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

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 wartime.”

“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 wartime 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.”

“Well, then, St. Peter, I imagine Amneran Heath, where I flung away my mother’s last gift to me.”

“And Amneran Heath it is,” said St. Peter, as he thrust Jurgen through the small private door that was carved with fishes in bas-relief.

And Jurgen saw that the Saint spoke truthfully.

XLIII Postures Before a Shadow

Thus Jurgen stood again upon Amneran Heath. And again it was Walburga’s Eve, when almost anything is rather more than likely to happen: and the low moon was bright, so that the shadow of Jurgen was long and thin. And Jurgen searched for the gold cross that he had worn through motives of sentiment, but he could not find it, nor did he ever recover it: but barberry bushes and the thorns of barberry bushes he found in great plenty as he searched vainly. All the while that he searched, the shirt of Nessus glittered in the moonlight, and the shadow of Jurgen streamed long and thin, and every movement that was made by Jurgen the shadow parodied. And as always, it was the shadow of a lean woman, with her head wrapped in a towel.

Now Jurgen regarded this shadow, and to Jurgen it was abhorrent.

“Oh, Mother Sereda,” says he, “for a whole year your shadow has dogged me. Many lands we have visited, and many sights we have seen: and at the end all that we have done is a tale that is told: and it is a tale that does not matter. So I stand where I stood at the beginning of my foiled journeying. The gift you gave me has availed me nothing: and I do not care whether I be young or old: and I have lost all that remained to me of my mother and of my mother’s love, and I have betrayed my mother’s pride in me, and I am weary.”

Now a little whispering gathered upon the ground, as though dead leaves were moving there: and the whispering augmented (because this was upon Walburga’s Eve, when almost anything is rather more than likely to happen), and the whispering became the ghost of a voice.

“You flattered me very cunningly, Jurgen, for you are a monstrous clever fellow.” This it was that the voice said drily.

“A number of people might say that with tolerable justice,” Jurgen declared: “and yet I guess who speaks. As for flattering you, godmother, I was only joking that day in Glathion: in fact, I was careful to explain as much, the moment I noticed your shadow seemed interested in my idle remarks and was writing them all down in a notebook. Oh, no, I can assure you I trafficked quite honestly, and have dealt fairly everywhere. For the rest, I really am very clever: it would be foolish of me to deny it.”

“Vain fool!” said the voice of Mother Sereda.

Jurgen replied: “It may be that I am vain. But it is certain that I am clever. And even more certain is the fact that I am weary. For, look you, in the tinsel of my borrowed youth I have gone romancing through the world; and into lands unvisited by other men have I ventured, playing at spillikins with women and gear and with the welfare of kingdoms; and into Hell have I fallen, and into Heaven have I climbed, and into the place of the Lord God Himself have I crept stealthily: and nowhere have I found what I desired. Nor do I know what my desire is, even now. But I know that it is not possible for me to become young again, whatever I may appear to others.”

“Indeed, Jurgen, youth has passed out of your heart, beyond the reach of Léshy: and the nearest you can come to regaining youth is to behave childishly.”

“O godmother, but do give rein to your better instincts and all that sort of thing,