A Voyage to Arcturus by David Lindsay (the best electronic book reader TXT) 📖

“Thank Spadevil for it,” she answered, more loudly than usual.

Maskull looked at the man’s dark, concrete form. “Spadevil, now I mean to follow you to the end. I can do nothing less.”

The severe face showed no sign of gratification—not a muscle relaxed.

“Watch that you don’t lose your gift,” he said gruffly.

Tydomin spoke. “You promised that I should enter Sant with you.”

“Attach yourself to the truth, not to me. For I may die before you, but the truth will accompany you to your death. However, now let us journey together, all three of us.”

The words had not left his mouth before he put his face against the fine, driving snow, and pressed onward toward his destination. He walked with a long stride; Tydomin was obliged to half run in order to keep up with him. The three travelled abreast; Spadevil in the middle. The fog was so dense that it was impossible to see a hundred yards ahead. The ground was covered by the green snow. The wind blew in gusts from the Sant highlands and was piercingly cold.

“Spadevil, are you a man, or more than a man?” asked Maskull.

“He that is not more than a man is nothing.”

“Where have you now come from?”

“From brooding, Maskull. Out of no other mother can truth be born. I have brooded, and rejected; and I have brooded again. Now, after many months’ absence from Sant, the truth at last shines forth for me in its simple splendour, like an upturned diamond.”

“I see its shining,” said Maskull. “But how much does it owe to ancient Hator?”

“Knowledge has its seasons. The blossom was to Hator, the fruit is to me. Hator also was a brooder—but now his followers do not brood. In Sant all is icy selfishness, a living death. They hate pleasure, and this hatred is the greatest pleasure to them.”

“But in what way have they fallen off from Hator’s doctrines?”

“For him, in his sullen purity of nature, all the world was a snare, a limed twig. Knowing that pleasure was everywhere, a fierce, mocking enemy, crouching and waiting at every corner of the road of life, in order to kill with its sweet sting the naked grandeur of the soul, he shielded himself behind pain. This also his followers do, but they do not do it for the sake of the soul, but for the sake of vanity and pride.”

“What is the Trifork?”

“The stem, Maskull, is hatred of pleasure. The first fork is disentanglement from the sweetness of the world. The second fork is power over those who still writhe in the nets of illusion. The third fork is the healthy glow of one who steps into ice-cold water.”

“From what land did Hator come?”

“It is not said. He lived in Ifdawn for a while. There are many legends told of him while there.”

“We have a long way to go,” said Tydomin. “Relate some of these legends, Spadevil.”

The snow had ceased, the day brightened, Branchspell reappeared like a phantom sun, but bitter blasts of wind still swept over the plain.

“In those days,” said Spadevil, “there existed in Ifdawn a mountain island separated by wide spaces from the land around it. A handsome girl, who knew sorcery, caused a bridge to be constructed across which men and women might pass to it. Having by a false tale drawn Hator on to this rock, she pushed at the bridge with her foot until it tumbled into the depths below. ‘You and I, Hator, are now together, and there is no means of separating. I wish to see how long the famous frost man can withstand the breath, smiles and perfume of a girl.’ Hator said no word, either then or all that day. He stood till sunset like a tree trunk, and thought of other things. Then the girl grew passionate, and shook her curls. She rose from where she was sitting she looked at him, and touched his arm; but he did not see her. She looked at him, so that all the soul was in her eyes; and then she fell down dead. Hator awoke from his thoughts, and saw her lying, still warm, at his feet, a corpse. He passed to the mainland; but how, it is not related.”

Tydomin shuddered. “You too have met your wicked woman, Spadevil; but your method is a nobler one.”

“Don’t pity other women,” said Spadevil, “but love the right. Hator also once conversed with Shaping.”

“With the Maker of the World?” said Maskull thoughtfully.

“With the Maker of Pleasure. It is told how Shaping defended his world, and tried to force Hator to acknowledge loveliness and joy. But Hator, answering all his marvellous speeches in a few concise, iron words, showed how this joy and beauty was but another name for the bestiality of souls wallowing in luxury and sloth. Shaping smiled, and said, ‘How comes it that your wisdom is greater than that of the Master of wisdom?’ Hator said, ‘My wisdom does not come from you, nor from your world, but from that other world, which you, Shaping, have vainly tried to imitate.’ Shaping replied, ‘What, then, do you do in my world?’ Hator said, ‘I am here falsely, and therefore I am subject to your false pleasures. But I wrap myself in pain—not because it is good, but because I wish to keep myself as far from you as possible. For pain is not yours, neither does it belong to the other world, but it is the shadow cast by your false pleasures.’ Shaping then said, ‘What is this faraway other world of which you say “This is so—this is not so?” How happens it that you alone of all my creatures have knowledge of it?’ But Hator spat at his feet, and said, ‘You lie, Shaping. All have knowledge of it. You, with your pretty toys, alone obscure it from our view.’ Shaping asked, ‘What, then, am I?’ Hator answered, ‘You are the dreamer of impossible dreams.’ And then the story goes that Shaping departed, ill pleased with what had been said.”

“What other world did Hator refer to?” asked Maskull.

“One where grandeur reigns, Maskull, just as pleasure reigns here.”

“Whether grandeur or pleasure, it makes no difference,” said Maskull. “The individual spirit that lives and wishes to live is mean and corrupt-natured.”

“Guard you your pride!” returned Spadevil. “Do not make law for the universe and for all time, but for yourself and for this small, false life of yours.”

“In what shape did death come to that hard, unconquerable man?” asked Tydomin.

“He lived to be old, but went upright and free-limbed to his last hour. When he saw that death could not be staved off longer he determined to destroy himself. He gathered his friends around him; not from vanity, but that they might see to what lengths the human soul can go in its perpetual warfare with the voluptuous body. Standing erect, without support, he died by withholding his breath.”

A silence followed, which lasted for perhaps