Jurgen (1919)
A FOREWORD
âNescio quid certĂš est: et Hylax in limine latrat.â
A Foreword: Which Asserts Nothing.
In Continental periodicals not more than a dozen articles in all would seem to have given accounts or partial translations of the Jurgen legends. No thorough investigation of this epos can be said to have appeared in print, anywhere, prior to the publication, in 1913, of the monumental Synopses of Aryan Mythology by Angelo de Ruiz. It is unnecessary to observe that in this exhaustive digest Professor de Ruiz has given (VII, et sequentia) a summary of the greater part of these legends as contained in the collections of Verville and BĂŒlg; and has discussed at length and with much learning the esoteric meaning of these folk-stories and their bearing upon questions to which the âsolar theoryâ of myth explanation has given rise. To his volumes, and to the pages of Mr. Lewistamâs Key to the Popular Tales of Poictesme, must be referred all those who may elect to think of Jurgen as the resplendent, journeying and procreative sun.
Equally in reading hereinafter will the judicious waive all allegorical interpretation, if merely because the suggestions hitherto advanced are inconveniently various. Thus Verville finds the Nessus shirt a symbol of retribution, where BĂŒlg, with rather wide divergence, would have it represent the dangerous gift of genius. Then it may be remembered that Dr. Codman says, without any hesitancy, of Mother Sereda: âThis Mother Middle is the world generally (an obvious anagram of Erda es), and this Sereda rules not merely the middle of the working-days but the midst of everything. She is the factor of middleness, of mediocrity, of an avoidance of extremes, of the eternal compromise begotten by use and wont. She is the Mrs. Grundy of the LĂ©shy; she is Comstockery: and her shadow is common-sense.â Yet Codman speaks with certainly no more authority than Prote, when the latter, in his Origins of Fable, declares this epos is âa parable of ⊠manâs vain journeying in search of that rationality and justice which his nature craves, and discovers nowhere in the universe: and the shirt is an emblem of this instinctive craving, as ⊠the shadow symbolizes conscience. Sereda typifies a surrender to life as it is, a giving up of manâs rebellious self-centredness and selfishness: the anagram being se dare.â
Thus do interpretations throng and clash, and neatly equal the commentators in number. Yet possibly each one of these unriddlings, with no doubt a host of others, is conceivable: so that wisdom will dwell upon none of them very seriously.
With the origin and the occult meaning of the folklore of Poictesme this book at least is in no wise concerned: its unambitious aim has been merely to familiarize English readers with the Jurgen epos for the taleâs sake. And this tale of old years is one which, by rare fortune, can be given to English readers almost unabridged, in view of the singular delicacy and pure-mindedness of the Jurgen mythos: in all, not more than a half-dozen deletions have seemed expedient (and have been duly indicated) in order to remove such sparse and unimportant outcroppings of mediĂŠval frankness as might conceivably offend the squeamish.
Since this volume is presented simply as a story to be read for pastime, neither morality nor symbolism is hereinafter educed, and no âparallelsâ and âauthoritiesâ are quoted. Even the gaps are left unbridged by guesswork: whereas the historic and mythological problems perhaps involved are relinquished to those really thoroughgoing scholars whom erudition qualifies to deal with such topics, and tedium does not deterâŠ.
In such terms, and thus far, ran the Foreword to the first issues of this book, whose later fortunes have made necessary the lengthening of the Foreword with a postscript. The needed addition â this much at least chiming with good luck â is brief. It is just that fragment which some scholars, since the first appearance of this volume, have asserted â upon what perfect frankness must describe as not indisputable grounds â to be a portion of the thirty-second chapter of the complete form of La Haulte Histoire de Jurgen.
And in reply to what these scholars assert, discretion says nothing. For this fragment was, of course, unknown when the High History was first put into English, and there in consequence appears, here, little to be won either by endorsing or denying its claims to authenticity. Rather, does discretion prompt the appending, without any gloss or scholia, of this fragment, which deals with
The Judging of Jurgen.
Now a court was held by the Philistines to decide whether or no King Jurgen should be relegated to limbo. And when the judges were prepared for judging, there came into the court a great tumblebug, rolling in front of him his loved and properly housed young ones. With the creature came pages, in black and white, bearing a sword, a staff and a lance.
This insect looked at Jurgen, and its pincers rose erect in horror. The bug cried to the three judges, âNow, by St. Anthony! this Jurgen must forthwith be relegated to limbo, for he is offensive and lewd and lascivious and indecent.â
âAnd how can that be?â says Jurgen.
âYou are offensive,â the bug replied, âbecause this page has a sword which I choose to say is not a sword. You are lewd because that page has a lance which I prefer to think is not a lance. You are lascivious because yonder page has a staff which I elect to declare is not a staff. And finally, you are indecent for reasons of which a description would be objectionable to me, and which therefore I must decline to reveal to anybody.â
âWell, that sounds logical,â says Jurgen, âbut still, at the same time, it would be no worse for an admixture of common-sense. For you gentlemen can see for yourselves, by considering these pages fairly and as a whole, that these pages bear a sword and a lance and a staff, and nothing else whatever; and you will deduce, I hope, that all the lewdness is in the insectival mind of him who itches to be calling these things by other names.â
The judges said nothing as yet. But they that guarded Jurgen, and all the other Philistines, stood to this side and to that side with their eyes shut tight, and all these said: âWe decline to look at the pages fairly and as a whole, because to look might seem to imply a doubt of what the tumblebug has decreed. Besides, as long as the tumblebug has reasons which he declines to reveal, his reasons stay unanswerable, and you are plainly a prurient rascal who are making trouble for yourself.â
âTo the contrary,â says Jurgen, âI am a poet, and I make literature.â
âBut in Philistia to make literature and to make trouble for yourself are synonyms,â the tumblebug explained. âI know, for already we of Philistia have been pestered by three of these makers of literature. Yes, there was Edgar, whom I starved and hunted until I was tired of it: then I chased him up a back alley one night, and knocked out those annoying brains of his. And there was Walt, whom I chivvied and battered from place to place, and made a paralytic of him: and him, too, I labelled offensive and lewd and lascivious and indecent. Then later there was Mark, whom I frightened into disguising himself in a clownâs suit, so that nobody might suspect him to be a maker of literature: indeed, I frightened him so that he hid away the greater part of what he had made until after he was dead, and I could not get at him. That was a disgusting trick to play on me, I consider. Still, these are the only three detected makers of literature that have ever infested Philistia, thanks be to goodness and my vigilance, but for both of which we might have been no more free from makers of literature than are the other countries.â
âNow, but these three,â cried Jurgen, âare the glory of Philistia: and of all that Philistia has produced, it is these three alone, whom living ye made least of, that to-day are honored wherever art is honored, and where nobody bothers one way or the other about Philistia.â
âWhat is art to me and my way of living?â replied the tumblebug, wearily. âI have no concern with art and letters and the other lewd idols of foreign nations. I have in charge the moral welfare of my young, whom I roll here before me, and trust with St. Anthonyâs aid to raise in time to be God-fearing tumblebugs like me, delighting in what is proper to their nature. For the rest, I have never minded dead men being well-spoken-of. No, no, my lad: once whatever I may do means nothing to you, and once you are really rotten, you will find the tumblebug friendly enough. Meanwhile I am paid to protest that living persons are offensive and lewd and lascivious and indecent, and one must live.â
Then the Philistines who stood to this side and to that side said in indignant unison: âAnd we, the reputable citizenry of Philistia, are not at all in sympathy with those who would take any protest against the tumblebug as a justification of what they are pleased to call art. The harm done by the tumblebug seems to us very slight, whereas the harm done by the self-styled artist may be very great.â
Jurgen now looked more attentively at this queer creature: and he saw that the tumblebug was malodorous, certainly, but at bottom honest and well-meaning; and this seemed to Jurgen the saddest thing he had found among the Philistines. For the tumblebug was sincere in his insane doings, and all Philistia honored him sincerely, so that there was nowhere any hope for this people.
Therefore King Jurgen addressed himself, as his need was, to submit to the strange customs of the Philistines. âNow do you judge me fairly,â cried Jurgen to his judges, âif there be any justice in this mad country. And if there be none, do you relegate me to limbo or to any other place, so long as in that place this tumblebug is not omnipotent and sincere and insane.â
And Jurgen waitedâŠ.
* * * * *
JURGEN
⊠AMARA LENTO temperet risu
1. Why Jurgen Did the Manly Thing
IT IS A tale which they narrate in Poictesme, saying: In the âold days lived a pawnbroker named Jurgen; but what his wife called him was very often much worse than that. She was a high-spirited woman, with no especial gift for silence. Her name, they say, was Adelais, but people by ordinary called her Dame Lisa.
They tell, also, that in the old days, after putting up the shop-windows for the night, Jurgen was passing the Cistercian Abbey, on his way home: and one of the monks had tripped over a stone in the roadway. He was cursing the devil who had placed it there.
âFie, brother!â says Jurgen, âand have not the devils enough to bear as it is?â
âI never held with Origen,â replied the monk; âand besides, it hurt my great-toe confoundedly.â
âNone the less,â observes Jurgen, âit does not behoove God-fearing persons to speak with disrespect of the divinely appointed Prince of Darkness. To your further confusion, consider this monarchâs industry! day and night you may detect him toiling at the task Heaven set him. That is a thing can be said of few communicants and of no monks. Think, too, of his fine artistry, as evidenced in all the perilous and lovely snares of this world, which it is your business to combat, and mine to lend money upon. Why, but for him we would both be vocationless! Then, too, consider his philanthropy! and deliberate how insufferable would be our case if you and I, and all our fellow parishioners, were to-day hobnobbing with other beasts in the Garden which we pretend to desiderate on Sundays! To arise with swine and lie down with the hyena? â oh, intolerable!â
Thus he ran on, devising reasons for not thinking too harshly of the Devil. Most of it was an abridgement of some verses Jurgen had composed, in the shop when business was slack.
âI consider that to be stuff and nonsense,â was the monkâs glose.
âNo doubt your notion is sensible,â observed the pawnbroker: âbut mine is the prettier.â
Then Jurgen passed the Cistercian Abbey, and was approaching Bellegarde, when he met a black gentleman, who saluted him and said:
âThanks, Jurgen, for your good word.â
âWho are you, and why do you thank me?â asks Jurgen.
âMy name is no great matter. But you have a kind heart, Jurgen. May your life be free from care!â
âSave us from hurt and harm, friend, but I am already married.â
âEh, sirs, and a fine clever poet like you!â
âYet it is a long while now since I was a practising poet.â
âWhy, to be sure! You have the artistic temperament, which is not exactly suited to the restrictions of domestic life. Then I suppose your wife has her own personal opinion about poetry, Jurgen.â
âIndeed, sir, her opinion would not bear repetition, for I am sure you are unaccustomed to such language.â
âThis is very sad. I am afraid your wife does not quite understand you, Jurgen.â
âSir,â says Jurgen, astounded, âdo you read peopleâs inmost thoughts?â
The black gentleman seemed much dejected. He pursed his lips, and fell to counting upon his fingers: as they moved his sharp nails glittered like flame-points.
âNow but this is a very deplorable thing,â says the black gentleman, âto have befallen the first person I have found ready to speak a kind word for evil. And in all these centuries, too! Dear me, this is a most regrettable instance of mismanagement! No matter, Jurgen, the morning is brighter than the evening. How I will reward you, to be sure!â
So Jurgen thanked the simple old creature politely. And when Jurgen reached home his wife was nowhere to be seen. He looked on all sides and questioned everyone, but to no avail. Dame Lisa had vanished in the midst of getting supper ready â suddenly, completely and inexplicably, just as (in Jurgenâs figure) a windstorm passes and leaves behind it a tranquillity which seems, by contrast, uncanny. Nothing could explain the mystery, short of magic: and Jurgen on a sudden recollected the black gentlemanâs queer promise. Jurgen crossed himself.
âHow unjustly now,â says Jurgen, âdo some people get an ill name for gratitude! And now do I perceive how wise I am, always to speak pleasantly of everybody, in this world of tale-bearers.â
Then Jurgen prepared his own supper, went to bed, and slept soundly.
âI have implicit confidence,â says he, âin Lisa. I have particular confidence in her ability to take care of herself in any surroundings.â
That was all very well: but time passed, and presently it began to be rumored that Dame Lisa walked on Morven. Her brother, who was a grocer and a member of the town-council, went thither to see about this report. And sure enough, there was Jurgenâs wife walking in the twilight and muttering incessantly.
âFie, sister!â says the town-councillor, âthis is very unseemly conduct for a married woman, and a thing likely to be talked about.â
âFollow me!â replied Dame Lisa. And the town-councillor followed her a little way in the dusk, but when she came to Amneran Heath and still went onward, he knew better than to follow.
Next evening the elder sister of Dame Lisa went to Morven. This sister had married a notary, and was a shrewd woman. In consequence, she took with her this evening a long wand of peeled willow-wood. And there was Jurgenâs wife walking in the twilight and muttering incessantly.
âFie, sister!â says the notaryâs wife, who was a shrewd woman, âand do you not know that all this while Jurgen does his own sewing, and is once more making eyes at Countess Dorothy?â
Dame Lisa shuddered; but she only said, âFollow me!â
And the notaryâs wife followed her to Amneran Heath, and across the heath, to where a cave was. This was a place of abominable repute. A lean hound came to meet them there in the twilight, lolling his tongue: but the notaryâs wife struck thrice with her wand, and the silent beast left them. And Dame Lisa passed silently into the cave, and her sister turned and went home to her children, weeping.
So the next evening Jurgen himself came to Morven, because all his wifeâs family assured him this was the manly thing to do. Jurgen left the shop in charge of Urien Villemarche, who was a highly efficient clerk. Jurgen followed his wife across Amneran Heath until they reached the cave. Jurgen would willingly have been elsewhere.
For the hound squatted upon his haunches, and seemed to grin at Jurgen; and there were other creatures abroad, that flew low in the twilight, keeping close to the ground like owls; but they were larger than owls and were more discomforting. And, moreover, all this was just after sunset upon Walburgaâs Eve, when almost anything is rather more than likely to happen.
So Jurgen said, a little peevishly: âLisa, my dear, if you go into the cave I will have to follow you, because it is the manly thing to do. And you know how easily I take cold.â
The voice of Dame Lisa, now, was thin and wailing, a curiously changed voice. âThere is a cross about your neck. You must throw that away.â
Jurgen was wearing such a cross, through motives of sentiment, because it had once belonged to his dead mother. But now, to pleasure his wife, he removed the trinket, and hung it on a barberry bush; and with the reflection that this was likely to prove a deplorable business, he followed Dame Lisa into the cave.
2. Assumption of a Noted Garment
THE TALE TELLS that all was dark there, and Jurgen could see no one. But the cave stretched straight forward, and downward, and at the far end was a glow of light. Jurgen went on and on, and so came presently to a centaur: and this surprised him not a little, because Jurgen knew that centaurs were imaginary creatures.
Certainly they were curious to look at: for here was the body of a fine bay horse, and rising from its shoulders, the sun-burnt body of a young fellow who regarded Jurgen with grave and not unfriendly eyes. The Centaur was lying beside a fire of cedar and juniper wood: near him was a platter containing a liquid with which he was anointing his hoofs. This stuff, as the Centaur rubbed it in with his fingers, turned the appearance of his hoofs to gold.
âHail, friend,â says Jurgen, âif you be the work of God.â
âYour protasis is not good Greek,â observed the Centaur, âbecause in Hellas we did not make such reservations. Besides, it is not so much my origin as my destination which concerns you.â
âWell, friend, and whither are you going?â
âTo the garden between dawn and sunrise, Jurgen.â
âSurely, now, but that is a fine name for a garden! and it is a place I would take joy to be seeing.â
âUp upon my back, Jurgen, and I will take you thither,â says the Centaur, and heaved to his feet. Then said the Centaur, when the pawnbroker hesitated: âBecause, as you must understand, there is no other way. For this garden does not exist, and never did exist, in what men humorously called real life; so that of course only imaginary creatures such as I can enter it.â
âThat sounds very reasonable,â Jurgen estimated: âbut as it happens, I am looking for my wife, whom I suspect to have been carried off by a devil, poor fellow!â
And Jurgen began to explain to the Centaur what had befallen.
The Centaur laughed. âIt may be for that reason I am here. There is, in any event, only one remedy in this matter. Above all devils â and above all gods, they tell me, but certainly above all centaurs â is the power of Koshchei the Deathless, who made things as they are.â
âIt is not always wholesome,â Jurgen submitted, âto speak of Koshchei. It seems especially undesirable in a dark place like this.â
âNone the less, I suspect it is to him you must go for justice.â
âI would prefer not doing that,â said Jurgen, with unaffected candor.
âYou have my sympathy: but there is no question of preference where Koshchei is concerned. Do you think, for example, that I am frowzing in this underground place by my own choice? and knew your name by accident?â
Jurgen was frightened, a little. âWell, well! but it is usually the deuce and all, this doing of the manly thing. How, then, can I come to Koshchei?â
âRoundabout,â says the Centaur. âThere is never any other way.â
âAnd is the road to this garden roundabout?â
âOh, very much so, inasmuch as it circumvents both destiny and common-sense.â
âNeeds must, then,â says Jurgen: âat all events, I am willing to taste any drink once.â
âYou will be chilled, though, traveling as you are. For you and I are going a queer way, in search of justice, over the grave of a dream and through the malice of time. So you had best put on this shirt above your other clothing.â
âIndeed it is a fine snug shining garment, with curious figures on it. I accept such raiment gladly. And whom shall I be thanking for his kindness, now?â
âMy name,â said the Centaur, âis Nessus.â
âWell, then, friend Nessus, I am at your service.â
And in a trice Jurgen was on the Centaurâs back, and the two of them had somehow come out of the ca...