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

boy is here with Me, as you yourself have seen. And today there is nothing remaining of him anywhere in the man that is Jurgen.”

“God of my grandmother! God Whom I too loved in boyhood!” said Jurgen then: “why is it that I am denied a God? For I have searched: and nowhere can I find justice, and nowhere can I find anything to worship.”

“What, Jurgen, and would you look for justice, of all places, in Heaven?”

“No,” Jurgen said; “no, I perceive it cannot be considered here. Else You would sit alone.”

“And for the rest, you have looked to find your God without, not looking within to see that which is truly worshipped in the thoughts of Jurgen. Had you done so, you would have seen, as plainly as I now see, that which alone you are able to worship. And your God is maimed: the dust of your journeying is thick upon him; your vanity is laid as a napkin upon his eyes; and in his heart is neither love nor hate, not even for his only worshipper.”

“Do not deride him, You Who have so many worshippers! At least, he is a monstrous clever fellow,” said Jurgen: and boldly he said it, in the highest court of Heaven, and before the pensive face of the God of Jurgen’s grandmother.

“Ah, very probably. I do not meet with many clever people. And as for My numerous worshippers, you forget how often you have demonstrated that I was the delusion of an old woman.”

“Well, and was there ever a flaw in my logic?”

“I was not listening to you, Jurgen. You must know that logic does not much concern us, inasmuch as nothing is logical hereabouts.”

And now the four winged creatures ceased their chaunting, and the organ music became a far-off murmuring. And there was silence in Heaven. And the God of Jurgen’s grandmother, too, was silent for a while, and the rainbow under which He sat put off its seven colors and burned with an unendurable white, tinged bluishly, while the God considered ancient things. Then in the silence this God began to speak.

Some years ago (said the God of Jurgen’s grandmother) it was reported to Koshchei that scepticism was abroad in his universe, and that one walked therein who would be contented with no rational explanation. “Bring me this infidel,” says Koshchei: so they brought to him in the void a little bent gray woman in an old gray shawl. “Now, tell me why you will not believe,” says Koshchei, “in things as they are.”

Then the decent little bent gray woman answered civilly; “I do not know, sir, who you may happen to be. But, since you ask me, everybody knows that things as they are must be regarded as temporary afflictions, and as trials through which we are righteously condemned to pass, in order to attain to eternal life with our loved ones in Heaven.”

“Ah, yes,” said Koshchei, who made things as they are; “ah, yes, to be sure! and how did you learn of this?”

“Why, every Sunday morning the priest discoursed to us about Heaven, and of how happy we would be there after death.”

“Has this woman died, then?” asked Koshchei.

“Yes, sir,” they told him⁠—“recently. And she will believe nothing we explain to her, but demands to be taken to Heaven.”

“Now, this is very vexing,” Koshchei said, “and I cannot, of course, put up with such scepticism. That would never do. So why do you not convey her to this Heaven which she believes in, and thus put an end to the matter?”

“But, sir,” they told him, “there is no such place.”

Then Koshchei reflected. “It is certainly strange that a place which does not exist should be a matter of public knowledge in another place. Where does this woman come from?”

“From Earth,” they told him.

“Where is that?” he asked: and they explained to him as well as they could.

“Oh, yes, over that way,” Koshchei interrupted. “I remember. Now⁠—but what is your name, woman who wish to go to Heaven?”

“Steinvor, sir: and if you please I am rather in a hurry to be with my children again. You see, I have not seen any of them for a long while.”

“But stay,” said Koshchei: “what is that which comes into this woman’s eyes as she speaks of her children?” They told him it was love.

“Did I create this love?” says Koshchei, who made things as they are. And they told him, no: and that there were many sorts of love, but that this especial sort was an illusion which women had invented for themselves, and which they exhibited in all dealings with their children. And Koshchei sighed.

“Tell me about your children,” Koshchei then said to Steinvor: “and look at me as you talk, so that I may see your eyes.”

So Steinvor talked of her children: and Koshchei, who made all things, listened very attentively. Of Coth she told him, of her only son, confessing Coth was the finest boy that ever lived⁠—“a little wild, sir, at first, but then you know what boys are,”⁠—and telling of how well Coth had done in business and of how he had even risen to be an alderman. Koshchei, who made all things, seemed properly impressed. Then Steinvor talked of her daughters, of Imperia and Lindamira and Christine: of Imperia’s beauty, and of Lindamira’s bravery under the mishaps of an unlucky marriage, and of Christine’s superlative housekeeping. “Fine women, sir, every one of them, with children of their own! and to me they still seem such babies, bless them!” And the decent little bent gray woman laughed. “I have been very lucky in my children, sir, and in my grandchildren, too,” she told Koshchei. “There is Jurgen, now, my Coth’s boy! You may not believe it, sir, but there is a story I must tell you about Jurgen⁠—” So she ran on very happily and proudly, while Koshchei, who made all things, listened, and watched the eyes of Steinvor.

Then privately Koshchei asked, “Are these children