“Your temple of Llaw Gyffes!” said Florian, sadly. “But can it be, monsieur, that, after having been a saint of the Calendar, now that you return to heathen Brunbelois and the old time—?”
“My son, in any time,” Hoprig replied, “and in any place, my talents are such as qualify me only for the best-thought-of church. My nature craves stability and the support of tradition and of really nice people. New faiths sometimes allure unthinking hot-heads like that poor dear Hoprig, but not ever me: for I find that any religion, when once it is endowed and made respectable, works out in its effect upon human living pretty much like any other religion. Meanwhile, of course, one naturally prefers to retain a solid position in society. So that really it does seem foolish to quarrel, in any time or place, with the best-thought-of faith. No, Florian, creeds shift and alter in everything except in promising salvation through church-work: but the prelate remains immortal. And I will tell you another thing, Florian, that you should remember when we are gone: and it is that all men and all women are human beings, and that nothing can be done about it.” And Hoprig at this point regarded Florian for some while with a sort of pity. “In any case,” the saint said then, “do you look out for another celestial patron, and for a second father in the spirit, now that sunset approaches, and this is the last cloud going west.”
And Melior took up the still sleeping child, without saying anything, but smiling very lovelily at Florian: and she and Hoprig entered into a golden cloud, and these two went away from Florian forever. And they went as a blurred shining: for Florian was recollecting a child’s desire to be not in all unworthy of these bright, dear beings; and Florian somewhat wistfully recalled that brave aspiring, and that glad ignorance, which nothing now could ever reawaken any more.
29. The Wonder Words
“BUT now,” said Florian, “what now is to become of me, who have no longer any standards of beauty and holiness?” And he looked expectantly from Janicot to the archangel, and back again, to see when they would begin their battling for possession of the Duke of Puysange. Both spirits seemed almost unflatteringly unbellicose.
“I have no instructions about you,” replied Michael. “I did not come hither in the way of official duty, but only at the summons of that fellow— It is really a very great comfort to reflect that, now he has gone back to the old time before he was canonized, he is no longer a saint! Still, as for you, your ways have been atrocious, and it is hardly doubtful that your end should be the same.”
Florian at that had out the magic sword Flamberge. “Then, Monseigneur St. Michael, logic prompts one to make the best of this: and I entreat that you do me the honor of crossing blades with me, so that I may perish not ignobly.”
“Come,” Michael said, “so this shrimp challenges an archangel! That is really a fine gesture.”
“Yes, there is spirit in this romantic,” Janicot declared. “It seems to take the place of his intelligence. I cannot see it matters what becomes of the creature, but, after all, old friends will welcome any excuse to chat together. See, here is excellent wine in the saint’s cupboard, and over a cup of it let us amicably decide what we should do with this little Florian.”
“It is well thought of,” Michael estimated, “for I have been working all day upon the new worlds behind Fomalhaut, with the air full of comet dust. Yes, that rapscallion Hoprig fetched me a long way, and I am thirsty.”
So these two sat down at the table to settle the fate of Florian. Janicot poured for Florian also: and Florian took the proffered cup, and a chair too, which he modestly placed against the log-and-plaster wall at some distance from his judges.
Florian’s judges made an odd pair. For resplendent Michael showed in everything as divine, and in his face was the untroubled magnanimity of a great prince of Heaven. But Janicot had the appearance of a working man, all a sober and practical brown, which would show no stains after the performance of any necessary labor, and his face was the more shrewd.
“First,” said Janicot, “let us drink. That is the proper beginning of any dispute, for it makes each think his adversary a splendid fellow, it promotes confidence and candor alike.”
“Nobody should lack confidence and candor when it comes to dealing with sin,” replied Michaeclass="underline" and with one heroic draught he emptied his cup.
Florian sipped his more tentatively: for this seemed uncommonly queer wine.
“Sin,” Janicot said now, as if in meditation, “is a fine and impressive monosyllable.”
“Sin,” Michael said, with sternness, “is that which is forbidden by the word of God.”
“But, to be sure!” Florian put in. “Sin is a very grave matter: and to expiate it requires stained windows and candles and, above all, repentance—”
“Ah, but a word,” said Janicot, “has no inherent meaning, it has merely the significance a mutual agreement arbitrarily attaches to that especial sound. Let me refill your cup, which I perceive to be empty: and, Monsieur the Duke, do you stop talking to your judges. That much—to resume,—is true of all words. And the word of your god has been so variously pronounced, my good Michael, it has been so diversely interpreted, that, really, men begin to wonder—”
“I did not sit down,” cried Michael, “to hear blasphemies, but to settle the doom of this sinner. Nor will I chop logic with you. I am a blunt soldier, and you are subtle. Yes, the world knows you are subtle, but how far has your subtlety got you? Why, it has got you as far as from heaven to hell.”
Florian vastly admired that just and pious summing-up as he leaned back in his chair, and looked toward Janicot. Florian was feeling strangely complacent, though, for Hoprig’s wine was extraordinarily potent tipple to have come from the cupboard of a saint.
“Ah, friend,” returned Janicot, smiling, “and do you really put actual faith in that sensational modern story that I was an angel who rebelled against your Jahveh?”
“It was before my time, of course,” Michael conceded. “I only know that my Lord created me with orders to conquer you, who call yourself the Prince of this World. So I did this, though, to give the devil his due, it was no easy task. But that is far-off stuff: a soldier bears no malice when the fighting is over: and I drink to you.”
“Your health, bright adversary! Yet what if I were not conquered, but merely patient? Why should not I, who have outlived so many gods, remain as patient under the passing of this tribal god come out of Israel as I stayed once under Baal and Beltane ? Both of these have had their adorers and tall temples hereabouts: and Mithra and Zeus and Osiris and I know not how many thousands of other beautiful and holy deities have had their dole of worship and neglect and oblivion. Now I have never been omnipotent, I am not worshipped in any shining temple even to-day; but always I have been served.”
Florian, through half-closed eyelids,—for he felt a trifle drowsy after that extraordinary wine,—was admiring the curious proud look which had come into the brown face of Janicot. Florian began complacently to allow this fiend had his redeeming points. This Janicot was quite distinguished looking.
“For I,” said Janicot, “am the Prince of this World, not to be ousted: and I have in my time, good Michael, had need to practise patience. You think with awed reverence of your Jahveh: and that in your station is commendable. Yet you should remember, too, that to me, who saw but yesterday your Jahveh’s start in life as a local storm-god upon Sinai, he is just the latest of many thousands of adversaries whom I have seen triumph and pass while I stayed patient under all temporary annoyances. For in heaven they keep changing dynasties, and every transient ruler of heaven is bent upon making laws for my little kingdom. Oh, I blame nobody! The desire is natural in omnipotence: and many of these laws I have admired, as academic exercises. The trouble seemed to be that they were drawn up in heaven, where there is nothing quite like the nature of my people—”