“Yes, sir. I am the victim of a farce, this is a comedy: my enemies, my colleagues, with the help of subtle artifices and theatrical machinery, exalting my mind with some beverage, have doubtless prepared all this. But the deception is useless. My power of reasoning is above all these appearances, and protests with a mighty voice against this low trickery; neither masks nor limelights are of any avail, for I am not taken in by such palpable effrontery, and I say what I always said, and which is enframed on page 315 of my ”Philosophia Ultima,“ note b. of the sub-note Alpha, i.e., that after death the deception of appearances will not exist, and there will no longer be any desire for life, nolite vivere, which is only a chain of shadows linked with desires, &c., &c.... Therefore, one of the two: either I have died, or I have not died; if I have died, it cannot possibly be I as I was when alive half an hour ago, and all that I see around me, as it can only be a representation, is not, for I am not; but if I have not died, and am myself, what I was and am, it is clear that although what I see around me exists in me by representation, it is not what my enemies wish me to believe, but an unworthy farce designed to frighten me; but ’tis in vain, for....”
And the philosopher swore like a coal-heaver. And the swearing was not the worst, for he lifted up his voice towards Heaven, the inhabitants of which were beginning to awake at the noise, while some of the blest were already descending by the staircase of clouds, tinged some as with woad, others with a sea-blue.
Meanwhile St. Peter held his sides with both hands to keep from bursting into the laughter with which he was nearly choking. Pertinax became more irritated at the saint’s laughter, and the latter had to stop to try and pacify him by the following words—
“My dear sir, farces are of no avail here, nor is it a question of deceiving you, but of bringing you to Heaven, which it appears you have merited for some good works of which I am ignorant; in any case, calm yourself and go up, for the inhabitants above are already astir, and you will find somebody who will conduct you to where all will be explained to your taste, so that not a shadow of doubt will remain, for doubts all disappear in this region, where the dullest thing is the sun which I am polishing.”
“I do not say you are deceiving me, for you seem an honest man; the tricksters are others, and you only an instrument, unconscious of what you are doing.”
“I am St. Peter....”
“They have persuaded you that you are; but there’s no proof that you are.”
“Dear sir, I have been porter here for more than eighteen hundred years....”
“Apprehension, preconception....”
“Preconception fiddlesticks!” cried the saint, now somewhat angry; “I am St. Peter, and you a savant, and like all that come to us, an ignorant fool, with more than one bee in your bonnet....”