The Nightmare Had Triplets (60 page)

    “In fact, Miriam, I am not a carpenter nor a ploughman nor a follower for gain of any craft. So I do not make solid objects like chairs and tables. But I create dreams: and in your heart, dear Miriam, I shall live as a dream, and the memory of my talking will amuse you, a bit tenderly, by your own foolish discontent with its foolishness, just because I—to whom all things are possible—I shall have left your quiet secure living unchanged.”

    “That is as it may be, Smire.”

    She regarded him with great, meditative sad eyes. Her cheeks had colored, surprisingly, in a way most agreeable to witness. And Smire smiled.

    Miriam said then: “Yes, I shall remember you always, not unfondly. You are strange, you are wholly beautiful to look at, dear Smire; and your folly troubles me, because it will bring about your ruin some day, in a place very far from me, a ruin about which I shall never be hearing. Yes; I shall remember you upon yet other quiet, grave, golden evenings, like this evening, when the day’s scrubbing and cooking and needlework are done with, for the while; and when my gray husband has gone to sleep picking his teeth after supper; and when I reflect that my living has produced nothing in particular. But Yussuf”—she said, resolutely—“is a good carpenter, with an assured quiet living, in which I shall have my woman’s part, after the manner of our fathers.”

    Smire bowed his proud dark head, saying: “It may be you are wise, Miriam. I do not know. In any case, I shall not change your assured small future.”

    She sighed a little. She smiled back at him, tremulously. But she did not say anything.

    It was thus that Smire left this Miriam sitting alone in twilight, and made holy somehow to his eyes by her pathetic innocence and by her prettiness, beside an old well in Nazareth, under seven olive-trees.

    Well, and under yet another olive-tree sat a grave, golden-haired angel, with rather small cream-colored wings. He was clothed in a white robe, girdled up at his waist, and having red sleeves. His feet were bare; and in his left hand he carried lightly a green stalk which had flowered triply with gleaming, very white lilies.

    “Hail, heavenly one!” said Smire; “and for what are you waiting in this place?”

    “I am waiting, Smire, for you to depart out of this place, in which you have no proper business.”

    “Why, but,” says Smire, whistling softly, “but you are Gabriel!”

    “That is certain,” returned the calm celestial visitant; “nor will any righteous servant of my great Master be denying I am Gabriel, the least worthy of His immortal ministers in well-doing.”

    And Smire said: “Well-doing you may well call it, Gabriel, for your self-respect’s sake. Yet that is a new name for your mission this evening.”

    The archangel colored up a little, perhaps; but he answered nothing.

    “For though it be certain you are a well-thought-of archangel,” Smire continued, a bit ruefully, “yet it is equally certain that you bring news—or, let us say, an annunciation—to the young, unfortunate, dear, small, helpless, so pretty Miriam from whom I have just parted. That fact annoys me, rather. She does not want to hear your glad tidings; nor would any sane woman anywhere care for the intolerable honors which await Miriam. I do not like this, Gabriel. I have been intruded into doings of too vast significance.”

    Thus speaking, Smire lighted a cigarette. And without any false pride, he sat down sociably, beside the archangel.

    “Now, do you know,” Smire continued, “I believe that, at bottom, I am a little frightened to find myself in this exact situation? It is the aftermath of my childhood’s first memories. For I was reared, you must comprehend, under the very best Episcopalian principles—such as no angel could ever possibly grasp, now I think of it,—under principles through which the task set for you this evening was regarded very reverently by persons who did not care to consider your mission too closely. To find myself here, at this instant, is therefore a bit awkward. I cannot but consider you are behaving abominably, from Miriam’s point of view—yes, and from that of Yussuf also. Poor Yussuf! it is of his position, in particular, that a confirmed Episcopalian simply does not dare think. And poor me! for my position likewise is dreadful.”

    “Then, if you do not like your position,” says the archangel, practically, “do you go away from it, Smire, and save trouble for everybody concerned.”

    “But really you do not understand my position, dear sir,” Smire pleaded with the Archangel Gabriel. “That you act in all good faith, and are even sustained by a sense of duty in the performance of your rather delicate functions, I do not question. Your innocence in all such matters is quite probably angelic. Mine by ill luck is not. Moreover, to me is foreknown the unhappy result, for two thousand years to come, of this evening’s work. I foresee, in one huge, hideous panorama, all the martyrdoms, the pitched battles, the heresies, the persecutions, the hatreds, the miseries, the lies, the hypocrisies, the blatant zeal, and the pious horrors in general, which it is perhaps my duty to avert from mankind. Already I have upon my conscience three Punic Wars; and dare I—that is the question—dare I increase its burdens thus intolerably?”

    Gabriel asks him, “And by what means, O wicked Smire, would you avert that which has been decreed by the stainless wisdom of Heaven?”

    “Hah,” Smire replied, smiling reminiscently, “I have but to go with you, Gabriel. When you have spoken your glad tidings, then I might speak—as I did not speak just now.”

    “And as always, you would speak foolishly, Smire.”

    “Why, but of course!” Smire agreed. “That is the whole point of it. You would speak with the tongue of angels. And I would speak less loftily, without heeding reason the least bit. But we would both be addressing a woman; and I have not yet known a woman who would prefer an angel to Smire.”

    “Still you talk blasphemy,” said the archangel, frowning.

    Smire waved that aside, urbanely; and he answered:

    “All things are possible to Smire except only to blaspheme. You forget that before your Master had climbed Sinai, I was Smirt, the great Master, not of any mere synagogue, but of Amit. No, Gabriel, you take altogether the wrong way to persuade Smire; you serve your Master abominably; and I dislike bungling.”

    Up went the archangel’s eyebrows.

    “But what would you have me do, Smire?”

    That Smire was surprised by any such obtuseness, his unfailing
savoir faire
could not wholly conceal, now that Smire replied,—

    “Why, it is your plain duty, as the ambassador of Heaven, to exercise your diplomacy until you have circumvented me in argument and have convinced me you act for the best.”

    “Alas,” said the archangel, “but I have not your fine eloquence, Smire, nor your keen wits either.”

    Smire applauded that. “Come now, that is far better. Yes, you ought to begin just so, by thus flattering me a little and thus softening me into a more tractable state of mind.”

    “And what ought I to do afterward, Smire?”

    Gabriel was now speaking with a suitable meekness. And Smire answered him in tones of continued encouragement, saying:

    “Well, there are various means of approach. You might contrive for me some everlasting punishment in your Gehenna, for example. But no, I would deride any such notion, at once. For your Master—in a somewhat narrow-minded way, so I cannot but think, although to be sure it is none of my business—your Master denies the existence of any other god whatever. He could not, at this late date, officially recognize the existence of the God of Branlon, by punishing the God of Branlon in any place so open to the public as is Gehenna, without stultifying His own age-old position. He would make Himself flatly ridiculous. No, I would see that at once. So, you could not well circumvent me in that way.”

    “Why, then—” said the archangel.

    “Please do not interrupt me, Gabriel! Interruptions are inurbane. Or again, you might try being quietly logical with me. But there, still, you would fail. In mere logic, you are now undeniably setting afoot the wars, the persecutions, the burnings, the reform movements, the Sunday radio programs, the temperance crusades, and yet other iniquities to which I referred just now. No, I would refute you far too easily did you dare venture into logic. So I counsel you to avoid logic.”

    “I shall obey you, Smire,” says the archangel, sighing.

    “Yes, Gabriel, but I have also counselled you not to keep interrupting me. Garrulity is a great vice in anybody; but it is fatal to an ambassador. It is not diplomatic. All delicate negotiations perforce go astray when people begin to talk thus at random. But what was I saying? I have lost the thread of my remarks on account of your constant interruptions.”

    “You were saying, Smire—”

    “Oh, but come now, Gabriel! Do you not thrust words into my mouth, if you please. I was saying that your position is desperate. I was saying that your sole hope is to circumvent me by taking advantage of some personal weakness in my nature.”

    “But how, Smire, can I take advantage of what does not exist?”

    “Excellent!” cries Smire, “for now you flatter me still again. You are doing far better at diplomacy, Gabriel. You speak now with a correctness of good breeding which would justify me in believing you came straight from Hell. Yet in point of fact, I have weaknesses. Do not let the confession surprise you. No truly great artist is ever without many ugly small idiocies, such vices even, as will ensure a fair income for his biographers. I infer it is by taking advantage of some one of these inevitable weaknesses that you can best circumvent Smire. Yes, it is to the artist in Smire you ought to address yourself. That is your sole hope.”

    “No doubt you are right, Smire; but what would I say?”

    The God of Branlon spread out his white hands in polite amazement; and replied:

    “Oh, but, my dear Gabriel, you would speak unanswerably. You would compel me to admit, as an artist, that there is really a great deal to be said on your side of the matter, and nothing whatever on mine. You would show that from art’s standpoint your embassy is well justified. You would point out—to begin with—that your task here to-day gives to mankind a superb dream, an ever-sustaining dream, that tomorrow will bring to them complete and eternal happiness. Can I, who am an artist, you would demand of me, harbor for one instant the notion that any earthly discomforts—such as wars and public-spirited clergymen and so on—ought to be weighed against the pursuit of any dream thus lovely? You would speak with some little exaltation, I suggest,—rather reproachfully, you know, as one who had expected far better things of me. And I at once would be left in a position wholly untenable.”

    “Yet—” said Gabriel.

    “—Whereafter,” Smire continued, “after thus shattering my morale, an excursus seems indicated, a brisk unexpected sortie concerning the religious art of the Renaissance period. In my teeth you will hurl the revered names of Michael Angelo, Leonardo, Raphael, Botticelli, Giotto, Fra Angelico, Mantegna, and such other names as may occur to you. And do you yourself be a bit picturesque; be definite; allude to the devotional quietude of Perugino’s frail saints under pale Umbrian skies, to the naïve and idyllic cherubim of Pinturicchio, and to your own most excellent portrait, very much as you are at present, by Da Forli, in the Uffizi Gallery. The coloring of Solario, I may mention, has always had for me a peculiar appeal: you should lay considerable stress upon the adroit, sombre colors of Andrea da Solario. Well! and all this fine art you are now making possible, you will remark,”

    “However—” said Gabriel.

    “And the cathedrals,” said Smire. “The cathedrals are strong cards. You have but to play them. Dare I, you will ask, dare I destroy, like a pre-natal and world-ranging Herostratus, so many magnificent temples as yet unbuilded? Would I tear down Westminster? have I the effrontery to raze St. Peter’s? and to dilapidate Notre Dame? Remember, in passing, that I like best of them all Sainte Chapelle: be especially eloquent as to the jewel-like, bright beauties of Sainte Chapelle. Of all these, and of yet many other sublime stained-glass and lapidary dreams, you are at this very instant, as you will justly remark, laying the foundations. What artist can interfere with your labors—with labors so far-seeing, so everlasting, and so superbly fruited—without tumbling into apostasy toward art, without flouting every one of those nine Muses whom I pretend to serve? Yes, Gabriel, you are getting the better of me hand over fist, as they say, in this argument.”

    “But—” said Gabriel.

    “Why, but, precisely!” said Smire. “Yes, you proceed now to conclude your circumventing of me with the resistless logic of a further argument
ad hominem;
and I quite follow your impending deductions. You will become yet more directly personal. You will remark that I, who pursue at all hazards my own special dream of Branlon, I cannot rationally object to any other person’s pursuit of this dream of paradise. You will grant that I may permissibly lament, or at least I may observe wonderingly, the odd fact that all persons should not prefer Branlon to the paradise which you promise them. I myself do not care for the prospectus of your paradise, you will permit me to say. To my mind it lacks both refinement and variety; it is equally gaudy and ponderous. Ah, but about tastes there is no arguing, you will reply; no dream can be made obligatory. By these truisms shall I be silenced after I have already been convinced; and I shall dare add no least single syllable further.”

    “Still—” said Gabriel.

    “Indeed”—Smire speculated—“indeed, at this point in my discomfiture, I may even go so far as to admit handsomely that, for people who like that sort of thing, eternal bliss in your paradise is well enough. It would be an urbane gesture. I would probably make it. Let us presume so. Well, and after that, I congratulate you upon the finesse with which you have circumvented me. And we then part good friends, as becomes a pair of well-seasoned diplomats, without another least word of argument.”