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

and critical Alecto, and grave Tisiphonê, and fairy-like little Megæra⁠—would take long walks, and play with their dolls (though Alecto was a trifle condescending toward dolls), and romp together in the eternal evening of Cocaigne; and discuss what sort of dresses and trinkets Mother would probably bring them when she came back from Ecbatana or Lesbos, and would generally enjoy themselves.

Rather pathetically earnest and unimaginative little lasses, Jurgen found the young Eumenidês: they inherited much of their mother’s narrow-mindedness, if not their father’s brooding and gloomy tendencies; but in them narrow-mindedness showed merely as amusing. And Jurgen loved them, and would often reflect what a pity it was that these dear little girls were destined when they reached maturity, to spend the rest of their lives in haunting criminals and adulterers and parricides and, generally, such persons as must inevitably tarnish the girls’ outlook upon life, and lead them to see too much of the worst side of human nature.

So Jurgen was content enough. But still he was not actually happy, not even among the endless pleasures of Cocaigne.

“And what is this thing that I desire?” he would ask himself, again and again.

And still he did not know: he merely felt he was not getting justice: and a dim sense of this would trouble him even while he was playing with the Eumenidês.

XXV Cantraps of the Master Philologist

But now, as has been recorded, it was September, and Jurgen could see that Anaïtis too was worrying over something. She kept it from him as long as possible: first said it was nothing at all, then said he would know it soon enough, then wept a little over the possibility that he would probably be very glad to hear it, and eventually told him. For in becoming the consort of a nature myth connected with the Moon Jurgen had of course exposed himself to the danger of being converted into a solar legend by the Philologists, and in that event would be compelled to leave Cocaigne with the Equinox, to enter into autumnal exploits elsewhere. And Anaïtis was quite heartbroken over the prospect of losing Jurgen.

“For I have never had such a Prince Consort in Cocaigne, so maddening, and so helpless, and so clever; and the girls are so fond of you, although they have not been able to get on at all with so many of their stepfathers! And I know that you are flippant and heartless, but you have quite spoiled me for other men. No, Jurgen, there is no need to argue, for I have experimented with at least a dozen lovers lately, when I was traveling, and they bored me insufferably. They had, as you put it, dear, no conversation: and you are the only young man I have found in all these ages who could talk interestingly.”

“There is a reason for that, since like you, Anaïtis, I am not so youthful as I appear.”

“I do not care a straw about appearances,” wept Anaïtis, “but I know that I love you, and that you must be leaving me with the Equinox unless you can settle matters with the Master Philologist.”

“Well, my pet,” says Jurgen, “the Jews got into Jericho by trying.”

He armed, and girded himself with Caliburn, drank a couple of bottles of wine, put on the shirt of Nessus over all, and then went to seek this thaumaturgist.

Anaïtis showed him the way to an unpretentious residence, where a week’s washing was drying and flapping in the side yard. Jurgen knocked boldly, and after an interval the door was opened by the Master Philologist himself.

“You must pardon this informality,” he said, blinking through his great spectacles, which had dust on them: “but time was by ill luck arrested hereabouts on a Thursday evening, and so the maid is out indefinitely. I would suggest, therefore, that the lady wait outside upon the porch. For the neighbors to see her go in would not be respectable.”

“Do you know what I have come for?” says Jurgen, blustering, and splendid in his glittering shirt and his gleaming armor. “For I warn you I am justice.”

“I think you are lying, and I am sure you are making an unnecessary noise. In any event, justice is a word, and I control all words.”

“You will discover very soon, sir, that actions speak louder than words.”

“I believe that is so,” said the Master Philologist, still blinking, “just as the Jewish mob spoke louder than He Whom they crucified. But the Word endures.”

“You are a quibbler!”

“You are my guest. So I advise you, in pure friendliness, not to impugn the power of my words.”

Said Jurgen, scornfully: “But is justice, then, a word?”

“Oh, yes, it is one of the most useful. It is the Spanish justicia, the Portuguese justiça, the Italian giustizia, all from the Latin justus. Oh, yes indeed, but justice is one of my best connected words, and one of the best trained also, I can assure you.”

“Aha, and to what degraded uses do you put this poor enslaved intimidated justice!”

“There is but one intelligent use,” said the Master Philologist, unruffled, “for anybody to make of words. I will explain it to you, if you will come in out of this treacherous draught. One never knows what a cold may lead to.”

Then the door closed upon them, and Anaïtis waited outside, in some trepidation.

Presently Jurgen came out of that unpretentious residence, and so back to Anaïtis, discomfited. Jurgen flung down his magic sword, charmed Caliburn.

“This, Anaïtis, I perceive to be an outmoded weapon. There is no weapon like words, no armor against words, and with words the Master Philologist has conquered me. It is not at all equitable: but the man showed me a huge book wherein were the names of everything in the world, and justice was not among them. It develops that, instead, justice is merely a common noun, vaguely denoting an ethical idea of conduct proper to the circumstances,