feeling. It attests a firm faithfulness to your husband such as I have not found to be pandemic among womankind. All these are great virtues which ought to be rewarded. And they shall be rewarded.”
“Already!” she said, in astonishment; “and yet again! Truly, O divine Smire, I can but repeat that you are incredible.”
PART TWO. WHICH INVOKES CURSES
“To King Iarbus of Getulia
“Fame straightway turns her course, inflaming his soul and aggravating his rage, says Virgil; and the ensuing intervention of Mercury is a plain copy of the part played by Phoebus Apollo in the Smire epos. The Getulians, however, should not be confounded faith the Hyperboreans, for whom see Volcher’s Mythische Geographic, I, chap. vi. It should be remarked also that an epithet of Apollo was ‘Smynthian’ thus making natural his conjunction with Smith.”
VI. IARBUS IS EDITED
Well, and they say in Branlon that now it was with Iarbus, the dark King of Getulia, that Smire was talking, in a circular room wainscoted with red enamel relieved with black strips of ebony. The ceiling was of gilded oak-beams inset liberally with large garnets and amethysts and jacinths.
Here, clothed in a lynx skin, over which fell a soiled, rumpled tunic of fine purple cloth, slit at both sides, Iarbus sat at a carved table, made out of mahogany wood, drinking moodily the pearl-colored wine of Bactria, which he now and then flavored with cardamon seeds and the dried fat of dormice. All this part of Carthage, in brief, betrayed the exact but picturesque literary influence of Flaubert. And Smire tells Iarbus:
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