The Nightmare Had Triplets (18 page)

    Then Smirt looked for and found a small black and yellow blotter, upon which was printed “Promote Prosperity with Printer’s Ink,” and this blotter he laid upon the topmost sheet of his nice clean writing paper, so that the oil from his hand would not soil this paper while he was writing on it; and he sat for a while thinking.

    Smirt did not think about Jane. He thought about how Troilus was rescued by his actual father, Phoebus
Apollo, from the sword of death-dealing Achilles, and was made immortal, and how Troilus could not find upon Olympus, or upon earth, or among the dead, any being so dear to him as was all-hateful Cressida; and how the young demigod returned to her, who was an old woman now, well wasted away in leprosy, and so found contentment. Smirt thought about Athenaeus and astigmatism and the Washington Monument and the old-fashioned saloon. He thought, also, about how Lady Jane Crawley (
née
Sheepshanks) after Sir Pitt’s death, did not, in so far as Smirt remembered, marry
en secondes noces
either Frederick the Great or Nebuchadnezzar.

    Next Smirt thought about katydids, and about the large mole far up on the inside of the left leg of Mrs. Murgatroyd, and about that black-painted tin sign, very rough to the touch, like sandpaper, with gilt letters on it proclaiming that Smirt’s father was Attorney at Law; about the green looking dust which buttercups leave upon black shoes; about the knight’s move at chess, and about Stonehenge; and about the Man in the Iron Mask (but one had so much wanted Aramis to win out), and about the high percentage of iodine to be found in oysters, and about the two positions of the American flag on Memorial Day.

    After that, Smirt dipped his pen in the ink for the second time, and he noted with approval how very cleverly he had controlled his thoughts, keeping them away from any unprofitable and misleading topic.

    For Smirt did not ever, he assured himself, think about the mortal woman Jane who had been his wife upon Earth. He thought only about Jane Eyre, and about Jane Austen, and about Lady Jane, the contralto singer in
Patience;
about Jane Shore and about Lady Jane Grey and about Jeanne Du Barry; about Joan of Arc, and reverting to fiction, about Jeanie Deans and about Jehane de St. Pol and about Jenny Wren, the doll’s dressmaker; about Jane Addams and about Jeanne d’Albret; about Joan of Navarre, the witch queen, and about wicked Joanna of Naples, and about insane Joanna of Spain, and about Pope Joan, and about Beatrice-Joanna also, in Middleton’s
Changeling.

    “It is known, however,” said Smirt, conscientiously, “that William Rowley wrote some part of this play.”

    Then he laid down his black pen without having written one least word of the legend of Arachne, and Smirt buried his face in both his arms, and he began to sob, convulsively, without shedding any tears, because Jane had been taken away from him.

    “Master of the Gods,” said a girl’s voice, “I am called Jane Doe.”

    “That is a legal fiction; and I prefer Arachne,” Smirt answered.

    He had lifted his divine head, and Smirt the supreme god sat staring rather forlornly at this schoolgirl.

    “—And, Master of the Gods, I have come into your temple to worship you by asking a few questions.”

    “I remember that there was once a princess,” Smirt replied, as he climbed up on his pedestal, “and you also, my child, I seem to remember, but in a different role.”

    “Therefore,” Smirt continued, “do you put your questions as briefly as may be, for I am under bonds to devise the legend of Arachne.”

    “In one instant, Master of the Gods,” replied Jane Doe, as she knelt down before Smirt on his pedestal,—“for I quite comprehend that you are a busy deity now that you are devising the legend of Arachne. But the members of my class in comparative religion have been asked to get in touch with a number of prominent deities of this country, and as a member of my class in comparative religion I have chosen you from a list of the prominent deities of this country. I know that as one of the prominent deities of this country in the profession of creating you are quite busy, but I would appreciate it very much if you would have the kindness, as one of the most prominent deities of this country, to answer me a few questions about your profession of creating.”

    “Well, so that your questions be brief, my dear—”

    “Where, Master of the Gods, did you receive your education before you took up creating as a profession? Which one of your own creations do you like best, and what are your hobbies when you are not working at your profession of creating? How long had you taken up your creating as a profession before you became one of the most prominent deities in this country? Before you became one of the most prominent deities in this country why did you take up creating as a profession? Now that you are one of the most prominent deities in this country, to what do you attribute your success as one of the most prominent deities in this country in creating as a profession? How do you advise young people who want to take up creating as a profession to get started in creating as a profession and to become one of the most prominent deities in this country who are engaged in creating as a profession? And ought I to let my boy friends, I do not quite know how to put it, but with every precaution, of course, or do you think it better for a girl to wait until she is married?”

    “Well, I would say it all depends. Yes, my child, it all depends. And now do you pardon me, for I must get back to work upon the legend of Arachne.”

    And Smirt raised his hand in a gesture somewhere between a blessing and a farewell.

    “Yet as one of your most devout worshippers,” replied a professor of biology, as he too knelt before Smirt’s pedestal, “I think it imperative, now that you have taken up creative work, for you to present to our university an autographed Arachne. We now have over 2500 creations, each and every one of which bears the name of the gifted and gift-giving deity who made it up out of his own head. We beseech you, whensoever you visit China, to honor with a brief epiphany the splendid student body of the University of Wen-Ching. We entreat you, O Master of the Gods, to devote a day or two to the scenic beauties of Peeping.”

    “Why, whatever do you mean, my worshipper?”
said Smirt.

    “I mean, Divine Master,” the kneeling professor replied reverently, “that the University of Wen-Ching, in Peeping, China, is American supported.”

    “Even in its grammar,” Smirt assented.

    “I mean also, Divine Master, that by many authorities Wen-Ching is regarded as a most important factor in the development of our next generation. Although founded as a Christian institution, and though loyally supported by every denominational missionary, the activities and teaching of Wen-Ching are approved by non-Christian leaders likewise. Wen-Ching is co-educational. Through all
the national disorders of recent years Wen-Ching, under the untiring supervision of Professor Morecock, has gone along undisturbed. It follows that we all think you ought to honor us with an epiphany at Peeping; and we find it obligatory for you to send us, by to-day’s post, an autographed Arachne.”

    But again Smirt had lifted his divine hand in protest.

    “I cannot grant your logic,” said Smirt, “and in consequence I cannot grant your requests either. No, I desire for you all good luck at Wen-Ching, and at Peeping also, because I recognize the value of a sound classical education. But I will not give away my creations gratis: the tithes of my temple must be kept up. And besides that, enjoyable as I have found your adoration, I do have to create the legend of Arachne—”

    “That is an excellent idea,” remarked the young man in a snappy gray suit of Kolledge Kustom Kut Klothes, “for the Imperial Typewriter Company is now embarking on a campaign in which it is proposed to use six well-known deities. So pray permit me toil straighten your coat sleeve. Look a little to the left, with the chin the least bit farther up, if you do not I mind, and now, just a trifle more pleasant, please, splendid, that will do nicely, you can see the proofs Tuesday morning.”

    “But—” Smirt replied, ineffectively.

    “Our plans,” the young man explained, “require a personal portrait in which you are seated at the Imperial Portable Typewriter, O Master of the Gods. We beseech also a letter from you pointing out the extreme utility of our machine and how effectually it can be carried about and used under all circumstances. The company takes pleasure in presenting you with one of the newest models of the Imperial Portable Typewriter—”

    “But—” Smirt remarked.

    “—Upon which,” the young man continued, “you can finish the legend of Arachne in no time at all. Your photographs and your letter will be reproduced and distributed to twenty thousand Imperial dealers, from coast to coast, and we will tie in with your publishers to advertise the legend of Arachne as one of our products.”

    “But,” Smirt repeated, “before that I must create the legend of Arachne.”

    “Yet do you first allow me, O Master of the Gods,” said an elderly butcher, “to tender my sincere and my most hearty congratulations on your superb craftsmanship in the legend of Arachne. How I chortled and chuckled over the cleverness of the dialogue and your deep understanding of the humors and ironies of life! Will you please be good enough to copy out
and autograph for me the second paragraph upon page 120, and thus add an inestimable treasure to my collection of your creations?”

    “Will you not give me a signed photograph?” asked the baker, “for I think very highly of the legend of Arachne. It grips the reader.”

    “In this manuscript,” said the candlestick maker, “I have set forth my views upon Sovietism, sin, silver, suicide, Siam, and civic sanitation. I believe that this manuscript will peculiarly appeal to the gifted creator of the legend of Arachne. So do you kindly read it, and make the necessary alterations, not later than; next Wednesday, and then tell me to what publisher I ought to send it.”

    Thereupon came bustling into Smirt’s temple Tom, and Dick, and Harry, along with Madame Quelquechose and Senora Etcetera and Lady Ampersand, and after these came Anon and Ibid and the world and his wife, and Mrs. Murgatroyd came also.

    “Master of the Gods,” said Tom, Dick and Harry speaking in unison, “now that we are eighteen, sex has become very wonderful to us, and we desire talk about it. We think, Master, that there is something about great minds such as you and we possess which remains eternally naïve: only fools become accustomed to miracles. The Puritan, the dunce, and the rustic start out by sneering; they end by accepting mutely. The radio, the Venus of Milo, the electric light, the overture to Tannhäuser, Arcturus, fornication, and Christopher Marlowe are all very obvious to such lost souls. But the genius says: ‘I do not understand how it is possible. Of course I must believe, because I can see and hear, but it remains none the less incredible.’ Because he has genius he lives in unending wonder. The fool quickly accepts and as quickly forgets. Take sex, for example—”

    It was a mandate at which Smirt sighed a trifle impatiently.

    “Ah, but why not,” said Smirt, “take something else? Why do you striplings not ever take anything else as your hackneyed theme?”

    “Because, Master,” replied Tom, Dick and Harry, “the ordinary man flops on the most beautiful of all beautiful things, the female body; he assaults it with his own body; he tumbles off: and he forgets the entire matter, all in five minutes. But a genius can pour out all his libido on the altars of Venus and never fail to be puzzled, to be filled with a glorious wonderment, or to be amazed always anew. The miracle fascinates him; it arouses both unbelief and a passionate adoration. He likes it; he wants to do it again. That, Master, is what we think about sex. That is why we believe that each one of us four is a genius. Are we not right?”

    Smirt inclined his divine head gravely. And he said, even more gravely:

    “Well, it all depends, my dear lads. In any event, your dicta upon this most vital and highly important subject are of such interest that I must now avert from them with a great deal of sincere regret, in order that I may create the legend of Arachne. And so, some other day perhaps—”

    “Whenever I talk with people who have read only the legend of Arachne,” Senora Etcetera declared—“whereas I of course have read all your books, over and yet over again—then I get rattle-headed. It seems to me that they have not found in your books what I have found. Which proves, does it not, that I am more sensitively sensitized? Yes, oh, yes indeed! Some people have wicked minds. You are naughty at times, O Master of the Gods, but I worship you wholeheartedly, because you are amusing at all times, which is the very nicest thing that a god can be.”

    “But I, I adore you, Master of the Gods,” remarked Madame Quelquechose, “and I wish that you could be wholly mine. Of course you do not really exist. You are just a beautiful dream I have dreamed.”

    “Do you think so?” said Smirt, dubiously: for this notion seemed rather to complicate matters.

    “Oh, but beyond doubt,” replied Madame Quelquechose; “and I am glad of that, too, because in real
life I am deeply in love with a quite different kind of person. Monsieur Quelquechose thinks most highly of him. So he fits into my reality; but you fit into the dream.”

    “Yes, Smirt the supreme god is a dream,” said Lady Ampersand, “and I am his living quotation. Every time my lips part in talking, his sweet words fall therefrom. If that wicked girl in the fairy tale had but read the fine books of Smirt, she might so easily have dropped his lovely words instead of those horrid toads.”

    “And Smirt is my dream also,” put in Mrs. Murgatroyd. “I think his books are perfectly wonderful. I am very proud to have known him before he became divine. I tell everybody about him. I simply cannot imagine what it was I saw in Murgatroyd.”