"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 antic.i.p.ated 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 embarra.s.sing 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 thumbs.c.r.e.w.i.n.gs, and their auto-da-fes, and from their ma.s.sacres, 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 n.o.ble 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 h.e.l.l 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 confrere, 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 slavering 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 embarra.s.sing. 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 mola.s.ses! 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.

43.

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, G.o.dmother, 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 a.s.sure 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 h.e.l.l have I fallen, and into Heaven have I climbed, and into the place of the Lord G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed out of your heart, beyond the reach of Leshy: and the nearest you can come to regaining youth is to behave childishly."

"O G.o.dmother, but do give rein to your better instincts and all that sort of thing, and speak with me more candidly! Come now, dear lady, there should be no secrets between you and me. In Leuke you were reported to be Cybele, the great Res Dea, the mistress of every tangible thing. In Cocaigne they spoke of you as aesred. And at Cameliard Merlin called you Aderes, dark Mother of the Little G.o.ds.

Well, but at your home in the forest, where I first had the honor of making your acquaintance, G.o.dmother, you told me you were Sereda, who takes the color out of things, and controls all Wednesdays. Now these anagrams bewilder me, and I desire to know you frankly for what you are."

"It may be that I am all these. Meanwhile I bleach, and sooner or later I bleach everything. It may be that some day, Jurgen, I shall even take the color out of a fool's conception of himself."

"Yes, yes! but just between ourselves, G.o.dmother, is it not this shadow of you that prevents my entering, quite, into the appropriate emotion, the spirit of the occasion, as one might say, and robs my life of the zest which other persons apparently get out of living?

Come now, you know it is! Well, and for my part, G.o.dmother, I love a jest as well as any man breathing, but I do prefer to have it intelligible."

"Now, let me tell you something plainly, Jurgen!" Mother Sereda cleared her invisible throat, and began to speak rather indignantly.

"Well, G.o.dmother, if you will pardon my frankness, I do not think it is quite nice to talk about such things, and certainly not with so much candor. However, dismissing these considerations of delicacy, let us revert to my original question. You have given me youth and all the appurtenances of youth: and therewith you have given, too, in your joking way--which n.o.body appreciates more heartily than I,--a shadow that renders all things not quite satisfactory, not wholly to be trusted, not to be met with frankness. Now--as you understand, I hope,--I concede the jest, I do not for a moment deny it is a master-stroke of humor. But, after all, just what exactly is the point of it? What does it mean?"

"It may be that there is no meaning anywhere. Could you face that interpretation, Jurgen?"

"No," said Jurgen: "I have faced G.o.d and devil, but that I will not face."

"No more would I who have so many names face that. You jested with me. So I jest with you. Probably Koshchei jests with all of us. And he, no doubt--even Koshchei who made things as they are,--is in turn the b.u.t.t of some larger jest."

"He may be, certainly," said Jurgen: "yet, on the other hand--"

"About these matters I do not know. How should I? But I think that all of us take part in a moving and a shifting and a reasoned using of the things which are Koshchei's, a using such as we do not comprehend, and are not fit to comprehend."

"That is possible," said Jurgen: "but, none the less--!"

"It is as a chessboard whereon the pieces move diversely: the knights leaping sidewise, and the bishops darting obliquely, and the rooks charging straightforward, and the p.a.w.ns laboriously hobbling from square to square, each at the player's will. There is no discernible order, all to the onlooker is manifestly in confusion: but to the player there is a meaning in the disposition of the pieces."

"I do not deny it: still, one must grant--"

"And I think it is as though each of the pieces, even the p.a.w.ns, had a chessboard of his own which moves as he is moved, and whereupon he moves the pieces to suit his will, in the very moment wherein he is moved w.i.l.l.y-nilly."