“At all events, the poets thought you were not as pretty without one. We
disagreed with the Church. We always have. So we took you in hand. Your
soul was born, my dear Joan, in Provence, about the year 1100.”
She began to be a little interested, but looked at her tiny watch—grey
platinum with a frosty twinkle of diamonds.
“Go on. I’ve ten minutes more.”
“Well—we were sorry for you. We were the Troubadours of Provence, and
we found you kicked into the mud by the Church, flung out into the world
to earn your bread in various disreputable ways—by marriage, and
otherwise. You simply didn’t exist. We found your beautiful dead body in
the snow and mud. And we picked you up and warmed you and set you on a
throne all gold and jewels. Virtually, you never breathed until we wrote
poems about you.”
“Jewels! We have always liked jewels,” she sighed.
“We gave you a wonderful crown first, all white and shining. We made you
Queen of Heaven, and then even the Church had to eat humble pie and
worship you, for you were Mary. We did that—we only. But that wasn’t
enough. You opened your eyes, and grew proud and spoiled, and heaven was
by no means enough. You wanted more. You would be Queen of Earth, too.
And we did it! We gave you a crown of red jewels,—red like heart’s
blood,—and we put a sceptre in your hand, and we fell down and
worshipped you. And you were Venus. And you have been Queen of Europe
and the New World ever since.”
“Of Europe only? Not of Asia? Why not?”
“Oh, they are much too old and wise in Asia. They are much wiser than
we. Wiser than the Church. Wiser than the poets—than any of us.”
“What do they say?”
“Well—let’s think. That you have your uses—_uses_. That you are
valuable in so far as you bear children and are obedient to your
husbands. That, outside that, your beauty has its uses also within
limits that are rather strictly marked. That in many rebirths you will
develop your soul and be immortal; if you behave, that is! If not—then
who shall say? But you have your chance all the time. With them you are
neither goddess or fiend. You are just women. Not even Woman.”
“What ghastly materialism!”
“No, no! The happy mean. The perfect wisdom. Meanwhile, you yourselves
are all hunting after the ideals of the market-place, the platform, the
pulpit. I wonder how many extra rebirths it will cost you! Never mind.
Time is long. The gods are never in a hurry, and you will arrive even if
you only catch the last train.”
“But this is all fault-finding, and unfair at that. Will you have the
goodness to advise? If we stick on our pedestals, you all run off to the
frivolers. If we frivol, you weep for the pedestal. What is it you
really want? If we knew, we’d try to deliver the goods, I’m sure.”
“I’m not!” I said, and reflected. Then, gathering resolution, “Have you
the patience to listen to a story?”
“If it’s a good one. How long will it take?”
“Ten minutes. The author is the Serpent.”
“Then I’ll certainly put off Inez for fifteen minutes. Who’s it
about?”—running to the telephone.
“Eve, Lilith, Adam.”
“Who was Lilith?”
“Adam’s first love.”
She sat down, her eyes dancing, her lips demure; the prettiest
combination!
“I didn’t know he had one. But I might have guessed. They always have.
Go on!”