Jurgen (30)
By:
October 9, 2015
James Branch Cabell’s 1919 ironic fantasy novel Jurgen, A Comedy of Justice, the protagonist of which seduces women everywhere he travels — including into Arthurian legend and Hell itself — is (according to Aleister Crowley) one of the “epoch-making masterpieces of philosophy.” Cabell’s sardonic inversion of romantic fantasy was postmodernist avant la lettre. HiLoBooks is pleased to serialize Jurgen here at HILOBROW. Enjoy!
It was on a bright and tranquil day in November, at the period which the People of the Field called the summer of Alcyonê, that Jurgen went down from the forest; and after skirting the moats of Pseudopolis, and avoiding a meeting with any of the town’s dispiritingly glorious inhabitants, Jurgen came to the seashore.
Chloris had suggested his doing this, in order that she could have a chance to straighten things in his cabin while she was tidying her tree for the winter, and could so make one day’s work serve for two. For the dryad of an oak-tree has large responsibilities, what with the care of so many dead leaves all winter, and the acorns being blown from their places and littering up the ground everywhere, and the bark cracking until it looks positively disreputable: and Jurgen was at any such work less a help than a hindrance. So Chloris gave him a parcel of lunch and a perfunctory kiss, and told him to go down to the seashore and get inspired and make up a pretty poem about her. “And do you be back in time for an early supper, Jurgen,” says she, “but not a minute before.”
Thus it befell that Jurgen reflectively ate his lunch in solitude, and regarded the Euxine. The sun was high, and the queer shadow that followed Jurgen was huddled into shapelessness.
“This is indeed an inspiring spectacle,” Jurgen reflected. “How puny seems the race of man, in contrast with this mighty sea, which now spreads before me like, as So-and-so has very strikingly observed, a something or other under such and such conditions!” Then Jurgen shrugged. “Really, now I think of it, though, there is no call for me to be suffused with the traditional emotions. It looks like a great deal of water, and like nothing else in particular. And I cannot but consider the water is behaving rather futilely.”
So he sat in drowsy contemplation of the sea. Far out a shadow would form on the water, like the shadow of a broadish plank, scudding shoreward, and lengthening and darkening as it approached. Presently it would be some hundred feet in length, and would assume a hard smooth darkness, like that of green stone: this was the under side of the wave. Then the top of it would curdle, the southern end of the wave would collapse, and with exceeding swiftness this white feathery falling would plunge and scamper and bluster northward, the full length of the wave. It would be neater and more workmanlike to have each wave tumble down as a whole. From the smacking and the splashing, what looked like boiling milk would thrust out over the brown sleek sands: and as the mess spread it would thin to a reticulated whiteness, like lace, and then to the appearance of smoke sprays clinging to the sands. Plainly the tide was coming in.
Or perhaps it was going out. Jurgen’s notions as to such phenomena were vague. But, either way, the sea was stirring up a large commotion and a rather pleasant and invigorating odor.
And then all this would happen once more: and then it would happen yet again. It had happened a number of hundred of times since Jurgen first sat down to eat his lunch: and what was gained by it? The sea was behaving stupidly. There was no sense in this continual sloshing and spanking and scrabbling and spluttering.
Thus Jurgen, as he nodded over the remnants of his lunch.
“Sheer waste of energy, I am compelled to call it,” said Jurgen, aloud, just as he noticed there were two other men on this long beach.
One came from the north, one from the south, so that they met not far from where Jurgen was sitting: and by an incredible coincidence Jurgen had known both of these men in his first youth. So he hailed them, and they recognized him at once. One of these travellers was the Horvendile who had been secretary to Count Emmerick when Jurgen was a lad: and the other was Perion de la Forêt, that outlaw who had come to Bellegarde very long ago disguised as the Vicomte de Puysange. And all three of these old acquaintances had kept their youth surprisingly.
Now Horvendile and Perion marveled at the fine shirt which Jurgen was wearing.
“Why, you must know,” he said, modestly, “that I have lately become King of Eubonia, and must dress according to my station.”
So they said they had always expected some such high honor to befall him, and then the three of them fell to talking. And Perion told how he had come through Pseudopolis, on his way to King Theodoret at Lacre Kai, and how in the market-place at Pseudopolis he had seen Queen Helen. “She is a very lovely lady,” said Perion, “and I marvelled over her resemblance to Count Emmerick’s fair sister, whom we all remember.”
“I noticed that at once,” said Horvendile, and he smiled strangely, “when I, too, passed through the city.”
“Why, but nobody could fail to notice it,” said Jurgen.
“It is not, of course, that I consider her to be as lovely as Dame Melicent,” continued Perion, “since, as I have contended in all quarters of the world, there has never lived, and will never live, any woman so beautiful as Melicent. But you gentlemen appear surprised by what seems to me a very simple statement. Your air, in fine, is one that forces me to point out it is a statement I can permit nobody to deny.” And Perion’s honest eyes had narrowed unpleasantly, and his sun-browned countenance was uncomfortably stern.
“Dear sir,” said Jurgen, hastily, “it was merely that it appeared to me the lady whom they call Queen Helen hereabouts is quite evidently Count Emmerick’s sister Dorothy la Désirée.”
“Whereas I recognized her at once,” says Horvendile, “as Count Emmerick’s third sister, La Beale Ettarre.”
And now they stared at one another, for it was certain that these three sisters were not particularly alike.
“Putting aside any question of eyesight,” observes Perion, “it is indisputable that the language of both of you is distorted. For one of you says this is Madame Dorothy, and the other says this is Madame Ettarre: whereas everybody knows that this Queen Helen, whomever she may resemble, cannot possibly be anybody else save Queen Helen.”
“To you, who are always the same person,” replied Jurgen, “that may sound reasonable. For my part, I am several people: and I detect no incongruity in other persons’ resembling me.”
“There would be no incongruity anywhere,” suggested Horvendile, “if Queen Helen were the woman whom we had loved in vain. For the woman whom when we were young we loved in vain is the one woman that we can never see quite clearly, whatever happens. So we might easily, I suppose, confuse her with some other woman.”
“But Melicent is the lady whom I have loved in vain,” said Perion, “and I care nothing whatever about Queen Helen. Why should I? What do you mean now, Horvendile, by your hints that I have faltered in my constancy to Dame Melicent since I saw Queen Helen? I do not like such hints.”
“No less, it is Ettarre whom I love, and have loved not quite in vain, and have loved unfalteringly,” says Horvendile, with his quiet smile: “and I am certain that it was Ettarre whom I beheld when I looked upon Queen Helen.”
“I may confess,” says Jurgen, clearing his throat, “that I have always regarded Madame Dorothy with peculiar respect and admiration. For the rest, I am married. Even so, I think that Madame Dorothy is Queen Helen.”
Then they fell to debating this mystery. And presently Perion said the one way out was to leave the matter to Queen Helen. “She at all events must know who she is. So do one of you go back into the city, and embrace her knees as is the custom of this country when one implores a favor of the King or the Queen: and do you then ask her fairly.”
“Not I,” says Jurgen. “I am upon terms of some intimacy with a hamadryad just at present. I am content with my Hamadryad. And I intend never to venture into the presence of Queen Helen any more, in order to preserve my contentment.”
“Why, but I cannot go,” says Perion, “because Dame Melicent has a little mole upon her left cheek. And Queen Helen’s cheek is flawless. You understand, of course, that I am certain this mole immeasurably enhances the beauty of Dame Melicent,” he added, loyally. “None the less, I mean to hold no further traffic with Queen Helen.”
“Now my reason for not going is this,” said Horvendile: — “that if I attempted to embrace the knees of Ettarre, whom people hereabouts call Helen, she would instantly vanish. Other matters apart, I do not wish to bring any such misfortune upon the Island of Leukê.”
“But that,” said Perion, “is nonsense.”
“Of course it is,” said Horvendile. “That is probably why it happens.”
So none of them would go. And each of them clung, none the less, to his own opinion about Queen Helen. And presently Perion said they were wasting both time and words. Then Perion bade the two farewell, and Perion continued southward, toward Lacre Kai. And as he went he sang a song in honor of Dame Melicent, whom he celebrated as Heart o’ My Heart: and the two who heard him agreed that Perion de la Forêt was probably the worst poet in the world.
“Nevertheless, there goes a very chivalrous and worthy gentleman,” said Horvendile, “intent to play out the remainder of his romance. I wonder if the Author gets much pleasure from these simple characters? At least they must be easy to handle.”
“I cultivate a judicious amount of gallantry,” says Jurgen: “I do not any longer aspire to be chivalrous. And indeed, Horvendile, it seems to me indisputable that each one of us is the hero in his own romance, and cannot understand any other person’s romance, but misinterprets everything therein, very much as we three have fallen out in the simple matter of a woman’s face.”
Now young Horvendile meditatively stroked his own curly and reddish hair, brushing it away from his ears with his left hand, as he sat there staring meditatively at nothing in particular.
“I would put it, Jurgen, that we three have met like characters out of three separate romances which the Author has composed in different styles.”
“That also,” Jurgen submitted, “would be nonsense.”
“Ah, but perhaps the Author very often perpetrates nonsense. Come Jurgen, you who are King of Eubonia!” says Horvendile, with his wide-set eyes a-twinkle; “what is there in you or me to attest that our Author has not composed our romances with his tongue in his cheek?”
“Messire Horvendile, if you are attempting to joke about Koshchei who made all things as they are, I warn you I do not consider that sort of humor very wholesome. Without being prudish, I believe in common-sense: and I would vastly prefer to have you talk about something else.”
Horvendile was still smiling. “You look some day to come to Koshchei, as you call the Author. That is easily said, and sounds excellently. Ah, but how will you recognize Koshchei? and how do you know you have not already passed by Koshchei in some street or meadow? Come now, King Jurgen,” said Horvendile, and still his young face wore an impish smile; “come tell me, how do you know that I am not Koshchei who made all things as they are?”
“Be off with you!” says Jurgen; “you would never have had the wit to invent a Jurgen. Something else is troubling me: I have just recollected that the young Perion who left us only a moment since, grew to be rich and gray-headed and famous, and took Dame Melicent from her pagan husband, and married her himself: and that all this happened long years ago. So our recent talk with young Perion seems very improbable.”
“Why, but do you not remember, too, that I ran away in the night when Maugis d’Aigremont stormed Storisende? and was never heard of any more? and that all this, too, took place a long, long while ago? Yet we have met as three fine young fellows, here on the beach of fabulous Leukê. I put it to you fairly, King Jurgen: now how could this conceivably have come about unless the Author sometimes composes nonsense?”
“Truly the way that you express it, Horvendile, the thing does seem a little strange; and I can think of no explanation rendering it plausible.”
“Again, see now, King Jurgen of Eubonia, how you underrate the Author’s ability. This is one of the romancer’s most venerable devices that is being practised. See for yourself!” And suddenly Horvendile pushed Jurgen so that Jurgen tumbled over in the warm sand.
Then Jurgen arose, gaping and stretching himself. “That was a very foolish dream I had, napping here in the sun. For it was certainly a dream. Otherwise, they would have left footprints, these young fellows who have gone the way of youth so long ago. And it was a dream that had no sense in it. But indeed it would be strange if that were the whole point of it, and if living, too, were such a dream, as that queer Horvendile would have me think.”
Jurgen snapped his fingers.
“Well, and what in common fairness could he or anyone else expect me to do about it! That is the answer I fling at you, you Horvendile whom I made up in a dream. And I disown you as the most futile of my inventions. So be off with you! and a good riddance, too, for I never held with upsetting people.”
Then Jurgen dusted himself, and trudged home to an early supper with the Hamadryad who contented him.
Footnotes from Notes on Jurgen (1928), by James P. Cover — with additional comments from the creators of this website; rewritten, in some instances, by HiLoBooks.
* Summer of Alcyonê — This is a period of seven days before and seven days after the shortest day of the year, during which the winds do not blow. Alcyonê (or Halcyonê) was, in Greek mythology, the daughter of Æolius; and the wife of Ceyx. Ceyx was drowned and his body, cast on the shore, was found by his wife. The gods, out of compassion for her grief, changed both her and her husband into kingfishers; and, by command of Zeus, the winds do blow during their brooding season, lest their eggs by washed out to sea.
* Horvendile — Horvendile is the name Mr. Cabell takes when he enters his own romances. In reading of Horvendile is must be remembered that he is always conscious that the other characters are but creations of his own imagination, and puppets with which he may do as he pleases. “Horvendile” is a late Frenchified form of a name earlier attested as Aurvandil or Orwandil. This was a companion of Thor who suffered frost-bite in a journey. Thor broke off his great toe (or both of them?) and threw it into the sky as a star. It has traditionally been identified with Alcor, next to the end of the handle in the Big Dipper. The other toe is Rigel, Orion’s left foot, if both toes are intended. The name appears as the name of the star itself later, and in Old English as “earendel”, in which form Tolkien found it, and eventually produced the tale of Eärendil the Mariner, who yet voyages over the world with the Silmaril bound on his brow. The transformation of Orwandil’s toe is one of the oddest known to literature.
* Theodoret — This monarch is mentioned in Domnei and Figures of Earth. Perion de la Forêt served as his general against Demetrios and Dom Manuel aided him when he was attacked by the Easterlings.
* Lacre Kai — This city is mentioned in nearly all the romances dealing with the early history of Poictesme. According to a passage in Part VIII of Straws and Prayer-books, it was over thirteen centuries old.
* “Characters out of three separate romances” — These are, of course, really “characters out of three separate romances which the Author has composed in different styles”: Perion from Domnei, Horvendile from The Cream of the Jest, and Jurgen from this book.
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SERIALIZED BY HILOBOOKS: Jack London’s The Scarlet Plague | Rudyard Kipling’s With the Night Mail (and “As Easy as A.B.C.”) | Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Poison Belt | H. Rider Haggard’s When the World Shook | Edward Shanks’ The People of the Ruins | William Hope Hodgson’s The Night Land | J.D. Beresford’s Goslings | E.V. Odle’s The Clockwork Man | Cicely Hamilton’s Theodore Savage | Muriel Jaeger’s The Man With Six Senses | Jack London’s “The Red One” | Philip Francis Nowlan’s Armageddon 2419 A.D. | Homer Eon Flint’s The Devolutionist | W.E.B. DuBois’s “The Comet” | Edgar Rice Burroughs’s The Moon Men | Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s Herland | Sax Rohmer’s “The Zayat Kiss” | Eimar O’Duffy’s King Goshawk and the Birds | Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Lost Prince | Morley Roberts’s The Fugitives | Helen MacInnes’s The Unconquerable | Geoffrey Household’s Watcher in the Shadows | William Haggard’s The High Wire | Hammond Innes’s Air Bridge | James Branch Cabell’s Jurgen | John Buchan’s “No Man’s Land” | John Russell’s “The Fourth Man” | E.M. Forster’s “The Machine Stops” | John Buchan’s Huntingtower | Arthur Conan Doyle’s When the World Screamed | Victor Bridges’ A Rogue By Compulsion | Jack London’s The Iron Heel | H. De Vere Stacpoole’s The Man Who Lost Himself | P.G. Wodehouse’s Leave It to Psmith | Richard Connell’s “The Most Dangerous Game” | Houdini and Lovecraft’s “Imprisoned with the Pharaohs” | Arthur Conan Doyle’s “The Sussex Vampire”.
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