Jurgen, James Branch Cabell [ebook reader computer .txt] 📗

“Now, really, Jurgen, I remember our little meeting very pleasantly. And I endeavored forthwith to dispose of your most urgent annoyance. But I confess I have had one or two other matters upon my mind since then. You see, Jurgen, the universe is rather large, and the running of it is a considerable tax upon my time. I cannot manage to see anything like as much of my friends as I would be delighted to see of them. And so perhaps, what with one thing and another, I have not given you my undivided attention all through the year⁠—not every moment of it, that is.”

“Ah, Prince, I see that you are trying to spare my feelings, and it is kind of you. But the upshot is that you do not know what I have been doing, and you did not care what I was doing. Dear me! but this is a very sad comedown for my pride.”

“Yes, but reflect how remarkable a possession is that pride of yours, and how I wonder at it, and how I envy it in vain⁠—I, who have nothing anywhere to contemplate save my own handiwork. Do you consider, Jurgen, what I would give if I could find, anywhere in this universe of mine, anything which would make me think myself one-half so important as you think Jurgen is!” And Koshchei sighed.

But instead, Jurgen considered the humiliating fact that Koshchei had not been supervising Jurgen’s travels. And of a sudden Jurgen perceived that this Koshchei the Deathless was not particularly intelligent. Then Jurgen wondered why he should ever have expected Koshchei to be intelligent? Koshchei was omnipotent, as men estimate omnipotence: but by what course of reasoning had people come to believe that Koshchei was clever, as men estimate cleverness? The fact that, to the contrary, Koshchei seemed well-meaning, but rather slow of apprehension and a little needlessly fussy, went far toward explaining a host of matters which had long puzzled Jurgen. Cleverness was, of course, the most admirable of all traits: but cleverness was not at the top of things, and never had been. “Very well, then!” says Jurgen, with a shrug; “let us come to my third request and to the third thing that I have been seeking. Here, though, you ought to be more communicative. For I have been thinking, Prince, my wife’s society is perhaps becoming to you a trifle burdensome.”

“Eh, sirs, I am not unaccustomed to women. I may truthfully say that as I find them, so do I take them. And I was willing to oblige a fellow rebel.”

“But I do not know, Prince, that I have ever rebelled. Far from it, I have everywhere conformed with custom.”

“Your lips conformed, but all the while your mind made verses, Jurgen. And poetry is man’s rebellion against being what he is.”

“⁠—And besides, you call me a fellow rebel. Now, how can it be possible that Koshchei, who made all things as they are, should be a rebel? unless, indeed, there is some power above even Koshchei. I would very much like to have that explained to me, sir.”

“No doubt: but then why should I explain it to you, Jurgen?” says the black gentleman.

“Well, be that as it may, Prince! But⁠—to return a little⁠—I do not know that you have obliged me in carrying off my wife. I mean, of course, my first wife.”

“Why, Jurgen,” says the black gentleman, in high astonishment, “do you mean to tell me that you want the plague of your life back again!”

“I do not know about that either, sir. She was certainly very hard to live with. On the other hand, I had become used to having her about. I rather miss her, now that I am again an elderly person. Indeed, I believe I have missed Lisa all along.”

The black gentleman meditated. “Come, friend,” he says, at last. “You were a poet of some merit. You displayed a promising talent which might have been cleverly developed, in any suitable environment. Now, I repeat, I am an Economist: I dislike waste: and you were never fitted to be anything save a poet. The trouble was”⁠—and Koshchei lowered his voice to an impressive whisper⁠—“the trouble was your wife did not understand you. She hindered your art. Yes, that precisely sums it up: she interfered with your soul-development, and your instinctive need of self-expression, and all that sort of thing. You are very well rid of this woman, who converted a poet into a pawnbroker. To the other side, as is with point observed somewhere or other, it is not good for man to live alone. But, friend, I have just the wife for you.”

“Well, Prince,” said Jurgen, “I am willing to taste any drink once.”

So Koshchei waved his hand: and there, quick as winking, was the loveliest lady that Jurgen had ever imagined.

Very fair was this woman to look upon, with her shining gray eyes and small smiling lips, a fairer woman might no man boast of having seen. And she regarded Jurgen graciously, with her cheeks red and white, very lovely to observe. She was clothed in a robe of flame-colored silk, and about her neck was a collar of red gold. And she told him, quite as though she spoke with a stranger, that she was Queen Guenevere.

“But Lancelot is turned monk, at Glastonbury: and Arthur is gone into Avalon,” says she: “and I will be your wife if you will have me, Jurgen.”

And Jurgen saw that Guenevere did not know him at all, and that even his name to her was meaningless. There were a many ways of accounting for this: but he put aside the unflattering explanation that she had simply forgotten all about Jurgen, in favor of the reflection that the Jurgen she had known was a scapegrace of twenty-one. Whereas he was now a staid and knowledgeable pawnbroker.

And it seemed to Jurgen that he had never really loved any woman