“To me—little catechumen of our order—you figure for Omnipotence.”
“Alack! and I cannot command a meal. Set all this wisdom against one smoking dish, the scrolls of heaven against a bill of fare, and observe my choice. Beef and ale are the Fates we gods are subject to. You fly too high for us. Why, look you, little man, I am so empty sometimes I could think of insulting a swashbuckler, only that he might force me to swallow my own words.”
“Master, if I might—why will you never let me—?”
“What! Omnipotence stoop to be treated by its scullion!”
“The Pope takes Peter’s pence.”
“The Pope?—swine of Epicurus! No more, Sempronius. At least I’ve learned to walk on air—by so much nearer godhead—go great distances on it too—from Epopt to Regent, from Regent to Magus, from Magus to Areopagite. Nay—let me whisper it—in moments of thrilling venture, even into the heart of the Greater Mysteries, where, supreme and invisible, I take my throne as lord.”
“What! of us all—General of the Illuminati?”
The little man whispered it awestruck, then twittered into ecstasy.
“And why not, great Spartacus, mage and mastermind? What should keep you from even that stupendous goal?”
“Why, indeed, child, I know of no worse obstacle than my poverty. Nor is that to question the pure altruism of our Creed. But promotion to great offices must necessarily depend on one’s material capacity to support them. Reforms, whether to practical republics or moral communisms, require financing; and the long purse will naturally grudge the first credit for that to the short one. To be supreme lord of self-sacrifice, one must be able to exhibit supremely one’s title to the distinction. If that were to be gained by no more than making nobly free with other people’s money, I should have ten thousand rivals to dispute my right to the pre-eminence. And justly. It’s reason, I say, and I don’t complain. Still, the time may come—”