“He would have worded them differently, or at any rate under the circumstances, and knowing the facts, he would have omitted them altogether.”
“Virginius is a bungler,” said Plucritus.
“How can a spirit who never attempts anything ever bungle?” asked Genius impatiently.
“Does he never attempt anything?” And Plucritus laughed in a harsh, disagreeable way.
“Never that I can see. His only work seems to be to stand there immovable and receive insults.”
“Now and again he will lay his hand lovingly on the heads of little children,” said Plucritus, mockingly.
“Only to be pushed off again.”
“That may be. But as you seem down on him I must stand up for him, since above all things I love fair play. Now I’ll tell you a very pretty story, and one which the children would say was ever so funny. Listen. You know that every night when Deborah is asleep you fly off to your own land, and are, I should say, mightily glad to get there. But I am not so fortunate—at least of late months I have preferred to stay. So each night, being left alone, I have prepared a very pretty dream—very realistic, very simple, just the kind of thing a child would appreciate. Having played the part of God to such perfection I now took to playing the part of the farmer. I had learnt all his expressions both of word and feature, and could act up to his part to perfection. Naturally Deborah was taken in. She would put her arms round me and kiss me in the most affectionate way possible. Meeting with thus much encouragement I was far too kind-hearted to give it up. I made many excuses for my long absence, and even went so far once as to explain that that had not been me in the coffin at all, but someone else. That, as you know, was quite the truth. But though, truth to tell, I got a bit sick of it, I always had my reward in the morning. She would awake with a face as round as the moon, to be changed in less than five minutes to one as long, or longer than the proverbial fiddle. Now Virginius, who is always staring and gaping and never for two seconds shuts his eyes, saw all this, and he raised his saintly voice to interpose. He said it wasn’t written down in the book, but I was able to prove to him that it was. Well, after that he bided his time, and one night just lately he descended to concoct a dream himself. Naturally I was curious to see what it would be. It was a most artistic one. He didn’t do it all himself; he got one of the spirits up there to paint the scenery for him.
“It began in a village street and led from there into a forest. You know the kind of place—a rather different kind from what one meets in this world; a bit better done, perhaps. Well, Virginius had really been most ingenious. I could not for the life of me understand why a mere child should be shown such a scene as this, so I kept myself on the alert to help if need be in case of emergency. Moreover, I resented this intrusion. The forest was mine, the path mine, and I marvelled at his audacity in daring to portray them. Now Deborah got very tired of that walk, for it was longer than she reckoned or than she knew; moreover, it was a trial of faith, as she wasn’t quite sure what she was going after. But she went on for a long time fairly well. At last she fell down” (here he laughed). “They all fall down, you know, and then what was my surprise to see approaching from an opposite path that gentleman,” and he pointed to the picture. “You may be sure at this point I was fully awake. ‘Now then, Virginius,’ said I, in my most even voice, ‘we’ve had quite enough of your foolery. This forest belongs to me.’
“Now I believe Virginius’s idea had been that this man should help Deborah out of the forest, or that they should help each other out. But that did not suit my way of thinking. Virginius was doing his best to make the man say something, so he paid no attention to me, but I knew he had odds against him. The gentleman refused to hear the weak voice, since by this time I had interposed, and all Virginius’s good intentions fell through.”