Jurgen by James Branch Cabell (any book recommendations TXT) 📕

am sincerely fond. What is this thing, then, that I desire? Why do I feel life is not treating me quite justly?”

So the summer had passed; and Anaïtis travelled a great deal, being a popular myth in every land. Her sense of duty was so strong that she endeavored to grace in person all the peculiar festivals held in her honor, and this, now the harvest season was at hand, left her with hardly a moment disengaged. Then, too, the mission of Anaïtis was to divert; and there were so many people whom she had personally to visit⁠—so many notable ascetics who were advancing straight toward canonization, and whom her underlings were unable to divert⁠—that Anaïtis was compelled to pass night after night in unwholesomely comfortless surroundings, in monasteries and in the cells and caves of hermits.

“You are wearing yourself out, my darling,” Jurgen would say: “and does it not seem, after all, a game that is hardly worth the candle? I know that, for my part, before I would travel so many miles into a desert, and then climb a hundred foot pillar, just to whisper diverting notions into an anchorite’s very dirty ear, I would let the gaunt rascal go to Heaven. But you associate so much with saintly persons that you have contracted their incapacity for seeing the humorous side of things. Well, you are a dear, even so. Here is a kiss for you: and do you come back to your adoring husband as soon as you conveniently can without neglecting your duty.”

“They report that this Stylites is very far gone in rectitude,” said Anaïtis, absentmindedly, as she prepared for the journey, “but I have hopes for him.”

Then Anaïtis put purple powder on her hair, and hastily got together a few beguiling devices, and went into the Thebaid. Jurgen went back to the Library, and the System of Worshipping a Girl, and the unique manuscripts of Astyanassa and Elephantis and Sotadês, and the Dionysiac Formulae, and the Chart of Postures, and the Litany of the Centre of Delight, and the Spintrian Treatises, and the Thirty-Two Gratifications, and innumerable other volumes which he found instructive.

The Library was a vaulted chamber, having its walls painted with the twelve Asan of Cyrenê; the ceiling was frescoed with the arched body of a woman, whose toes rested upon the cornice of the east wall, and whose outstretched fingertips touched the cornice of the western wall. The clothing of this painted woman was remarkable: and to Jurgen her face was not unfamiliar.

“Who is that?” he inquired, of Anaïtis.

Looking a little troubled, Anaïtis told him this was Æsred.

“Well, I have heard her called otherwise: and I have seen her in quite other clothing.”

“You have seen Æsred!”

“Yes, with a kitchen towel about her head, and otherwise unostentatiously appareled⁠—but very becomingly, I can assure you!” Here Jurgen glanced sidewise at his shadow, and he cleared his throat. “Oh, and a most charming and a most estimable old lady I found this Æsred to be, I can assure you also.”

“I would prefer to know nothing about it,” said Anaïtis, hastily, “I would prefer, for both our sakes, that you say no more of Æsred.” Jurgen shrugged.

Now in the Library of Cocaigne was garnered a record of all that the nature myths had invented in the way of pleasure. And here, with no companion save his queer shadow, and with Æsred arched above and bleakly regarding him, Jurgen spent most of his time, rather agreeably, in investigating and meditating upon the more curious of these recreations. The painted Asan were, in all conscience, food for wonder: but over and above these dozen surprising pastimes, the books of Anaïtis revealed to Jurgen, without disguise or reticence, every other farfetched frolic of heathenry. Hitherto unheard-of forms of diversion were unveiled to him, and every recreation which ingenuity had been able to contrive, for the gratifying of the most subtle and the most strong-stomached tastes. No possible sort of amusement would seem to have been omitted, in running the quaint gamut of refinements upon nature which Anaïtis and her cousins had at odd moments invented, to satiate their desire for some more suave or more strange or more sanguinary pleasure. Yet the deeper Jurgen investigated, and the longer he meditated, the more certain it seemed to him that all such employment was a peculiarly unimaginative pursuit of happiness.

“I am willing to taste any drink once. So I must give diversion a fair trial. But I am afraid these are the games of mental childhood. Well, that reminds me I promised the children to play with them for a while before supper.”

So he came out, and presently, brave in the shirt of Nessus, and mimicked in every action by that incongruous shadow, Prince Jurgen was playing tag with the three little Eumenidês, the daughters of Anaïtis by her former marriage with Acheron, the King of Midnight.

Anaïtis and the dark potentate had parted by mutual consent. “Acheron meant well,” she would say, with a forgiving sigh, “and that in the Moon’s absence he occasionally diverted travellers, I do not deny. But he did not understand me.”

And Jurgen agreed that this tragedy sometimes befell even the irreproachably diverting.

The three Eumenidês at this period were half-grown girls, whom their mother was carefully tutoring to drive guilty persons mad by the stings of conscience: and very quaint it was to see the young Furies at practise in the schoolroom, black-robed, and waving lighted torches, and crowned each with her garland of pet serpents. They became attached to Jurgen, who was always fond of children, and who had frequently regretted that Dame Lisa had borne him none.

“It is enough to get the poor dear a name for eccentricity,” he had been used to say.

So Jurgen now made much of his stepchildren: and indeed he found their innocent prattle quite as intelligent, in essentials, as the talk of the full-grown nature myths who infested the palace of Anaïtis. And the four of them⁠—Jurgen,