He was a sad old man with gloomy eye,Who wrote with slow and studied inference,Heaving the while some long and doleful sigh,Or staring about with bored indifference.Around his body there were ragged clothesAs hung upon a scarecrow in the corn,And on his coat was pinned a withered rose,From which he slowly plucked each barbed thorn.Gud stopped upon his way and questioned him."I am a lonely soul," the old man said,"Within this rose I find that life is grim,Without its thorns, why even beauty's dead!"Gud wondered, yet it would not be politeTo break the old man's tale of woe."I'd like to know," the ancient said, "the candle-light—When we have blown it out where does it go?""I do not know," said Gud, "do you?""Ah yes," replied the old man, "I know very well,For I remember as if it were but yesterday howHalf dead and famished, the desert in my eyesAnd hunger written on my lipsI stood there like a captain on a hillDreaming of his broken ships."I kicked aside a stone that crushed a skull;When from that mouth that mouldered there,There came as if it were the voice of doom,A haunting cry that chilled the air."Then suddenly I laughed and turned my heelIn that dead face; and laughing stillI danced along the sands, played hide and seekAnd chased my shadow up a hill."
He was a sad old man with gloomy eye,Who wrote with slow and studied inference,Heaving the while some long and doleful sigh,Or staring about with bored indifference.
Around his body there were ragged clothesAs hung upon a scarecrow in the corn,And on his coat was pinned a withered rose,From which he slowly plucked each barbed thorn.
Gud stopped upon his way and questioned him."I am a lonely soul," the old man said,"Within this rose I find that life is grim,Without its thorns, why even beauty's dead!"
Gud wondered, yet it would not be politeTo break the old man's tale of woe."I'd like to know," the ancient said, "the candle-light—When we have blown it out where does it go?"
"I do not know," said Gud, "do you?""Ah yes," replied the old man, "I know very well,For I remember as if it were but yesterday howHalf dead and famished, the desert in my eyesAnd hunger written on my lipsI stood there like a captain on a hillDreaming of his broken ships.
"I kicked aside a stone that crushed a skull;When from that mouth that mouldered there,There came as if it were the voice of doom,A haunting cry that chilled the air.
"Then suddenly I laughed and turned my heelIn that dead face; and laughing stillI danced along the sands, played hide and seekAnd chased my shadow up a hill."
And when the old man had done with these foolish words he suddenly seized the rose upon his coat and tore it off and cast it from him. Then he picked up his tattered goose quill pen and dipped it in a pool and began to write furiously.
When the old man paused and stared up vacantly, Gud spoke to him and asked: "What are you writing?"
Thereupon the old man made answer and said to Gud: "I am writing a cook book for cannibals."
Being a vegetarian in theory if not in practice, Gud was not interested, and he passed on, walking rapidly, so that he presently overtook a man who was following stealthily after yet another man.
He who followed stooped frequently and, with a two-pronged instrument, picked up objects from the pavement. These he cast into a brazier that he carried, wherein that which he picked up sizzled and burned and made a stench in its burning.
Gud wot not what the man did and would know, so he plucked at the sleeve of yet another citizen of that place and asked of him: "Who be these two, the one that walks alone with his face aloft, and the other that follows after, stooping and searching for filth?"
Said the citizen: "These be our Genius and our Critic."
"And what do they?" asked Gud.
To this the citizen replied: "The Genius talks words, and the Critic follows after, and, as the words fall from the lips of Genius, the Critic picks them up with the tongs of contempt and burns them in the brazier of public opinion."
"But why," asked Gud, "do the words of the Genius make a stench in their burning?"
"Because," said the citizen, "they are vile."
Gud doubted that which the citizen told him, and he quickened his steps and made bold to pass close to the Critic. Whereupon Gud, who could see all things, saw that the words of the Genius which the Critic picked up were not vile but beautiful; and that, when the Critic made a pass toward the brazier, he put the word not therein but dropped it instead into a wallet which he carried beneath his mantle.
Gud was angered and he grasped the fellow by his egotism and shook him until his conceit rattled and made inferential allegations of hypocrisy.
"What is it to you," demanded the Critic, "if I spit into the brazier to make a stench to please the people?"
"But what do you with the words of Genius?"
"By the holy name of Public Opinion! Why should a man do the work of a street cleaner on the salary of a critic?"
"I have been a public official myself," replied Gud sympathetically, "and I know how ill such service is paid."
This pleased the Critic and he turned and looked into Gud's face and saw there the satisfied look of self-sufficient authority which he recognized as akin to his own. Plucking confidentially at Gud's sleeve he said: "As you appreciate that I must live by subtle ways, then perhaps I can interest you in a few choice verbal gems."
Gud realized that purchasing these words was probably illegal in this world. But it wasn't his world, so he said: "I should like to look at them."
The Critic led Gud into the rear room of a perfectly respectable place and opened up his wallet. Here, in a secluded corner, he emptied the contents upon a table.
Gud began fingering over the verbal gems.
"Look at this," the Critic cried, picking up a brilliant one.
"Too scintillating for the quiet setting I have in mind," replied Gud. Then after examining a few more, he asked: "What will you take for the lot?"
"My price for the lot," said the Critic, "is the gift of power to speak myself such words of genius as I have been defaming to please the people, for I am weary of being a mere word picker and moral scavenger."
Gud answered: "I can give a Critic the power to walk down the street and spill words but I can not make a Genius pick them up."
"Sold!" said the Critic, pushing the verbal gems across the table—and immediately he began to babble words. But Gud noted that they were only words of great talent.
As he looked over the verbal gems he had purchased, Gud decided that he had no use for them, and so he called to the departing Critic: "Where can I sell these words?"
"Go to Hell," shouted the Critic over his shoulder.
So Gud went to Hell, and reaching the gate thereof he knocked and cried: "Is this the place where one brings the words of Genius?"
As Gud knew all things he knew the answer to his question before he asked it, but he thought it best to ask anyway in order to verify his omniscience. In this case it was wrong.
"No," said the gate keeper, and he gave Gud the correct address.
The way took Gud past seven more hells, for the people of this sphere, being a righteous people, were amply helled.
Reaching at last the bottom-most vault beneath the deepest hell, Gud came upon a junk shop.
As he entered, the proprietor, who looked both old and young, asked; "Comest thou to buy or to sell?"
"I have a few words which I might sell," said Gud.
"I am not much interested in words," replied the proprietor, who looked both old and young, "for I am a dealer in sin, and the sinfulness of words is much over-rated."
"But the words I have are the words of Genius."
"Is the genius dead?" asked the dealer.
"Not yet, but he is being hounded by a critic."
"I'll take them in trade," suggested the dealer.
"What do you offer?" asked Gud.
"Anything you wish. I have a very complete catalog on crimes."
"I am interested in sin in a sort of professional way," admitted Gud, "let me see your goods."
Very graciously the dealer escorted Gud through the chambers where his stock of sins was stored.
It was a magnificent collection. There were huge piles of thefts of property and of honor and virtue and of good name, and great bales of untold lies. There were infinite infidelities and even a greater number of credulities. There were a few ragged ends not justified by the means, and many tyrannical prohibitions and faded blue laws, and a carefully locked cabinet, labeled "Old Maids' Wishes."
There were easy sins for beginners and more difficult sins for hardened criminals. There were sins with which children might please their fathers and sins for fathers to visit upon their children and their children's children. There were sins against men which are often forgiven and sins against women which are never forgiven. There were sins for the rich and sins for the poor, and a few rare sins suitable for both.
The old dealer sighed as they passed the murder counter. "Some of this stock moves very slowly," he confessed. "Indeed it keeps me busy now-a-days finding enough fresh stock to supply the demand."
Gud was a little puzzled over the nature of this business. "Your trade," he remarked, "is, I suppose, with the inhabitants of these neighboring hells, supplying them with new kinds of sins?"
"No indeed," replied the dealer, who seemed a little insulted. "The dwellers in hells are fed up on sin. I never deal with branded sinners. I cater only to the best of righteous trade."
"Oh, I see, you bootleg sin in the heavens."
"No, no, I trade with mortals, and I sell only to the conscientious and the righteous."
"And yet, you are stocked with every sin in the calendar; where is the value to the righteous in such stock?"
"Merely a matter of time and place," explained the dealer, "and the prevailing ethical ideas of my clients. You see my business is to buy up the moral offal of one place or time and sell it at another time or place when or where it has high value as virtue."
"Do you sell for cash or credit?"
"As I do not deal with hardened sinners who would admit the value of my wares, but only with the righteous, I dare not give credit. But as for cash, that is not practical either, as there can be no universal medium of exchange between people whose fundamental ideas of morality differ—so I am obliged to trade by barter."
"That must be troublesome."
"Yes," agreed the dealer, "relative values differ so—in some spheres a murder is considered more than equal to a life time of dishonesty—in other realms murder is considered an equitable payment for the mere accusation of untruthfulness. But the exchange values of different kinds of thefts bother me most, they are so illogical. I have one group of clients who place a value on thievery in an inverse ratio to the size of the theft. Only last week one of them who had robbed a nation swept by winter winds of all its fuel resources wished to exchange his deed for the idea of pilfering a lock of hair from the head of his neighbor's wife. Indeed the difficulty of finding a logical ratio between the immoral value of a theft and the value of the property stolen is one of the most baffling problems in the mathematics of sin."
"A very interesting business you have," commented Gud, "and pray, how came you to be in it?"
"It was my father's idea, for he was a great student of morals, and noting how they changed from age to age, he saw that if the discarded crimes and abominations of one time or place could be transplanted to other times and places, they would have great value as virtues. It was only necessary to achieve immortality to make the venture practical. My father did not achieve that for himself, as his arteries had started to calcify before he discovered the immortality vitamin. But I fell heir to his efforts and ideas, and I have little fault to find with the outcome.
"But of late business has not been so good. There is too much intercommunication: the moral values of murders, for instance, were once the main profit of the house, and we could not get enough to satisfy the various moral ends for which murder was justified. But now times have changed and privately initiated murder hardly classes as moral anywhere."
"Then why do you not quit retailing, and trade in wholesale murders?"
The dealer shook his head sadly. "Impractical," he sighed. "I can not deal with states, since being without conscience they have no awareness of sin, no sense of repentance and hence have nothing to offer in exchange."
In payment for the words of genius, which he left with the dealer, Gud selected a little sin that he had been wishing to commit all his life, and so he departed greatly pleased with his possession.
As Gud was passing up through hell he saw two souls which were not being properly punished, but were strolling about as trusties of the place. Gud approached them and asked: "Why are you two not being properly punished?"
The first soul made answer and said to Gud: "We need none of these grosser punishments such as increased temperature and breathing SO2, which the ancients, who imagined hell, were able, in the limits of their scientific knowledge, to imagine. The reason that we need no such crude material punishments is because our spiritual suffering is quite enough."
And Gud saw that the soul spake the truth, for the face of both of these trusty souls were lined with seamy sorrow. As Gud looked upon their sufferings he wondered why it was they suffered so, and he asked: "In what did you two sin one by one that you should be punished two by two?"
And the second suffering soul replied, "I sinned because I believed too vehemently that there was no god, and my companion here, because he believed over confidently that there was a god."
"But is it not strange," asked Gud, "that you two, who held such opposite doctrines, should now suffer similar punishment? How do you explain that?"
The first soul now took up the conversation with his mouth and made answer in this wise: "We suffer now with equal suffering, I because, believing that there was no god, found, when I died, that there was one, and he sent me to hell. But my companion here, who believed that there was a god, found when he died that there was none; and so he came to hell also, as there was no place else for him to go."
For a moment Gud looked upon these suffering souls with puzzlement and wonder, and then suddenly he began to laugh.
"Why do you laugh at our sufferings?" demanded the souls angrily.
"I am laughing at you two," said Gud, "because when you died you both came to hell—whereas if neither of you had believed in immortality you would not have needed to have gone anywhere."
As Gud was passing through a dismal swamp, he came to a certain cypress tree and sat down on a knee thereof. And presently she came also and sat down upon the other knee of the cypress tree, and they talked about the meeting of parallel lines.
But they could not agree so Gud proposed that they cut their initials on the bark of the cypress tree.
They did so, after which they parted. And Gud went on his way and so did she.
But when Gud had vanished into the depths of the dismal swamp, she turned and went back to the cypress tree and looked at the initials that they had carved thereon. Taking the knife that Gud had left sticking in the tree, she carved a word below the initials. Having finished the carving, she looked up into the branches above her and behold the foliage of the tree had withered. Then she repented for what she had done, and in great haste, took the knife and carved yet another word. Whereupon the tree put out fresh buds and grew again—for such is the power of words for good or evil.
And she smiled contentedly, for hers was the last word.
Lo, the north wind trembled and the sea of sorrow froze into beauteous frost forms that shimmered all lacy and green like ferns waving in an ancient breeze. And frozen frogs came out of the frost ferns, croaking and bellowing like mad, green bulls.
The Underdog whimpered because he was afraid. So Gud bade the frogs be quiet, and they were quiet with a great quietude, and peace reigned for a spell or two.
After which Gud traveled on until he met a rich merchant who was riding across an ice floe on a camel that was gaily caparisoned and had trappings of gold and was shod with silver shoes. And the rich merchant hailed Gud and said: "Whither goest thou on this sleek, icy desert?"
And Gud said: "I go my way rejoicing. But why is your eye so troubled?"
The merchant replied: "I go in search of a strawstack."
When his master said that, the camel stomped on the ice with his silver shod foot and cut a round hole in the ice and kneeled down and drank his fill of ice water.
While the camel was kneeling, the rich merchant invited Gud to mount upon the camel. Gud did so and the camel arose and lumbered on his slippery way.
The merchant and Gud sat in the howdah and smoked a hooka and told tales of barter and of gain. This is one of the tales they told, and it matters not which one told it, for it is a lie anyway.
It was a great occasion—every seatWas filled and jewels sparkled rich and bright—One almost heard each throbbing heart that beatAs the orchestra filed in that gala night.The music flared in one triumphal blast,The leader swung his baton: the curtain rose:Then the soprano sang of bright skies overcast,And silence fell upon the watching rows.Just at that moment, some one in the crowdSaw wisps of black smoke curl around a board.He shouted "fire!" It was as though a shroudWas flung around them by a righteous Lord.The crowd surged forth like streams that over-flow—And ran amuck, insane with fear and rage....Just then an unknown player of the piccoloUpclambered o'er the footlights to the stage:"Hold! Hold!" he cried, and waved his piccolo;"Be calm! There is no danger, if you're quiet!"Then through the Opera House there echoed lowSuch music as would calm the greatest riot.They faltered, then they heeded his desire,Then paused to hearken with suspended breath,And spellbound listened through that awful fireTill every one of them was burned to death.
It was a great occasion—every seatWas filled and jewels sparkled rich and bright—One almost heard each throbbing heart that beatAs the orchestra filed in that gala night.The music flared in one triumphal blast,The leader swung his baton: the curtain rose:Then the soprano sang of bright skies overcast,And silence fell upon the watching rows.
Just at that moment, some one in the crowdSaw wisps of black smoke curl around a board.He shouted "fire!" It was as though a shroudWas flung around them by a righteous Lord.
The crowd surged forth like streams that over-flow—And ran amuck, insane with fear and rage....Just then an unknown player of the piccoloUpclambered o'er the footlights to the stage:
"Hold! Hold!" he cried, and waved his piccolo;"Be calm! There is no danger, if you're quiet!"Then through the Opera House there echoed lowSuch music as would calm the greatest riot.
They faltered, then they heeded his desire,Then paused to hearken with suspended breath,And spellbound listened through that awful fireTill every one of them was burned to death.
And now the rich merchant pointed out upon the horizon a small speck which was no larger than a woman's honesty. As the camel journeyed on toward the horizon the speck grew in size until it was as large as the hope of inheritance. And when they finally came up to it, behold it was a strawstack!
The camel started to eat the straw, but the merchant jumped down and belabored the beast over the head with a marlin pin—whatever that is—and cried: "Cease, thou gluttonous, stupid beast; knowest thou not that thou wilt impale thy parched throat?"
"Why belaborest thou the camel?" asked Gud, solicitously.
"Because, there is a needle in this strawstack, and I came from the four corners of the earth to find it. Do you think I am going to let this fool beast devour it?"
So Gud offered to hold the camel's halter while the rich merchant searched the strawstack for the needle.
After the merchant had looked in all the straws but one he gave up in despair, for he had not found the needle.
"Perseverance, dear, my lord, keeps honor bright," quoth Gud.
Greatly encouraged, the rich merchant looked into the last straw and found the needle. In glee he shouted and held up the needle in one hand and the last straw in the other.
"I perceive," said Gud, "that you are a prince of industry. But you are also in a dilemma. If you try the last straw first and break the camel's back, then how can the poor beast go through the eye of the needle?"
"Who was that fellow," asked Fidu, "who passed me just now with such a wild, wild look in his eye?"
"That fellow," replied Gud, "was an author who just spent a week-end with me."
"And what did you do to him?" asked Fidu. "He was as crazy as the nebular hypothesis."
"Upon his request I criticized his book, which he insisted on reading to me."
"But what did you say about it?" demanded Fidu, "he looked as locoed as a lop-eared logarithm."
"I made several criticisms. I told him that his plot was choppy, and that most of it was stale; that the work lacked sadly in originality and there was considerable repetition. I said it was very melodramatic in spots and that it had entirely too many murders, and that many of the biggest murderers seemed to escape without punishment. I also told him that it was full of sordid realism and most unhappy endings, that it was overloaded with action, and worst of all, it utterly lacked any evidence of a distinct moral purpose."
"Well no wonder," said Fidu, "that the poor fellow was raving; you made, if I may say so, quite a severe criticism."
"I grant that, but his book deserved it—everything I said about it was absolutely true."
"What did he call his book?" asked Fidu.
"He called it," replied Gud, "'An Outline of History.'"
Presently Gud ran dead against an ivory wall; but being versed in aviation, he flew over it. Having done so he went on walking. Gud perceived that he was walking in a kingdom, and he walked warily, for he was doubtful whether monarchy was an ideal form of government.
His doubts increased as he noted the subjects of the kingdom, for they appeared to be full of guile. So when he became tired and sleepy, he durst not enter into an abode, but lay down beneath a friendly tree and fell asleep.
When Gud awoke he found that his sandals had been stolen from off his feet. This made him very sorrowful, for his sandals had been well broken to fit his own feet but he was worried lest they might hurt the feet of the thief. So he made a hue and cry. When a subject of the kingdom appeared, Gud demanded to be taken at once to the king.
The king, being self-made, was not very wise and did not perceive that Gud was his equal; therefore Gud was obliged to kneel on the little mat that the king kept before his throne so that visitors would not bruise their knees on the agate floor.
When Gud had done kneeling and salaaming, the king offered him a cigarette and selected a cigar for himself. Then he asked how the crops were where Gud came from.
"They are very good," said Gud, "but the morals in your kingdom are not."
To Gud's astonishment, the king replied meekly: "I know it."
Gud now related to the king how the very sandals had been stolen from off his feet as he slept beneath the tree.
"Oh, wise stranger," cried the king, "it grieves me much to have you, who come from a distant realm, discover that I have thus failed in the first duty of government which is the protection of property. Therefore let me make restitution for the injury done you in my kingdom."
The king now sent a lackey to his treasure vault, and he fetched Gud a pair of jeweled sandals which fitted his feet perfectly.
Gud's grief being assuaged and his anger abated, he was genuinely sorry for this stupid king, and said to him: "I have knocked about a bit and picked up a few ideas in practical politics, so perhaps I can help you."
"It is my shame and sorrow," confessed the king, "to admit to you that I rule over a realm of thieves. We were formerly proud of our talents in that direction, for at one time this kingdom was surrounded by rich neighbors and our prosperity was based on the capturing of bounteous booty from our enemies. Alas, our enemies combined and built a great ivory wall and walled us in. And now my people steal from each other. I have issued countless edicts against stealing, and even crucified a few thieves, but it avails me nothing. My people steal and are proud of it. Yet there is honor among my thieves. They are at heart law-abiding and truth-telling citizens."
"How do you know they are?" asked Gud.
"I know, because I had a census taken in which I asked each and every one if he were a thief, and all the thieves answered most truthfully that they were thieves."
"How do you know they answered truthfully?" questioned Gud, as he flecked his ash. "And if they are thieves, how can they be law-abiding citizens?"
"That explanation is easy. You see, my people do not consider my edicts against stealing as law because they maintain that it conflicts with their established habits."
"Did you say all of your citizens were thieves?"
"No, not all; sixty per cent., to be specific. If you do not understand percentage, that means that there are three thieves for every two honest men."
When the king said this Gud's eyes brightened and a satisfied smile beamed on his courtly countenance. "The trouble," said he, "is that your system of government is wrong."
"What?" exclaimed the king. "I am the government. Am I wrong?"
"Yes, you should have another government."
"You mean that I should hire an assassin to kill me, so that my son should be the government?"
"No," replied Gud, "I mean that you should have a different form of government."
"I never heard of a different form of government!" declared the king, throwing his cigar on the rug in his excitement.
"Then I will explain it to you. What you need is a democracy. Your people want it for they have an innate sense of it already. They believe in the majority rule. Because the majority of them are thieves they want stealing legalized. In fact, to make law against stealing is, under the circumstances, very demoralizing, for it breeds contempt for law."
"By my crown!" exclaimed the king, slapping his knee. "You are right. If you will just show me how, we will make this democracy."
So Gud showed the king how to write a declaration of independence and frame a democratic constitution, and then they staged abdication and the king placed his crown in the historical museum.
When the king had done that, Gud said: "Now have a bill passed making stealing legal so that the law will agree with the habits and customs of the majority."
When the king had done that also Gud said: "You are more popular than ever, so start a secret society to be called 'The Ancient Order of Honest Thieves.' Write the constitution and by-laws yourself and make every citizen of your democracy eligible to membership, providing he can show proof that he has stolen something; but make it a first principle of honor that a thief shall not steal from a fellow thief."
The king was delighted, and straightway did all which Gud demanded.
The society was so popular that not only the thieves joined, but the honest men became thieves and joined also. Everything went well until all the citizens of the democracy but one had become members of the "Ancient Order of Honest Thieves." Everything that this man had possessed had been stolen, and he was naked and hungry, so finally he decided to join the society. There being no one else left to steal from, the last honest man stole the jeweled slippers that the king had given unto Gud.
At this Gud became so angry that he declared himself emperor, and hanged the king on a rainy day.
When Gud came upon the stupid girl she was sitting under an apple tree and weeping bitterly.
"Why do you weep?" asked Gud.
"I weep," replied the girl, "because I am in disgrace."
"Oh, I see, you are a fallen woman. Why don't you commit suicide?"
"But I am too young to die," moaned the girl, "and besides I haven't fallen yet. I am weeping because they tell me I am immodest."
"But why do they say you are immodest?" asked Gud, as he picked up a green apple and tasted it to see if it were ripe.
"Because," explained the girl, "I made me a bathing pettitcoat and went bathing in the pool. Someone had told me how to make it and how to sew lead sinkers in the hem of it. But I could only remember that it was something about fishing tackle, and I sewed corks in the hem instead of sinkers, and so when I went bathing, the skirt floated on the top of the water."
Gud stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I can put out the eyes of the fishes," he suggested.
"But they would still remember."
"I can kill the fishes," offered Gud.
"But the fishes might have souls, and besides, it wasn't so much what the fishes saw or even what the people thought the fishes saw."
"What was it?" asked Gud.
"The trouble was that my bathing suit was not in style."
"Oh, if that is all I will change the style.... There, go to the drug store and watch the clerks marking up the price of corks."
"Wonderful," cried the girl, "me to be the leader of styles—But I wore this week's styles last week—they will say I was too forward and therefore immodest."
Gud reached in a pocket of his robe and took out a patent calendar. This he turned back two weeks. "You should worry," he said, "I have made it week before last. You did not appear in the new-style bathing suit until next week. Does that fix everything?"
"Y-e-s," stuttered the girl doubtfully. "But what about the fishes?"
"I turned them back too," explained Gud. "But in all fairness, I ought to warn you about the lobsters. You see they go backwards naturally, and when I reversed the order of things just now I noticed that the lobsters went ahead two weeks—it is all a matter of relativity, you see."
"No, I don't see," blubbered the girl, "for I am very stupid," and she began to weep again.
"Why are you weeping again?" demanded Gud.
"Because I failed in my examination. I got everything wrong-wise and upse-turvy."
"Don't worry," said Gud, "I have changed all things, so that what you answered in your examination is the truth and has always been the truth and all contrary belief are false and always have been false."
"Thank you so kindly," smiled the girl, "but there is just one thing more. I can't understand the difference between an equilateral triangle and an isosceles triangle—and I just hate all triangles."
"Forget them," consoled Gud, "for I have destroyed all triangles."
Just then the girl noticed in alarm that the apples which had been on the ground were dropping up and alighting on the tree.
"Be not alarmed," said Gud, "I only changed the law of gravitation as it applies to apples."
And now they saw a procession coming through the orchard headed by the President of the Academy to proclaim the stupid girl as a virgin prophetess who had revealed to that world many great truths that had been hidden from the minds of the old masters. And when the old masters saw the apples that lay about the girl dropping up, one by one, to the tree above her, they became filled with holy zeal and abject worship and bowed down humbly before her and cried:
"Hail, hail, prophetess, for the end of the world cometh, and thou, in thy holy wisdom, must tell us what we should do to be saved."
"Oh, forget it till next week," said the girl, "and then you will see me in my new-style bathing suit."
And Gud departed from that place in great sorrow, for once again he saw a world confounded and worshiping a fool.
About a decade later, Fidu came running up to Gud. For a moment he was too excited to speak and could only bark, but when he again found his articulation the Underdog said: "Oh master, come quick, for there is a poor beggar sitting over there on the steps of the almshouse and holding out his hat for alms; but few give to him and he is weak and starving."
Gud followed Fidu and came to the beggar who was poor and wretched indeed. And Gud said to him: "I will not reveal my lack of intelligence by dropping coins into your hat, for I know as well as you do that indiscriminate charity does not alleviate poverty. So throw your coppers into the gutter and put your hat on your head, while we discuss the cause of your impecunity."
The beggar discarded his few coins and placed his hat on his head.
"Now," began Gud, "let us consider your situation intelligently. There is usually some relation between cause and effect. The effect in your case is poverty complicated by charity. I could destroy the effect by a miracle and make you rich, but I have tried tampering with the law of cause and effect, and I find it dangerous business. It is best to change the cause and let the law change the effect.
"Quite right you are, kind sir," agreed the beggar.
"What was the cause of your poverty?" asked Gud. "Was it indolence, or drink, or—"
"No, no," interrupted the beggar, "none of those common things. My poverty was caused by the ruin of my profession."
"What was your profession?" demanded Gud.
The beggar straightened up as proudly as he could and said: "I was a novelist!"
"Yes," said Gud, "Go on."
"And my profession has been blasted and ruined utterly."
"And how did that happen?"
"I do not know how it happened," replied the beggar, a baffled look coming into his eyes; "worse yet not even the critics know—but it happened—it happened—the impossible happened."
"Come, come," called Gud, shaking him by the shoulder, "you are babbling, speak up, what happened?"
The beggar looked up at Gud, a glint of horror in his eyes, and murmured slowly: "Someone destroyed the eternal triangle.... There can never be any more novels, ... nor plays ... nor movies ... nor realism ... nor romance ... nor royalties ... nor dinners at the Alhambra with Gwendolyn ... nor.... Please sir, just a copper, I am old and lame."
"Cheer up," encouraged Gud, "I feel it my duty to help you. Was this triangle that seemed to have been the life of your business equilateral or isosceles?"
"Neither," replied the beggar, now with the bearing of a true novelist, "it was the eternal triangle which is a plot of a certain very literary relation of the sexes, in which three individuals form the angles."
"Why just three?" asked Gud.
"It seems that three sell best," said the novelist. "Two do not interest the reader, and four, five or more tire him; three characters sell best, which is why such a triangle is called eternal."
"I understand that three elements make the best triangle—and one shouldn't fool too much with mathematics. But what about these sexes?"
"It makes no difference," replied the beggar, "how the sexes are arranged, just so both sexes are represented on the triangle."
"Both sexes," repeated Gud—"then you only have two sexes?"
"Certainly, three characters of two sexes form the eternal triangle, any way you arrange them; isn't that perfectly simple?"
"It is simple, more simple than perfect. Now, pick up the coins you cast into the gutter and buy yourself a pencil and a pad and start to work. You will find eternal triangles have become as plentiful as lies, and what is more important, perfectly moral."
"You speak," replied the novelist, "with authority, and my understanding will come, no doubt, with inspiration. I thank you sir, especially for your hopeful words about the possibilities of fiction becoming moral. You can not realize how the necessity of dealing with immorality wears on the conscience of a novelist; nor how those hypocritical critics revile us by insinuating that we write of immorality because we live it. We write of it, sir, because the editors and the public demand it, and for no other reason. If immorality in fiction were not profitable we would not write at all. Again I thank you sir, and good day to you."
As Gud and the Underdog walked on their way, they passed through a dark valley where they could hardly see in the murkiness to keep their feet on the Impossible Curve, and so they proceeded slowly with eyes and ears alert.
Presently Fidu stopped and cocked his ear, for his sense of hearing was more acute than his master's. When Gud refused to stop, Fidu ran on for a time, and then he stopped again and listened, and this time Gud stopped and listened also, whereupon he heard from afar, the sound as of a heavy clanking chain.
As they traveled on again the sound grew louder and was mingled with mumbling and smothered curses. It was Fidu, as usual, who ran ahead and found the object from whence came the mumblings of smothered curses.
When Gud drew near he saw a poor being chained to a great rock. Gud tapped the rock with his staff and discovered from its adamantine nature that it was the Rock of Conservatism. But he could not identify the being who was so securely chained, thereto.
"Who are you," demanded Gud, "and why are you chained up here in this brutal fashion?"
The being only answered with more mumbled cursings.
"If he cannot state his case," said Gud, "why should he expect me to free him?"
"But master, there is a smaller chain across his mouth."
"So there is," observed Gud, and he reached over and severed that smaller chain.
"I thank you," said the prisoner, "but there is little more that I can say, for I am still chained to the Rock of Conservatism."
"Oh, very well," replied Gud, as he severed the great chain also. "And now please tell me who you are and why you are bound here?"
The creature arose and stretched his aching bones. "I am Free Speech," said he, "and who are you?"
And Gud replied: "I am Gud."
"I never heard of you and what is your business?"
"I am retired. What is your business?"
"My business was talking too much until they bound me. But now that I am again free, I intend to go on talking and saying just what I please. For one thing I do not like that ridiculous old bath robe you wear. If you don't care for pants, why wear anything?"
"Have you always been in the business of talking too much?" inquired Gud.
"No," replied Free Speech, "I was once a school master but I got into difficulty. I had a private school and both the Just and the Unjust sent their children to my school. The Just believed that the world was flat and the Unjust believed that the world was round—"
"Which was it?" asked Gud.
"Keep still and let me talk. The Just wanted me to teach their children that the world was flat and the Unjust wanted me to teach their children that the world was round. So I organized two classes in geography and taught the children of the Just that the world was flat and the children of the Unjust that the world was round. The Just had me arrested, but I escaped and went into the business of talking too much and saying what I pleased and asking all the questions I wanted to; and while I am grateful to you for your releasing me, all you did was your duty, and I don't feel there is any privilege of back talk coming to you; and yet you look like you were pretty wise, and there are one or two things that I don't know yet. For instance, has a ghost a soul or is he a soul? Well, I see you don't know, but maybe you can tell me whether sins are washed away by death-bed repentance, though I really don't care, for it is not important. But I would like to know if faith will remove mountains. I don't believe it will for when I was a small lad I went to live with my grandmother. There was an ugly mountain back of her house and grandmother decided to remove it by faith and she prayed all one evening that the mountain be moved that night. The next morning she woke up and looked out the kitchen window and said: 'I knew that old mountain would still be there.' Which reminds me of a fellow I knew who was a faith healer by profession, and mighty successful, too, and went all up and down the land healing by faith and getting paid handsomely for it. But his wife at home was an invalid: I asked her why her husband did not heal her and she said, 'I lack faith in him.'
"Do you know why they call sleep innocent, considering the kind of dreams people have? Or why blood is thicker than water? Or what there is about a sphinx that makes people think it knows the answer to riddles? Or why a greased egg won't hatch? Or whether a man in hot water is more uncomfortable than a round peg in a square hole?"
"No," replied Gud, "I do not know any of these things and I am sorry I unbound you."
"I knew you would be," cried Free Speech, "I could tell by your old gray gown and those antiquated whiskers that you were a conservative and a hide-bound Puritan, but I tell you right now that you can't stop me talking by tying me up, and that it won't do you any good if you do. And that Underdog of yours is no better than you are. The Underdog must be educated by me, though he is usually so stupid that he chases after the copycat instead of listening to me talk, and so I don't really care as much what becomes of him as I pretend I do—and did you ever hear the story about—"
But Gud clapped his hand over the mouth of Free Speech and called: "Quick, Fidu, fetch me the chain."
As Fidu and Gud marched on their way it was to the sound of muttering and mumbled curses and the clanking of a heavy chain.
"Master," remarked Fidu, "I have long suspected that in following this Impossible Curve we are not getting anywhere."
"What difference does it make?" replied Gud, "we are only walking for recreation."
"Oh, yes, I know all that, but still, I do not like to walk in a circle, because it makes me dizzy."
"But we can't be walking in a circle," argued Gud, "because a circle is quite probable and this curve is impossible."
"That may also be true, Master, but nevertheless we just passed that world again where you made a virgin prophetess out of a stupid girl, and I know that building ahead of us is the almshouse on the steps of which we found the poor old beggar whom you made so happy."
Gud looked ahead. "Yes, Fidu," he agreed, "you are right; and perhaps we shall meet him again, for he will not be a beggar now but a rich and prosperous novelist."
But alas! when they came up to the almshouse they found the same old beggar looking more disreputable than before.
Gud reached over and shook him, but he did not stir nor answer. Gud turned quickly away and called Fidu, and they passed on.
"Why did he not speak?" asked Fidu.
"Because," answered Gud, "the poor old fellow was dead, apparently of starvation."
"And you thought that he would be rich and prosperous."
"Yes, yes, so I did. I gave him the chance of his life, too, by making triangles with three sexes and therefore perfectly moral—it just goes to show how useless it is to attempt to salvage these mendicants."
As Gud was knocking about among the stars he saw yet another world spinning idly on its axis as it floated aimlessly in the nebulous ether. Prompted by curiosity he drew nearer and observed that the ether was full of ghosts. Most of them seemed to be observing the conduct of the beings in the material world below, and Gud rightly judged them to be demised of that reality and amusing themselves by watching the doings of their descendants.
But there was one ghost of an old woman that seemed sore troubled and full of yearning for the beings of the world below, as if she would communicate to them some message and could find not the means of communication. Filled with compassion, Gud approached the ghost of the old woman and asked if he might be of service to her. But she merely gazed up at him out of troubled eyes and did not speak. Again Gud addressed her and again she answered not; and Gud concluded that she was a very dumb ghost.
Thereupon Gud imagined a powerful medicine and poured it out in a make-believe goblet and gave to the dumb ghost to drink thereof. She accepted it gratefully and drank copiously; and immediately her mouth opened so that she spake volubly.
When she had done with her thanks for the miracle, Gud asked her why she was troubled and why she looked upon the world below with such distress.
"It is quite a long story," she began, as she seated herself upon the Rock of Ages.
This being the only rock in the neighborhood, Gud was obliged to create another rock so that he could be seated also, for the story promised well.
When Gud was comfortably seated, the old ghost of the old woman resumed: "I was the first lady of the land, that you see below us, and the mother of the first family on that poor deluded world. I had a very dear husband who was the father of my children—of that there was no doubt, for he was never jealous. But I was not his first wife, for he had been married before to a most loquacious creature who had talked herself into hysterics and died.
"My husband loved me greatly and in order to escape the sound of women's voices, he brought me to this world which you now see so full of our descendants.
"Then it was only inhabited by savage beasts and we were the first people who trod its wild shores. We settled down in a beautiful cave and made a happy home there and numerous children came to bless our union.
"My husband loved these children and made many toys to amuse them, for he was clever with his jack-knife. One day he came home with a great chunk of dry, soft wood and began to whittle on it, while all the children stood about and wondered what he was making.
"Day by day they watched him as he shaped and carved the wood until he had made a most comical and grotesque object with grinning teeth, and eyes which he blackened with charcoal. The children were afraid of this ugly, carved wooden creature, and yet they loved it because their father had made it for them. So when it was all finished, he perched it up on the mantle over the horsehair sofa and told the children not to touch it.
"When they asked him what it was he said that it was Bahgung; and he told them that while they slept Bahgung stole out of the cave and went on long expeditions and had great adventures. The children loved these tales of the doings of Bahgung, and so my husband made many tales of Bahgung and his adventures.
"I wanted to warn him that the children could not discriminate between fact and fiction and might believe these tales, but I was dumb and could say nothing.
"When my dear husband saw the worry in my eyes he guessed the cause and said: 'When they get older, I will explain to them that these are only fairy tales and they will forget them.'
"But he did not explain, and went on making up more and yet more tales of the might and prowess of the wooden carved Bahgung. If the children were naughty, he told them that Bahgung would punish them, and when they were good he told them that Bahgung would award them.
"One day when I came quietly into the cave I saw my little girl kneeling before Bahgung, and she was talking to him and beseeching him to cause her brother give back a pretty shell which he had taken from her. I was worried at all this, but being dumb I could say nothing.
"It was a few days later that my dear husband was eaten by a crocodile while he was fishing. There being no remains we had a modest private funeral, none but the family being present; and I took up as best I could the duties of providing for my children.
"After their father's death the children talked still more to Bahgung and told him all their troubles. They seemed to love the idol and yet to fear him, and to believe he was alive though they could see him before them as only a carved wooden thing.
"So much they worshiped Bahgung that I feared to destroy him, and I therefore allowed the wooden idol to stand on the mantle over the old horsehair sofa that we had brought with us from another world.
"I still supposed that when the children grew up they would forget this miserable idol of carven wood. But alas! they did not. I did not dare destroy the idol, for the children adored it more than they did me who had brought them into the world of my own flesh and blood. I wanted also to explain to them that Bahgung was only a wooden idol and as dead and worthless as any rotten stick, but being dumb I could say nothing.
"When my children left home, they would come back on pilgrimages, and to me it seemed that they came back more to worship Bahgung than to see their old mother. So in my desire to see my children the more I permitted Bahgung to stand on the mantle above the horsehair sofa in the cave.
"One day my oldest son and oldest daughter came at the same time to visit me and to worship Bahgung. It was then that my son proposed that he take Bahgung to his own cave. Being dumb I could say nothing, but my daughter objected.
"'Very well,' said my son, 'leave the old thing here. I will make a better one of my own.'
"The next time I visited my son, I found that he, too, had made a creature, which he modeled out of clay, even more cleverly than his father had carved. And this creature was sitting on a little pedestal in a small cave of its own and my son was teaching my grandchildren to bring it offerings and make worship and prayers to it—all of which I thought most silly.
"Finally I died and my numerous descendants gave me a grand funeral and paraded Bahgung at the head of the procession and all their lesser idols after him. But being dumb and dead also, I could say nothing.
"So that was how it all started, the idol worship, in that world you see below us, and for thousands on thousands of generations those poor deluded descendants of mine made and worshiped idols of wood and clay and stone and metal, while I hovered over them, knowing all the while how the delusion started in my own dear husband's innocent desire to amuse our children with a home-made toy."
"That is a very interesting account of the origin of idol worship," commented Gud, "I never heard so plausible a theory."
"Theory!" repeated the old ghost, "but it isn't theory, I would have you know. It is plain fact—did I not see the whole beginning of this folly with my own eyes, and did I not heft that old carcass of rotten wood with my own hands?"
"Perhaps," admitted Gud, "still—" and he peered searchingly through the haze at the world below—"still, I do not see them worshiping idols down there now? The only idols I can see are in the museums along with the stuffed mermaids and two-headed serpents."
"Of course," replied the old ghost, "they have long since grown too sophisticated to worship material idols of wood and stone, but they have idols just the same, which they call 'gods not made with hands'."
Gud felt a little uncomfortable at this remark, but before he could think of anything to say the ghost of the first woman of that land which lay below them, continued. "I will tell you how that came about, too, for I was hovering near at the time. There was a lazy philosopher. He had no idol except a worm-eaten old wooden one which some one had given him, and which he kept in a hovel. One day the shanty caught fire from a defective flue and his idol was burned and there was no insurance. The philosopher was too lazy to make another and too poor to buy one, for the idol makers by that time were charging high prices. So the lazy fool sat out on a stump and dreamed how to get another idol without working to pay for it.
"His thoughts, as I read them at that time, ran something like this: 'An idol is a material creature of wood or stone or metal, which is used by the worshiper as a material nucleus to concentrate the attention and stimulate the imagination. The imagination constructs an immaterial being or god to dwell within the material idol. As this imagined god is the creature that answers supplications and heaps curses on one's enemies, therefore the benefits to the worshiper must come from the use of his own imagination. Now it would be more difficult to imagine a god without having the idol to start from, hence if one could achieve it he would use his imagination more and thereby get a better god.'
"So the philosopher set his imagination to work and imagined himself a god without going to the expense of buying an idol. He was so well pleased with his wholly imagined god that he went out and proclaimed to others, and soon he had a host of lazy chaps who agreed to pay him for the privilege of worshiping his imagined god and thus saving the cost of idols.
"The scheme was so lucrative that other philosophers set up other psychic idols, and that is what they have down there now. If you doubt me, look over there in the left corner of the nearer hemisphere and you can see the smoke of a war. Those people are fighting, trying to make each other accept their particular psychic idols."
Gud looked and saw the war, that it was great and that there was much smoke; and even a faint stench was wafted up to him of the flesh of unbelievers being burned by the faithful.
Gud looked also toward another quarter and saw other smoke. "And what is that war?" he asked, pointing it out.
"That," replied the old ghost, "is a war between two groups who both want to worship the same psychic idol, but one group wishes to worship it in silence and meditation and the other wishes to worship it with drums and cymbals."
Gud sniffed the ether from that direction and found that it also smelled of burning flesh. He did not like the odor and he arose as if to go toward the unhappy world.
"Where are you going?" asked the old ghost.
"I was just wondering, whether, if those unhappy people had a real god would they not quit all this war and devote their time to harmonious worship?"
"Don't be a fool," laughed the old ghost, "if you go down there as a stranger preaching some new god they will pour oil on you and set you up to light the town for a night."
Gud sighed and sat down on the stone again. "I suppose they would," he admitted, "and I suppose now that I have given you back your power of communication, you will be wanting to go down there and find a good medium and preach atheism through spirit messages, since you know what a fraud all their gods are."
"I shall do nothing of the sort," declared the old ghost. "Of course, if I could have had a great doctor like you to have restored my speech while I was yet alive, then I could have explained to my children just how it all started, and this folly would have never been. But it is too late now."
"What are you going to do?" asked Gud, for he saw that the old ghost had arisen with a very determined look on her face as if she surely meant to do something.
"I am going down there," she asserted; "but I shall not bother with any silly mediums. I am going to materialize as a woman of great wealth and beauty, and I am going to captivate and hire the best sculptors and architects in the land, and under my direction they will build an enormous fine temple and set up a great idol, the splendor of which that miserable world has never seen—"
"Just what kind of an idol?" interrupted Gud.
"An image of Bahgung, of course," cried the old ghost. "What else would you suppose? Wasn't he the first of all their idols, and the best of all them?"
"But—" said the astonished Gud, "I thought that you did not believe in that idol and disliked to see your children worship him."
"So I did, in a way, because it was only a crude, wooden carving that my silly husband had made with his jack-knife—but Bahgung was a great god for all of that. Why, didn't he heal my youngest child of that terrible fever when I prayed to him that fearful night? And didn't he tear the great stone from the cliff that rolled down and killed the tiger? And didn't he—"
But Gud heard no more, for he was racing madly through the ether and pinching himself to see if he were real.
Having come a long way and being footsore and weary Gud felt that it was time to retire. But he possessed no sleeping garments. So he caused a deep sleep to fall upon the Underdog and then Gud lay down and slept in his waking garments.
But the Underdog dreamed a dream and when Gud heard what the Underdog was dreaming, he arose and drew his long knife and cut off the Underdog's ear so that the beast could not hear what he was dreaming—for it was the kind of dream that Underdogs should never hear, and, if it is not deleted by the censor, this is what it was: