Jurgen - James Branch Cabell (reading a book TXT) 📗

Then Jurgen followed his instructions, and went into Meridie, and turned to the left when he had come to the great puddle where the adders and toads are reared, and so passed through the mists of Tartarus, with due care of the wild lightning, and took the second turn to his left⁠—“always in seeking Heaven be guided by your heart,” had been the advice given him by devils⁠—and thus avoiding the abode of Jemra, he crossed the bridge over the Bottomless Pit and the solitary Narakas. And Brachus, who kept the tollgate on this bridge, did that of which the fiends had forewarned Jurgen: but for this, of course, there was no help.

The tale tells how on the feast of the Annunciation Jurgen came to the high white walls which girdle Heaven. For Jurgen’s forefathers had, of course, imagined that Hell stood directly contiguous to Heaven, so that the blessed could augment their felicity by gazing down upon the tortures of the damned. Now at this time a boy angel was looking over the parapet of Heaven’s wall.

“And a good day to you, my fine young fellow,” says Jurgen. “But of what are you thinking so intently?” For just as Dives had done long years before, now Jurgen found that a man’s voice carries perfectly between Hell and Heaven.

“Sir,” replies the boy, “I was pitying the poor damned.”

“Why, then, you must be Origen,” says Jurgen, laughing.

“No, sir, my name is Jurgen.”

“Heyday!” says Jurgen: “well, but this Jurgen has been a great many persons in my time. So very possibly you speak the truth.”

“I am Jurgen, the son of Coth and Azra.”

“Ah, ah! but so were all of them, my boy.”

“Why, then, I am Jurgen, the grandson of Steinvor, and the grandchild whom she loved above her other grandchildren: and so I abide forever in Heaven with all the other illusions of Steinvor. But who, messire, are you that go about Hell unscorched, in such a fine looking shirt?”

Jurgen reflected. Clearly it would never do to give his real name, and thus raise the question as to whether Jurgen was in Heaven or Hell. Then he recollected the cantrap of the Master Philologist, which Jurgen had twice employed incorrectly. And Jurgen cleared his throat, for he believed that he now understood the proper use of cantraps.

“Perhaps,” says Jurgen, “I ought not to tell you who I am. But what is life without confidence in one another? Besides, you appear a boy of remarkable discretion. So I will confide in you that I am Pope John the Twentieth, Heaven’s regent upon Earth, now visiting this place upon Celestial business which I am not at liberty to divulge more particularly, for reasons that will at once occur to a young man of your unusual cleverness.”

“Oh, but I say! that is droll. Do you just wait a moment!” cried the boy angel.

His bright face vanished, with a whisking of brown curls: and Jurgen carefully reread the cantrap of the Master Philologist. “Yes, I have found, I think, the way to use such magic,” observes Jurgen.

Presently the young angel reappeared at the parapet. “I say, messire! I looked on the Register⁠—all popes are admitted here the moment they die, without inquiring into their private affairs, you know, so as to avoid any unfortunate scandal⁠—and we have twenty-three Pope Johns listed. And sure enough, the mansion prepared for John the Twentieth is vacant. He seems to be the only pope that is not in Heaven.”

“Why, but of course not,” says Jurgen, complacently, “inasmuch as you see me, who was once Bishop of Rome and servant to the servants of God, standing down here on this cinder-heap.”

“Yes, but none of the others in your series appears to place you. John the Nineteenth says he never heard of you, and not to bother him in the middle of a harp lesson⁠—”

“He died before my accession, naturally.”

“⁠—And John the Twenty-first says he thinks they lost count somehow, and that there never was any Pope John the Twentieth. He says you must be an impostor.”

“Ah, professional jealousy!” sighed Jurgen: “dear me, this is very sad, and gives one a poor opinion of human nature. Now, my boy, I put it to you fairly, how could there have been a twenty-first unless there had been a twentieth? And what becomes of the great principle of papal infallibility when a pope admits to a mistake in elementary arithmetic? Oh, but this is a very dangerous heresy, let me tell you, an Inquisition matter, a consistory business! Yet, luckily, upon his own contention, this Pedro Juliani⁠—”

“And that was his name, too, for he told me! You evidently know all about it, messire,” said the young angel, visibly impressed.

“Of course, I know all about it. Well, I repeat, upon his own contention this man is nonexistent, and so, whatever he may say amounts to nothing. For he tells you there was never any Pope John the Twentieth: and either he is lying or he is telling you the truth. If he is lying, you, of course, ought not to believe him: yet, if he is telling you the truth, about there never having been any Pope John the Twentieth, why then, quite plainly, there was never any Pope John the Twenty-first, so that this man asserts his own nonexistence; and thus is talking nonsense, and you, of course, ought not to believe in nonsense. Even did we grant his insane contention that he is nobody, you are too well brought up, I am sure, to dispute that nobody tells lies in Heaven: it follows that in this case nobody is lying; and so, of course, I must be telling the truth, and you have no choice save to believe me.”

“Now, certainly that sounds all right,” the younger Jurgen conceded: “though you explain it so quickly it is a little difficult to follow you.”

“Ah, but furthermore, and over and above this, and