Jurgen. A Comedy of Justice

by James Branch Cabell

  Then privately Koshchei asked, "Are these children and grandchildren of Steinvor such as she reports?"

  "No, sir," they told him privately.

  So as Steinvor talked Koshchei devised illusions in accordance with that which Steinvor said, and created such children and grandchildren as she described. Male and female he created them standing behind Steinvor, and all were beautiful and stainless: and Koshchei gave life to these illusions.

  Then Koshchei bade her turn about. She obeyed: and Koshchei was forgotten.

  Well, Koshchei sat there alone in the void, looking not very happy, and looking puzzled, and drumming upon his knee, and staring at the little bent gray woman, who was busied with her children and grandchildren, and had forgotten all about him. "But surely, Lindamira," he hears Steinvor say, "we are not yet in Heaven."—"Ah, my dear mother," replies her illusion of Lindamira, "to be with you again is Heaven: and besides, it may be that Heaven is like this, after all."—"My darling child, it is sweet of you to say that, and exactly like you to say that. But you know very well that Heaven is fully described in the Book of Revelations, in the Bible, as the glorious place that Heaven is. Whereas, as you can see for yourself, around us is nothing at all, and no person at all except that very civil gentleman to whom I was just talking; and who, between ourselves, seems woefully uninformed about the most ordinary matters."

  "Bring Earth to me," says Koshchei. This was done, and Koshchei looked over the planet, and found a Bible. Koshchei opened the Bible, and read the Revelation of St. John the Divine, while Steinvor talked with her illusions. "I see," said Koshchei. "The idea is a little garish. Still—!" So he replaced the Bible, and bade them put Earth, too, in its proper place, for Koshchei dislikes wasting anything. Then Koshchei smiled and created Heaven about Steinvor and her illusions, and he made Heaven just such a place as was described in the book.

  "And so, Jurgen, that was how it came about," ended the God of Jurgen's grandmother. "And Me also Koshchei created at that time, with the seraphim and the saints and all the blessed, very much as you see us: and, of course, he caused us to have been here always, since the beginning of time, because that, too, was in the book."

  "But how could that be done?" says Jurgen, with brows puckering. "And in what way could Koshchei juggle so with time?"

  "How should I know, since I am but the illusion of an old woman, as you have so frequently proved by logic? Let it suffice that whatever Koshchei wills, not only happens, but has already happened beyond the ancientest memory of man and his mother. How otherwise could he be Koshchei?"

  "And all this," said Jurgen, virtuously, "for a woman who was not even faithful to her husband!"

  "Oh, very probably!" said the God: "at all events, it was done for a woman who loved. Koshchei will do almost anything to humor love, since love is one of the two things which are impossible to Koshchei."

  "I have heard that pride is impossible to Koshchei—"

  The God of Jurgen's grandmother raised His white eyebrows. "What is pride? I do not think I ever heard of it before. Assuredly it is something that does not enter here."

  "But why is love impossible to Koshchei?"

  "Because Koshchei made things as they are, and day and night he contemplates things as they are. How, then, can Koshchei love anything?"

  But Jurgen shook his sleek black head. "That I cannot understand at all. If I were imprisoned in a cell wherein was nothing except my verses I would not be happy, and certainly I would not be proud: but even so, I would love my verses. I am afraid that I fall in more readily with the ideas of Grandfather Satan than with Yours; and without contradicting You, I cannot but wonder if what You reveal is true."

  "And how should I know whether or not I speak the truth?" the God asked of him, "since I am but the illusion of an old woman, as you have so frequently proved by logic."

  "Well, well!" said Jurgen, "You may be right in all matters, and certainly I cannot presume to say You are wrong: but still, at the same time—! No, even now I do not quite believe in You."

  "Who could expect it of a clever fellow, who sees so clearly through the illusions of old women?" the God asked, a little wearily.

  And Jurgen answered:

  "God of my grandmother, I cannot quite believe in You, and Your doings as they are recorded I find incoherent and a little droll. But I am glad the affair has been so arranged that You may always now be real to brave and gentle persons who have believed in and have worshipped and have loved You. To have disappointed them would have been unfair: and it is right that before the faith they had in You not even Koshchei who made things as they are was able to be reasonable.

  "God of my grandmother, I cannot quite believe in You; but remembering the sum of love and faith that has been given You, I tremble. I think of the dear people whose living was confident and glad because of their faith in You: I think of them, and in my heart contends a blind contrition, and a yearning, and an enviousness, and yet a tender sort of amusement colors all. Oh, God, there was never any other deity who had such dear worshippers as You have had, and You should be very proud of them.

  "God of my grandmother, I cannot quite believe in You, yet I am not as those who would come peering at You reasonably. I, Jurgen, see You only through a mist of tears. For You were loved by those whom I loved greatly very long ago: and when I look at You it is Your worshippers and the dear believers of old that I remember. And it seems to me that dates and manuscripts and the opinions of learned persons are very trifling things beside what I remember, and what I envy!"

  "Who could have expected such a monstrous clever fellow ever to envy the illusions of old women?" the God of Jurgen's grandmother asked again: and yet His countenance was not unfriendly.

  "Why, but," said Jurgen, on a sudden, "why, but my grandmother—in a way—was right about Heaven and about You also. For certainly You seem to exist, and to reign in just such estate as she described. And yet, according to Your latest revelation, I too was right—in a way—about these things being an old woman's delusions. I wonder now—?"

  "Yes, Jurgen?"

  "Why, I wonder if everything is right, in a way? I wonder if that is the large secret of everything? It would not be a bad solution, sir," said Jurgen, meditatively.

  The God smiled. Then suddenly that part of Heaven was vacant, except for Jurgen, who stood there quite alone. And before him was the throne of the vanished God and the sceptre of the God, and Jurgen saw that the seven spots upon the great book were of red sealing-wax.

  Jurgen was afraid: but he was particularly appalled by his consciousness that he was not going to falter. "What, you who have been duke and prince and king and emperor and pope! and do such dignities content a Jurgen? Why, not at all," says Jurgen.

  So Jurgen ascended the throne of Heaven, and sat beneath that wondrous rainbow: and in his lap now was the book, and in his hand was the sceptre, of the God of Jurgen's grandmother.

  Jurgen sat thus, for a long while regarding the bright vacant courts of Heaven. "And what will you do now?" says Jurgen, aloud. "Oh, fretful little Jurgen, you that have complained because you had not your desire, you are omnipotent over Earth and all the affairs of men. What now is your desire?" And sitting thus terribly enthroned, the heart of Jurgen was as lead within him, and he felt old and very tired. "For I do not know. Oh, nothing can help me, for I do not know what thing it is that I desire! And this book and this sceptre and this throne avail me nothing at all, and nothing can ever avail me: for I am Jurgen who seeks he knows not what."

  So Jurgen shrugged, and climbed down from the throne of the God, and wandering at adventure, came presently to four archangels. They were seated upon a fleecy cloud, and they were eating milk and honey from gold porringers: and of these radiant beings Jurgen inquired the quickest way out of Heaven.

  "For hereabouts are none of my illusions," said Jurgen, "and I must now return to such illusions as are congenial. One must believe in something. And all that I have seen in Heaven I have admired and envied,
but in none of these things could I believe, and with none of these things could I be satisfied. And while I think of it, I wonder now if any of you gentlemen can give me news of that Lisa who used to be my wife?"

  He described her; and they regarded him with compassion.

  But these archangels, he found, had never heard of Lisa, and they assured him there was no such person in Heaven. For Steinvor had died when Jurgen was a boy, and so she had never seen Lisa; and in consequence, had not thought about Lisa one way or the other, when Steinvor outlined her notions to Koshchei who made things as they are.

  Now Jurgen discovered, too, that, when his eyes first met the eyes of the God of Jurgen's grandmother, Jurgen had stayed motionless for thirty-seven days, forgetful of everything save that the God of his grandmother was love.

  "Nobody else has willingly turned away so soon," Zachariel told him: "and we think that your insensibility is due to some evil virtue in the glittering garment which you are wearing, and of which the like was never seen in Heaven."

  "I did but search for justice," Jurgen said: "and I could not find it in the eyes of your God, but only love and such forgiveness as troubled me."

  "Because of that should you rejoice," the four archangels said; "and so should all that lives rejoice: and more particularly should we rejoice that dwell in Heaven, and hourly praise our Lord God's negligence of justice, whereby we are permitted to enter into this place."

  42. Twelve That are Fretted Hourly

  So it was upon Walburga's Eve, when almost anything is rather more than likely to happen, that Jurgen went hastily out of Heaven, without having gained or wasted any love there. St. Peter unbarred for him, not the main entrance, but a small private door, carved with innumerable fishes in bas-relief, because this exit opened directly upon any place you chose to imagine.

  "For thus," St. Peter said, "you may return without loss of time to your own illusions."

  "There was a cross," said Jurgen, "which I used to wear about my neck, through motives of sentiment, because it once belonged to my dead mother. For no woman has ever loved me save that Azra who was my mother—"

  "I wonder if your mother told you that?" St. Peter asked him, smiling reminiscently. "Mine did, time and again. And sometimes I have wondered—? For, as you may remember, I was a married man, Jurgen: and my wife did not quite understand me," said St. Peter, with a sigh.

  "Why, indeed," says Jurgen, "my case is not entirely dissimilar: and the more I marry, the less I find of comprehension. I should have had more sympathy with King Smoit, who was certainly my grandfather. Well, you conceive, St. Peter, these other women have trusted me, more or less, because they loved a phantom Jurgen. But Azra trusted me not at all, because she loved me with clear eyes. She comprehended Jurgen, and yet loved him: though I for one, with all my cleverness, cannot do either of these things. None the less, in order to do the manly thing, in order to pleasure a woman,—and a married woman, too!—I flung away the little gold cross which was all that remained to me of my mother: and since then, St. Peter, the illusions of sentiment have given me a woefully wide berth. So I shall relinquish Heaven to seek a cross."

  "That has been done before, Jurgen, and I doubt if much good came of it."

  "Heyday, and did it not lead to the eternal glory of the first and greatest of the popes? It seems to me, sir, that you have either very little memory or very little gratitude, and I am tempted to crow in your face."

  "Why, now you talk like a cherub, Jurgen, and you ought to have better manners. Do you suppose that we Apostles enjoy hearing jokes made about the Church?"

  "Well, it is true, St. Peter, that you founded the Church—"

  "Now, there you go again! That is what those patronizing seraphim and those impish cherubs are always telling us. You see, we Twelve sit together in Heaven, each on his white throne: and we behold everything that happens on Earth. Now from our station there has been no ignoring the growth and doings of what you might loosely call Christianity. And sometimes that which we see makes us very uncomfortable, Jurgen. Especially as just then some cherub is sure to flutter by, in a broad grin, and chuckle, 'But you started it.' And we did; I cannot deny that in a way we did. Yet really we never anticipated anything of this sort, and it is not fair to tease us about it."

  "Indeed, St. Peter, now I think of it, you ought to be held responsible for very little that has been said or done in the shadow of a steeple. For as I remember it, you Twelve attempted to convert a world to the teachings of Jesus: and good intentions ought to be respected, however drolly they may turn out."

  It was apparent this sympathy was grateful to the old Saint, for he was moved to a more confidential tone. Meditatively he stroked his long white beard, then said with indignation: "If only they would not claim sib with us we could stand it: but as it is, for centuries we have felt like fools. It is particularly embarrassing for me, of course, being on the wicket; for to cap it all, Jurgen, the little wretches die, and come to Heaven impudent as sparrows, and expect me to let them in! From their thumbscrewings, and their auto-da-fés, and from their massacres, and patriotic sermons, and holy wars, and from every manner of abomination, they come to me, smirking. And millions upon millions of them, Jurgen! There is no form of cruelty or folly that has not come to me for praise, and no sort of criminal idiot who has not claimed fellowship with me, who was an Apostle and a gentleman. Why, Jurgen, you may not believe it, but there was an eminent bishop came to me only last week in the expectation that I was going to admit him,—and I with the full record of his work for temperance, all fairly written out and in my hand!"

  Now Jurgen was surprised. "But temperance is surely a virtue, St. Peter."

  "Ah, but his notion of temperance! and his filthy ravings to my face, as though he were talking in some church or other! Why, the slavering little blasphemer! to my face he spoke against the first of my Master's miracles, and against the last injunction which was laid upon us Twelve, spluttering that the wine was unfermented! To me he said this, look you, Jurgen! to me, who drank of that noble wine at Cana and equally of that sustaining wine we had in the little upper room in Jerusalem when the hour of trial was near and our Master would have us at our best! With me, who have since tasted of that unimaginable wine which the Master promised us in His kingdom, the busy wretch would be arguing! and would have convinced me, in the face of all my memories, that my Master, Who was a Man among men, was nourished by such thin swill as bred this niggling brawling wretch to plague me!"

  "Well, but indeed, St. Peter, there is no denying that wine is often misused."

  "So he informed me, Jurgen. And I told him by that argument he would prohibit the making of bishops, for reasons he would find in the mirror: and that, remembering what happened at the Crucifixion, he would clap every lumber dealer into jail. So they took him away still slavering," said St. Peter, wearily. "He was threatening to have somebody else elected in my place when I last heard him: but that was only old habit."

  "I do not think, however, that I encountered any such bishop, sir, down yonder."

  "In the Hell of your fathers? Oh, no: your fathers meant well, but their notions were limited. No, we have quite another eternal home for these blasphemers, in a region that was fitted out long ago, when the need grew pressing to provide a place for zealous Churchmen."

  "And who devised this place, St. Peter?"

  "As a very special favor, we Twelve to whom is imputed the beginning and the patronizing of such abominations were permitted to design and furnish this place. And, of course, we put it in charge of our former confrère, Judas. He seemed the appropriate person. Equally of course, we put a very special roof upon it, the best imitation which we could contrive of the War Roof, so that none of those grinning cherubs could see what long reward it was we Twelve who founded Christianity had contrived for these blasphemers."

  "Well, doubtless that was wise."

  "Ah, and if we Twelve had our way there would be just such another roof kept always over Earth. For the sl
avering madman has left a many like him clamoring and spewing about the churches that were named for us Twelve, and in the pulpits of the churches that were named for us: and we find it embarrassing. It is the doctrine of Mahound they splutter, and not any doctrine that we ever preached or even heard of: and they ought to say so fairly, instead of libeling us who were Apostles and gentlemen. But thus it is that the rascals make free with our names: and the cherubs keep track of these antics, and poke fun at us. So that it is not all pleasure, this being a Holy Apostle in Heaven, Jurgen, though once we Twelve were happy enough." And St. Peter sighed.

  "One thing I did not understand, sir: and that was when you spoke just now of the War Roof."

  "It is a stone roof, made of the two tablets handed down at Sinai, which God fits over Earth whenever men go to war. For He is merciful: and many of us here remember that once upon a time we were men and women. So when men go to war God screens the sight of what they do, because He wishes to be merciful to us."

  "That must prevent, however, the ascent of all prayers that are made in war-time."

  "Why, but, of course, that is the roof's secondary purpose," replied St. Peter. "What else would you expect when the Master's teachings are being flouted? Rumors get through, though, somehow, and horribly preposterous rumors. For instance, I have actually heard that in war-time prayers are put up to the Lord God to back His favorites and take part in the murdering. Not," said the good Saint, in haste, "that I would believe even a Christian bishop to be capable of such blasphemy: I merely want to show you, Jurgen, what wild stories get about. Still, I remember, back in Cappadocia—" And then St. Peter slapped his thigh. "But would you keep me gossiping here forever, Jurgen, with the Souls lining up at the main entrance like ants that swarm to molasses! Come, out of Heaven with you, Jurgen! and back to whatever place you imagine will restore to you your own proper illusions! and let me be returning to my duties."