Innocent Michael! For all your words of hope and mercy there trembles, beneath them, your fear that indeed Terra is lost. Your own indictment of humanity, though written in grief, could have been written by me. At least, we face truth together. Absolute good, or absolute evil: We see things as they are. We have no delusions. It is when men say to themselves: “What is good, what is evil?” that disaster impends. When Pontius Pilate thrust the Christ into the hands of the market rabble—and when did man not do that?—and proclaimed that he had washed his hands of the matter, I sighed with ennui. I have heard the same claim through the endless centuries of Terra. Still, it remains freshly heinous—from your point of view though not from mine. The blurring of good and evil, so that they appear to be in a state of perpetual osmosis, seems to me one of my greatest successes on Terra.
You are wrong in saying that pride is the great sin of Terra, for Terra has no pride now, only servility and the mentality of lick-spittle men. She was never truly proud, save for a very few instances in her contemptible history. For, I gave men no pride, though some stole it from the angels of heaven. I gave, instead, malice.
The men of Terra embraced malice from the beginning, as we have seen in the case of Cain. Malice pervades the nature of men like a fungus, so that no part of them is clean of the infection. Man sometimes, though rarely, refrains from outright cruelty and barbarism. He never refrains from malice. Sometimes he honestly believes he loves his fellowman, but malice chuckles in his heart even then. Malice giggles before the appearance of justice and honor. It nestles in the breasts of even devoted husbands and wives, and in the breasts of children and parents. It is implicit in the multitudinous laws of every nation of Terra. It flutters like a veil between sworn friendships, however sincere. It lies down with lovers, and rises with them. It whispers below the louder whisper of prayer. It regulates all the affairs of men, and is most evident on solemn faces set in expressions of righteousness. It resides in the judgments of judges; it is rampant between nations. The smallest child delights in it eagerly. When men say they seek justice and the rectifying of injustices, they are inspired by malice to wreak vengeance on their betters. It was malice which hammered the nails into the hands of the Christ.
Malice has stamped its radiant light on the features of almost all men, for malice has a bright and hellish illumination of its own. It is the matrix of all the larger vices of envy and greed and slothfulness and poverty and indolence; it is the inflicter of all pain. It gleams joyously in the eyes of men when they hear of a “beloved” brother’s misfortune. It shines vigorously before reports of pestilence and famine and oppression and despair. A man who has given sound advice that has been ignored, and then disaster has predictably appeared, does not say “alas! I grieve with him—or with my people.” He says, instead, triumphantly, “I told him—or my people—so! I am vindicated in my perceptive wisdom!” Malice cannot endure superiority of station or of mentality or of Godliness. It must drag it down to its own obscene level, and it demands, at all times, groveling. It can topple thrones or crush a humble, innocent heart. It is the betrayer of betrayers, for though it is never overt, but only covert, it resides in the souls of men from their conception. Before malice even Our Father is helpless. “Who shall fathom the depths of a malicious heart?”
I often think: “Can malice alone destroy Terra?” My answer is yes. Above all other souls in my hells the malicious predominate, for they are liars, blasphemers, abstainers, aggressors, laughers against the good, demolishers of the honorable, murderers in their souls however harmless their acts on the faces of their former worlds. “I never wronged a man deliberately!” millions of them declare to me. “I never lifted a hand against my fellows!” “No,” I reply to them, “you did all things under the belief that you were justified; you resented the noble and called them seclusive and of a narrow mind; you envied your brother and derided his successes; you bore false witness against a neighbor and clouded his good name; you scandalized in your mouth to the hurt of those who loved you or trusted you; you imputed depravities to the virginal and the pure; you ascribed unspeakable objectives to acts manifestly good; you believed in no man’s honorable intentions and in no man’s selfless strivings. You deprecated charity and looked for a mean motive. Altruism, to you, did not exist; it was a concealment for evil. You killed no man and took from him no substance, except that you tried to dim his soul and pretended to scorn his accomplishments. Your wickedness lay in your tongue, if not in your acts. It is the subtlest wickedness of them all, for it cannot be called to account in the courts of men, unlike other crimes.”
The few good on Terra are not afraid of disease or cruelty or oppression or misfortune. They stand valorously against all these, facing God. But before malice they are impotent, for it is like a noxious gas which can steal within, undetected, and poison all who breathe it. It is victorious in the sealed house of the virtuous who awake, one morning, to discover themselves overwhelmed. They slept after prayer, but on rising they find a demon in possession, their good name confounded, their reputations blasted, their honor impugned. The doors of their houses are open to all the malice of all men, and there is no refuge. “Who can hide from the malicious man? His works are everywhere, his eye clear and without mist, his ear sharp and keen, his tongue tireless. He believes himself good.”
Shall I say to all the nations of Terra: “Unbridle your virile power! The world is yours!” I ponder on that. It is a delicious thought. I contemplate the three contemporary giants of Terra, China, Russia, America. Are they divided by ideology, as they claim? Is their objective kind and true and just? Do they truly wish to invite mercy and peace and plenty to reside with all men? No. No more than other empires are they honorable, no more than others are they bent on peace and tranquillity. They are inspired by malice—no matter their outward acts of compassion—to rule the world. “There is none save God who is good,” said the Christ. The malicious are the least good on Terra. (Evil, unlike virtue, is divisible.)
“Let us lead the world to everlasting peace!” the plotters proclaim. But they wish to lead the world only to everlasting subjection to their ambitions.
This is the monstrous little morsel of a world on which the Christ gave up His blameless Life—for what, and for whom? This is the obscure little world on which the prophets lived and whom they exhorted—why? The Law was given this vicious little earth, and it has been despised through the ages, for all of Moses, for all of the Lord. Where malice is king no other thing can flourish, no, not even the bright Shadow of God. Only I can endure.
Michael, my dear brother! I feel sorrow for you. Does it ever come to your mind that the lifting of your hand can blot out this shame of the universe, this Terra? You must ponder on it, for it defames your Galaxy each day it throbs senselessly in its orbit.
My quarrel has never been with Our Father, but with man. Had man not been created I should, even now, have been rejoicing in the courts of Heaven, though often bored by the dissertations of others, alas, even yourself.
Let us speak of merrier things. Congratulate Our Father, in my name, that He appears recently to have improved the human race and its potentialities on the new planet in the Constellation of Orion called Lympia. Has He learned from His previous errors? I meditate on Lympia, a most delectable huge planet as full of color as a brilliant rainbow, its scarlet waters pellucid and calm, its mountains violet, its skies a delicate rose and gilt, its land as cerulean as the dawn. The new human race is, delightful to contemplate, shapely and tall and lovely in its form, its skin of polished ebony touched with argent curves and shadows, its eyes as yellow as gold coins, its hair long and black like spun glass, its mouths lifted with laughter and love and tenderness and joy, its touch delicate and sure and gifted, its minds of great superiority and wisdom and subtlety and invention. Among them Phidias and Socrates and Michelangelo would be considered slighter talents. Though they have not existed long they have already raised a wondrous temple of shining silver to Our Father and have
decorated it exquisitely. They have paved its floor with midnight marble and its altar is heaped with artifacts so charming that I often pause in admiration. Again, as on all the worlds, the mystic Cross appears above the altars, though few worlds understand what it is and why it is. They only know it has some profound significance. They have but two priests, for they number only one hundred as of this day, but those priests speak in the accents of sanctity and truth and adoration. I observed you only yesterday, Michael, conversing with this tremendously improved race of men, and I saw your smile. Smile, Michael, while you yet have time. It will give me the greatest pleasure to destroy Lympia, or at least the greatest satisfaction. Even this lovely race is not immune from free will—and it is human. Therein is its crime. And I shall punish it.
Our Father has said to the men of Lympia, “You are beauteous, for I have made you, and there is none fairer, no, not in all My worlds and My creation. Not even My angels are sweeter of countenance than you, for all you are only men. Your minds are like scintillating stars, and great achievements are possible for you, to the admiration of other worlds. I have withheld nothing from you, and have given you immortality and free will—the gift above all other gifts, with which I have endowed all My children. This earth is your possession, and on it you will live like gods and angels, free of disease and death, of sorrow and pain. But, you must rejoice in each other, and be proud of the accomplishments of your brothers, and exalt them in My Name. You must delight in your beauty, for I gave it to you. You must delight in your perfection, for it came from My Hand. Degrade these, and all misfortune and death and grief will be your portion.”
This is a very subtle prohibition given to the men of Lympia, which could never be understood on such meager worlds as Terra, and many multitudes of others. In each man on Lympia the race is exultant, and the race is exultant in each man. There is no collectivism on Lympia, no trace of that corruption of mind which exists in Terra. There is only joyous brotherhood. But the more ingenious the race the greater challenge to me, and strangely enough my triumph is surer among the more intelligent. There is nothing more satisfying than a worthy antagonist! I find my triumphs on Terra very tedious; they are so easy.
The degradation and deprecation of beauty! That will be a hard task for the men of Lympia, for they are so beautiful. (Beauty never truly existed on Terra, it is the ugliest and dullest of races!)
I will send my Lilith to the men of Lympia, she so snowy of skin, so golden of hair, so translucent of flesh, so blue of eye. She is my Laughing Girl, and what man can resist a woman full of perpetual merriment? I will send my Damon to the women of Lympia, he also so fair of complexion with bright roses in his countenance, and with the deepest red in his hair, and with the dawn in his eyes. You believe that so intelligent and endowed a race will not consider mere bodily beauty, however esteemed, to be paramount over the gifts of the mind? Michael, Michael!! I have yet to discover a human race which did not worship a countenance superior in form and color to others. On stupid Terra, even in Greece and Egypt, a prettier woman was idolized, however vile the soul, and a handsomer man was deified, though possessed of a spirit lower than a worm.
As men cannot look into the souls of others the outward appearance is of the greatest importance. But shall I not speak the truth and say that to all men the external manifestation is the true one? The race of Lympia is not immune to that suggestion. Speech, and writing, even the arts, are not full communication, nor are the whispers of lovers. Man, by his human nature, is forever isolated in his flesh. He can communicate only with words and gestures, with smiles and frowns. He, himself, is hidden from all others. Therefore, he is not understood, except by Our Father, to Whom he rarely has recourse, for the impulses of his natural heart are contorted and naturally perverse.
My sweet Lilith will say to the women of Lympia, “Behold, you are beautiful and beloved of your husbands! But gaze upon my whiteness of flesh, my eyes of blue, my gilded hair. Do not men adore these things? Your husbands have already adored me, for I am distinctive and fairer than you. Your flesh is black, and your hair resembles the dark midnight, and your eyes are yellow. Gather about me, sisters, and I will impart a secret to you so that you will become as I.”
To the men of Lympia my Damon shall say, “Look upon my fairness, the brilliant flush of my cheeks, the sunset glow of my hair. Your wives have found all these fascinating. Do you wish them to love you more and forsake me? Listen to me, then, and I will give you the secret of my handsomeness, so that you can improve your race and make your children more desirable, and hence, happier than yourselves.”
Do you believe, Michael, that these are trivial arguments to the sons of men? Ah, innocent Michael! You do not understand my Law of Appearances! Before that Law the intellect goes down, ignominiously, even among the intelligent. Men do not seduce gargoyles, nor are women beguiled by dwarfs. The mind is not superior to matter, no, not even on Lympia. Those who will admire Lilith the most will be men of greater sensibility, the artists, sculptors and musicians, to whom beauty is irresistible, and the bearer of it divine. The women who will love Damon will be the ladies of broader imagination than their sisters, and all women love masculine muscles, though they prefer to call it “understanding,” and sensitivity.
So, taught by my Lilith, the men of Lympia will become discontented with their wives and cast about them for a woman of lighter skin than their own. She will become the queen among them, the desired dream, the Lovely One, while her darker sister will be considered grosser of soul and body. The women, in their turn, will desire a man who resembles Damon, and will look upon their husbands with distaste, seeking a man of paler countenance. Thus they will commit the sin of which they were warned, and which will lead to their destruction. It will be useless for you to say to the people of Lympia, as you have said, that God has no color, but is a Spirit. By the time I have seduced them they will no longer hear your voice, dear Michael. They will be enamored of what they believe surpasses themselves, and will murmur the virtuous sentiment of “improving the race.” For, are they not men of intellect, seeking only the beautiful which is inherent in their nature? The search for beauty has damned more men than the search for power.
Out of what is divine in man I will always cause his fall. I will contrive his hell from his very virtues. What he has not already experienced enchants him, if he is a creature of intelligence and imagination.
I have thought of my demon, Triviality, for Lympia, but the inhabitants thereof would only despise him, whereas he is venerated on such as Terra. “Triviality” is only my name, for him; you knew him as Magus, who could, even in Heaven, reduce the profound to fragments, all of them insignificant but all of them ponderous and solemn. He is now the absolute ruler of Terra.
Convey my salutations to Our Father. I find His humor as weighty as yours.
Your brother, Lucifer
Greetings to my brother, Lucifer, who, though he inveighs against Our Father’s sense of humor, has never been able to make a single man anywhere laugh with joy:
Evil, it has been said, is far more subtle than virtue, but I doubt it. For one matter, it lacks gaiety, and where there is no gaiety there can not be true subtlety of variety or full jesting. In truth, as you have hinted yourself, there is a certain ponderousness and dullness in evil, as witness your hells. It can never move lightly, nor with grace, however beautiful the forms it takes. It can be deadly, but never can it truly smile. We have forearmed the race of Lympia and this you would have observed had you not been so busy with your plotting.
I visited Lympia as I will visit her until a second generation arises. I gathered the lovely black men and women about me and I asked of them: “Tell me, my brothers and my sisters, of what color is my substance?”
They rose from their knees at my gesture, and said, “Your countenance, Lord Michael, is the color of lightning.”
I pointed to a crimson rose near at hand and said, “Should I appear in that hue to you, what should you say?”
They considered, and then the one they have appointed as leader to themselves, answered me. “Lord, we should say, ‘He is the color of blood, and therefore his color, being his own, has its own authenticity and value. It is different from our color, but neither handsomer nor superior. It is his own, and we honor it, as we honor all differences.’
“But I am the color of lightning, as you have said. It is the color of my spirit, and your spirits also are of that appearance. God has made man on His many worlds of different refractions of light, and they are a marvel to witness. Some are as golden as your eyes, or your heavens, some are also as black as you, some are red, some have skins of a bluish cast or even a green. But the spirit, as I have told you before, is like unto my appearance to you, and so it is with all men. I come, however, to warn you of a grave danger which the Dragon, as I have called him to you, is plotting for your ruin, your despair, and your agony of mind and soul and body. He will, unto your wives, send you one Lilith, his Laughing Girl.”
The women considered this. They laugh merrily and frequently, but now they appeared puzzled. I said, “She is queen of all the Laughing Girls of all the worlds, and she is a serpent. Do not misunderstand me, I do not speak of a merry woman as you know merriment. I speak of a demon, the demon of all the female demons throughout the universe, and she is a demon of wine and roses, of reckless folly, of warm white embraces. She is never serious.”
The ladies gazed at me intently. “Life, though we laugh often, is very serious, Lord.”
“True,” I said. “The keeping of your race and your world is of the utmost consequence and importance. But Lilith, the Laughing Girl, finds nothing of consequence or importance, nor do the women everywhere who resemble her. Her face is never still or grave. She is never in repose. Nor does she say anything of intelligence. Alas,” and now I looked at the young men, “the latter men find very adorable in women.”