The Goat-Foot God Read online

  Arrived there, he admitted himself with his latch-key into the darkened hall. At the end of the hall was a swing-door, and passing through this, he found himself on the back-stairs. Going down a short flight, he came to a door on the half landing under which showed a line of light. He knocked, and a woman’s voice with a slight Scotch accent bade him come in.

  He entered a small room, much too full of knick-knacks, and a short square-set woman with greying hair rose to greet him. ‘Good evening, Mr Paston.’

  He said, ‘Sit down, Mrs Macintosh’, and she did so, still silently, looking at him questioningly.

  ‘Mrs Macintosh,’ he said, ‘I am going to give up this house.’ She nodded, expressing no surprise. ‘I want you to pay off the servants. Give ‘em all three months’ wages. It’s no fault of theirs the place is closing down. Take everything out of my bedroom and stick it into trunks — all my personal things, I mean, I don’t want any of the furniture; and take all my papers out of my desk and put them into deed-boxes, and put the lot into store. Then put the house in the hands of the agents and get them to hold an auction of everything, lock, stock, and barrel.’

  ‘What about — Mrs Paston’s things?’

  Hugh Paston’s face twitched.

  ‘Sell them too.’

  ‘But what about her papers, Mr Paston?’

  Hugh sat silent for a long time, the woman watching him with pitying eyes.

  Finally he spoke. ‘Yes, those have got to be dealt with, but I can’t do it now. Can’t be done. Look here, you put them all into deed-boxes and store them along with the rest of the goods, but keep them separate from my papers, you understand?’

  ‘Very good, Mr Paston,’ said the housekeeper quietly, ‘you can rely on me.’

  ‘Thanks, yes, I know I can,’ he said, and rising abruptly to his feet, he wrung her hand and was out of the front door before she had finished rubbing her tingling fingers.

  Although it was after closing-time when he got back to Billings Street, he found the shop lit up, and the half-glass door yielded to his pressure. At the first ting of the bell the old bookseller was through the serge curtain, for the more he thought about the way his guest had taken things, the more anxious he had become.

  Hugh Paston followed him into the room behind the shop, flung his hat on the table, and dropped into his old seat on the sofa. His action reassured the old man, for he could see he felt at home.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ve done the deed.’

  ‘What deed?’ cried Jelkes aghast, wondering if it were a murder.

  ‘Given orders for the servants to be paid off and the house sold up. Got rid of everything except my duds. Oh yes, and my wife’s papers. Those have got to be tackled sometime, but not now.’

  The old man heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I guessed you’ve earned your supper.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hugh Paston, ‘I guess I have.’

  The frying-pan and tea-pot came into action, and the amicable, silent meal was partaken of and cleared away. But although relieved concerning his immediate anxiety, for his guest had neither blown his own nor anyone else’s brains out, the old bookseller did not like the look of him at all. The hopelessness and apathy had given place to a kind of repressed excitement that struck the old man as being far from wholesome, and as likely to lead to rash acts, the consequences of which might have to be paid for heavily.

  It was not easy for Jelkes to understand the viewpoint of this man sitting silently smoking on his broken-down sofa. He was of a different class and traditions; of a different generation, and a totally different temperament. Jelkes’ mother had been left a widow in reduced circumstances, and though not a Catholic, had solved the problem of his education by sending him to the cheap but excellent school in the neighbourhood run by some Jesuit fathers. She was assured that no attempt would be made to convert the boy, and was satisfied with the assurance. No attempt had been made, but among the teachers was, as always, a man of marked charm of character, and to him the lad became deeply attached. No attempt needed to be made to convert that boy, he came knocking at the door of the fold of his own accord. And not only did he enter the fold, he aspired to the priesthood. He felt he had a vocation; and the very experienced men who judge of such things also thought he had a vocation. But he had been caught too late. A robust and rugged character had begun to be formed before he reached the seminary. The sports field of his preparatory school had done its work. He could not fit in with the whispering and influencing and routine humiliations. He bowed his neck to the yoke in the first flush of his faith; but presently he asked to be released. His friend came and pleaded with him. And not only pleaded with him, but wept over him, wringing his hands in despair. The whole experience made a terrible and searing impression on the adolescent lad. He had not taken the actual vows, being still in his novitiate, but the strongest admonitions of chastity had been impressed upon him, and these, together with his friend’s heartbroken revelations of feeling, had prevented him from ever looking upon a woman to love her. A priest at heart, he had passed through life in complete spiritual isolation; a mystic by temperament, he was denied all spiritual consolation by his critical brain.

  Penniless, without any qualifications, he by great good fortune got a job as assistant to a second-hand bookseller, found the trade congenial, and developed an aptitude for it, for he was a lad of well above the average capacity, as his teachers at the seminary had seen. Spending nothing on girl friends, or making himself attractive to the feminine eye, he saved steadily, and by the time he was forty, had launched out into a shop of his own. He soon prospered sufficiently to satisfy his simple needs, and these being satisfied, declined to exert himself any further, but enjoyed life after his own fashion, which consisted in a pot of tea on the bob, his toes on the fender, a book in his hand, and the collecting of the queer literature that interested him.

  He had come across a translation of Iamblichos’ curious work on the Egyptian Mysteries; this, coming on top of what he already knew of the Method of St Ignatius, gave him a revelation that was little less than a second conversion, for he saw here in a sudden flash that he had glimpsed the key to the technique of the higher consciousness. This served to start him off again on the ancient Quest — the quest of the light that never shone on land or sea. He had suddenly won to the knowledge that there was another kind of mysticism in the world beside the Christian mysticism. Ever since then he had pursued strange byways of thought, following up every bold speculation in science, every new viewpoint in philosophy.

  The Search for the Absolute took hold of the untidy scholar among his dusty books, and kept him serene and happy as the years slipped by and brought him neither fame nor fortune but only the merest pittance, for he did not choose to exert himself.

  He had had a good grounding in scholarship among the Jesuits and was familiar with the classical languages and had a working knowledge of Hebrew. Consequently he was able to go to the fountain-head of most things except Sanskrit. But however much he might find his own satisfaction in playing chess with the Absolute, he realized it would be little use to offer this kind of bread of life to Hugh Paston in his present state; or for the matter of that, in any state. Paston was a man who had been starved of life; who had starved in the midst of plenty without realizing what was the matter with him.

  He was relieved to find that his guest, having disposed of his more pressing affairs, seemed quite content to enjoy the homely concoctions of the frying-pan and amuse himself by browsing on the shelves. He watched him browse, knowing that here he would find the surest key to the man’s character, and noted with interest the old armful he brought over to the sofa and settled down with. He had got the treasured Iamblichos, he noticed; and an odd volume of Mme Blavatsky; and, of all incongruities, another book of Huysmans’ A Rebours. Jelkes watched him go from one to the other, and back again. A Rebours he reckoned Paston had picked up because of his interest in Huysmans’ other book, and was surprised to see him settle d
own to read it. Time went by; the old bookseller started a fresh brew of tea that was to form a night-cap, and put a cup by his guest’s elbow unnoticed.

  Hugh Paston looked up suddenly. ‘I’ve found my Bible, Jelkes,’ he said.

  ‘Good God,’ said the old bookseller, ‘I like your taste in Bibles! If you were my son, you’d go face downwards across my knee. You’re not a child, Hugh Paston — surely you have a more mature taste in literature than that!’

  ‘Come, come, now, you wouldn’t call A Rebours a kids’ book, would you?’

  ‘I’d call it a pimply adolescent’s book. Anybody who’d cut his wisdom-teeth ought to be sick over it.’

  ‘But can you imagine a mixture of Là-Bas, and A Rebours, with a dash of Iamblichos and Ignatius?’

  ‘I can, but I’d sooner not.’

  ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds. Let me put it this way. I’ve got to equip some sort of a place to live in. I’m going to do it à la Huysmans, not because I’m really a degenerate, like his blessed Des Esseintes, but because it amuses me and gives me something to do and to think about. Now supposing I furnish my place à la Iamblichos; that is to say, I build up a ‘composition of place’ with a view to getting in touch with the old pagan gods, and then express it in furnishings? Supposing I live in the middle of those furnishings, day in and day out, and supposing I put my imagination behind it all, as it were, like a priest saying Mass — won’t I get some sort of a Real Presence — of a pagan kind?’

  ‘My God, Hugh, do you realize what you’re talking about?’

  ‘Yes, I do, but you don’t. You think I’m talking about the Black Mass. But I’m not. I’m simply saying that there’s more than one sort of contact with the Unseen.’

  ‘I’d be glad if you wouldn’t say it in my hearing.’

  ‘T.J., I believe you’re scared! Do you expect me to raise the Devil on the spot?’

  ‘Laddie, I know a lot more about these things than you do. I am scared, and I don’t mind admitting it. Now tell me seriously, do you really believe that these antics you propose performing will yield any genuine results, or are you just playing at them?’

  ‘T.J., I don’t know, and I want to find out. I can tell you one thing, however, if there is no invisible reality, and everything is just the surfaces I’ve always thought it was, I shall blow my brains out and go peacefully into oblivion, for I just can’t stand it, and that’s the sober truth, and I’m not joking.’

  ‘I think I’d better make some fresh tea,’ said Jelkes. He pottered about in the kitchenette, boiling up a kettle from cold on the gas-ring instead of using old black Sukie sitting on the hob, as was his usual economical habit.

  It certainly needed some thinking out. He could see exactly what Paston was driving at. He proposed to imitate Huysmans’ decadent hero by making every object that surrounded him minister to his moods and have a definite psychological value. His aim, however, was not to produce aesthetic sensibility, but to get into touch with those old, forgotten forces hinted at in the various books. Hugh Paston, he saw, believed them to be objective, and Jelkes did not think it wise at the present juncture to disillusion him; he himself, however, knew from his thirty years’ strange reading and experimenting, that they were subjective, and God only knew what hells and heavens a man might open up in his own nature by such means as Paston proposed to use.

  But he certainly could not open any hell that was not already there; and if there were a hell there, according to Freud it was best to let the devils out for an airing occasionally. But even so, the old man was aghast at the possibilities that opened up. But it was too late to stop it now. Hugh Paston had got the bit between his teeth, was impatient of all control, and would go on from sheer bravado.

  It seemed to him that the best thing he could do would be to throw himself into Paston’s plans, and lay at his disposal the vast stores of odd knowledge that he had acquired, but never used, in the course of a lifetime’s reading. Hugh would be exceedingly busy for months to come collecting his impedimenta from the ends of the earth; that would give him something to occupy his mind, and by the time the house was equipped, he might have returned to normal. Jelkes bore the tea-pot triumphantly into the sitting-room, having arrived at this solution.

  Hugh Paston, with a very flushed face, was busy turning over the pile of books that lay beside him on the sofa. ‘T.J.,’ he exclaimed as the old man entered, ‘I’m on the trail of something. I don’t know what it is, but I can feel it in my bones.’

  Jelkes grunted and slammed down the tea-pot. ‘You’re on the trail of a hell of a lot of trouble if you don’t watch out. Now look here, Hugh, there is a way of doing what you want to do, a way of doing it properly, not in this hit or miss fashion you’ve got in your mind, and I’ll show you what it is, provided you’ll handle it the way I say, and not let us both in for a pickle.’

  ‘I thought there was, you old devil, and that if I burnt enough sulphur under your nose, you’d come clean. Now where do we start?’

  ‘You start with that cup of tea.’

  ‘Right. Now I’ll tell you what’s in my mind, and we’ll see if we both have the same idea. I think we ought to start by invoking the Great God Pan.’

  The old bookseller groaned inwardly, shades of the seminary gathering about him. He did not repudiate the idea however.

  ‘How do you propose to make a start?’ he inquired mildly.

  ‘I propose to get hold of a suitable house, one of those big, left-over country mansions with lots of huge rooms, that are white elephants to everybody, and fit up the different rooms as temples to the different gods of the old pantheons. Make a really artistic job of it, you know. Have some first-class frescoes done, and all the rest of it; and I’m inclined to think that if we make the temple ready, the god will indwell it, and we shall begin to learn something about him — or her.’

  The old bookseller groaned again.

  ‘Now, T.J., I’ll provide the wherewithal — it’s about the only thing I can provide, God help me — if you’ll provide the ideas, and then we want someone to do the designing and chase about after the oddments. I know various firms who go in for designing houses from the attic to the cellar in any period or a mixture of ‘em all, but I don’t know of anyone who could do this job, do you? I expect we’ll have to wrestle with it ourselves, and get hold of a tame artist who’ll do as he’s told.’

  ‘That sort isn’t usually much of an artist,’ said T. Jelkes. ‘Well, can we get hold of an artist who’s along this line of thought?’

  That was the exact crux of the matter, and that was what T. Jelkes had touched upon and discarded while he was brewing the tea. Paston had put his finger upon the spot; they must have their master-craftsman for the making of any temple of the Mysteries. There was another thing Hugh Paston must have, only he didn’t know it, he must have his priestess. Two men couldn’t work the thing between them. And God only knew where the thing would end if they introduced a woman into it. He knew where it usually ended in pagan times.

  And he had the priestess ready to hand if he chose to lay his hand on her. But did he choose? No, he did not. Paston could go to hell before he’d do that. But on the other hand, the work would be a godsend to the girl, who needed it badly. He was very anxious about her. Things had not been going well with her lately. Two of the papers she worked for had closed down, owing her money. He suspected she was not getting anything like enough to eat. Would it be possible to get her the job of doing all the craftwork and designing, which was her trade, and yet keep Hugh Paston from playing the fool with her?

  He considered his guest critically. He did not think he would be a man especially attractive to women. He was tallish, loosely built, and carried himself badly, with awkward, jerky, nervous movements. He had the long-fingered, bony hands of a psychic and sensitive, and Jelkes guessed that the rest of his physique was to match. His strength, he guessed, would not be muscular, but would depend upon nervous energy; and he judged by the jerky, awkward movements tha
t at the present moment everything was disco-ordinated, and the fellow had no stamina or staying-power. He would go up in brief flares of nervous excitement, and burn out as quickly, like a fire of straw. He judged that it would be fairly safe to give him his head and let him pelt away at his new scheme because the first burst would exhaust him, and the new toy would be broken and thrown aside.

  He thought of Mona. He did not anticipate much danger there. Hugh Paston was probably accustomed to highly decorative females; he did not think his little brown mouse would be classed as a female at all in Paston’s eyes.

  His visitor suddenly broke in on his thoughts, and in the odd way he had done two or three times before, he voiced the very thing that the old bookseller had been turning over in his mind.

  ‘Jelkes, can we run this show with men only, just you and I, or shall we want some women?’

  Jelkes grunted non-committally.

  ‘Got your eye on any women for the job?’

  ‘I know of plenty who’d like to join the — er — witchcoven when we get it going, but I don’t know of any who’d be any use as priestesses. But I know various folk connected with the stage, and I thought we’d probably be able to find a young actress of the right type, one of these classical dancers, you know, and teach her the job, and she could teach the others.’

  Jelkes heaved a sigh of relief. That solved one of his problems anyway.

  ‘If you can find the right sort of priestess, I think I can lay my hands on the right sort of artist.’

  ‘That’s fine. I really feel we’re getting under way. T.J., I’ll be a different man if I have something to do, and feel that I’m really getting somewhere instead of chasing my tail in circles down the arches of the years. Now then, let’s get down to practical politics. What’s the first move? Find a house?’

  ‘No, not quite, the first move is to decide exactly what you want to do, and then see how we can best set about doing it.’