Perelandra (13 page)

‘My dear Ransom,’ said Weston, ‘I understand you perfectly. I have no doubt that my phraseology will seem strange to you, and perhaps even shocking. Early and revered associations may have put it out of your power
to recognise in this new form the very same truths which religion has so long preserved and which science is now at last re-discovering. But whether you can see it or not, believe me, we are talking about exactly the same thing.’

‘I’m not at all sure that we are.’

‘That, if you will permit me to say so, is one of the real weaknesses of organised religion – that adherence to formulae, that failure to recognise one’s own friends. God is a spirit, Ransom. Get hold of that. You’re familiar with that already. Stick to it. God is a spirit.’

‘Well, of course. But what then?’

‘What then? Why, spirit – mind – freedom – spontaneity – that’s what I’m talking about. That is the goal towards which the whole cosmic process is moving. The final disengagement of that freedom, that spirituality, is the work to which I dedicate my own life and the life of humanity. The goal, Ransom, the goal: think of it!
Pure
spirit: the final vortex of self-thinking, self-originating activity.’

‘Final?’ said Ransom. ‘You mean it doesn’t yet exist?’

‘Ah,’ said Weston, ‘I see what’s bothering you. Of course I know. Religion pictures it as being there from the beginning. But surely that is not a real difference? To make it one, would be to take time too seriously. When it has once been attained, you might then say it had been at the beginning just as well as at the end. Time is one of the things it will transcend.’

‘By the way,’ said Ransom, ‘is it in any sense at all personal – is it alive?’

An indescribable expression passed over Weston’s face. He moved a little nearer to Ransom and began speaking in a lower voice.

‘That’s what none of them understand,’ he said. It was such a gangster’s or a schoolboy’s whisper and so unlike his usual orotund lecturing style that Ransom for a moment felt a sensation almost of disgust.

‘Yes,’ said Weston, ‘I couldn’t have believed, myself, till recently. Not a person, of course. Anthropomorphism is one of the childish diseases of popular religion’ (here he had resumed his public manner), ‘but the opposite extreme of excessive abstraction has perhaps in the aggregate proved more disastrous. Call it a Force. A great, inscrutable Force, pouring up into us from the dark bases of being. A Force that can choose its instruments. It is only lately, Ransom, that I’ve learned from actual experience something which you have believed all your life as part of your religion.’ Here he suddenly subsided again into a whisper – a croaking whisper unlike his usual voice. ‘Guided,’ he said. ‘Chosen. Guided. I’ve become conscious that I’m a man set apart. Why did I do physics? Why did I discover the Weston rays? Why did I go to Malacandra? It – the Force – has pushed me on all the time. I’m being guided. I know now that I am the greatest scientist the world has yet produced. I’ve been made so for a purpose. It is through me that Spirit itself is at this moment pushing on to its goal.’

‘Look here,’ said Ransom, ‘one wants to be careful about this sort of thing. There are spirits and spirits, you know.’

‘Eh?’ said Weston. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I mean a thing might be a spirit and not good for you.’

‘But I thought you agreed that Spirit was the good – the end of the whole process? I thought you religious
people were all out for spirituality? What is the point of asceticism – fasts and celibacy and all that? Didn’t we agree that God is a spirit? Don’t you worship Him because He is pure spirit?’

‘Good heavens, no! We worship Him because He is wise and good. There’s nothing specially fine about simply being a spirit. The Devil is a spirit.’

‘Now your mentioning the Devil is very interesting,’ said Weston, who had by this time quite recovered his normal manner. ‘It is a most interesting thing in popular religion, this tendency to fissiparate, to breed pairs of opposites: heaven and hell, God and Devil. I need hardly say that in my view no real dualism in the universe is admissible; and on that ground I should have been disposed, even a few weeks ago, to reject these pairs of doublets as pure mythology. It would have been a profound error. The cause of this universal religious tendency is to be sought much deeper. The doublets are really portraits of Spirit, of cosmic energy – self-portraits, indeed, for it is the Life-Force itself which has deposited them in our brains.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’ said Ransom. As he spoke he rose to his feet and began pacing to and fro. A quite appalling weariness and malaise had descended upon him.

‘Your
Devil and
your
God,’ said Weston, ‘are both pictures of the same Force. Your heaven is a picture of the perfect spirituality ahead; your hell a picture of the urge or
nisus
which is driving us on to it from behind. Hence the static peace of the one and the fire and darkness of the other. The next stage of emergent evolution, beckoning us forward, is God; the transcended stage
behind, ejecting us, is the Devil. Your own religion, after all, says that the devils are fallen angels.’

‘And you are saying precisely the opposite, as far as I can make out – that angels are devils who’ve risen in the world.’

‘It comes to the same thing,’ said Weston.

There was another long pause. ‘Look here,’ said Ransom, ‘it’s easy to misunderstand one another on a point like this. What you are saying sounds to me like the most horrible mistake a man could fall into. But that may be because in the effort to accommodate it to my supposed “religious views”, you’re saying a good deal more than you mean. It’s only a metaphor, isn’t it, all this about spirits and forces? I expect all you really mean is that you feel it your duty to work for the spread of civilisation and knowledge and that kind of thing.’ He had tried to keep out of his voice the involuntary anxiety which he had begun to feel. Next moment he recoiled in horror at the cackling laughter, almost an infantile or senile laughter, with which Weston replied.

‘There you go, there you go,’ he said. ‘Like all you religious people. You talk and talk about these things all your life, and the moment you meet the reality you get frightened.’

‘What proof,’ said Ransom (who indeed did feel frightened), ‘what proof have you that you are being guided or supported by anything except your own individual mind and other people’s books?’

‘You didn’t notice, dear Ransom,’ said Weston, ‘that I’d improved a bit since we last met in my knowledge of extra terrestrial language. You are a philologist, they tell me.’

Ransom started. ‘How did you do it?’ he blurted out.

‘Guidance, you know, guidance,’ croaked Weston. He was squatting at the roots of his tree with his knees drawn up, and his face, now the colour of putty, wore a fixed and even slightly twisted grin. ‘Guidance. Guidance,’ he went on. ‘Things coming into my head. I’m being prepared all the time. Being made a fit receptacle for it.’

‘That ought to be fairly easy,’ said Ransom impatiently. ‘If this Life-Force is something so ambiguous that God and the Devil are equally good portraits of it, I suppose any receptacle is equally fit, and anything you can do is equally an expression of it.’

‘There’s such a thing as the main current,’ said Weston. ‘It’s a question of surrendering yourself to that – making yourself the conductor of the live, fiery, central purpose – becoming the very finger with which it reaches forward.’

‘But I thought that was the Devil aspect of it, a moment ago.’

‘That is the fundamental paradox. The thing we are reaching forward to is what you would call God. The reaching forward, the dynamism, is what people like you always call the Devil. The people like me, who do the reaching forward, are always martyrs. You revile us, and by us come to your goal.’

‘Does that mean in plainer language that the things the Force wants you to do are what ordinary people call diabolical?’

‘My dear Ransom, I wish you would not keep relapsing on to the popular level. The two things are only moments in the single, unique reality. The world leaps
forward through great men and greatness always transcends mere moralism. When the leap has been made our “diabolism” as you would call it becomes the morality of the next stage; but while we are making it, we are called criminals, heretics, blasphemers …’

‘How far does it go? Would you still obey the Life-Force if you found it prompting you to murder me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Or to sell England to the Germans?’

‘Yes.’

‘Or to print lies as serious research in a scientific periodical?’

‘Yes.’

‘God help you!’ said Ransom.

‘You are still wedded to your conventionalities,’ said Weston. ‘Still dealing in abstractions. Can you not even conceive a total commitment – a commitment to something which utterly overrides all our petty ethical pigeon-holes?’

Ransom grasped at the straw. ‘Wait, Weston,’ he said abruptly. ‘That may be a point of contact. You say it’s a total commitment. That is, you’re giving up yourself. You’re not out for your own advantage. No, wait half a second. This is the point of contact between your morality and mine. We both acknowledge –’

‘Idiot,’ said Weston. His voice was almost a howl and he had risen to his feet. ‘Idiot,’ he repeated. ‘Can you understand nothing? Will you always try to press everything back into the miserable framework of your old jargon about self and self-sacrifice? That is the old accursed dualism in another form. There is no possible distinction in concrete thought between me and the
universe. In so far as I am the conductor of the central forward pressure of the universe, I am it. Do you see, you timid, scruple-mongering fool? I
am
the Universe. I, Weston, am your God and your Devil. I call that Force into me completely …’

Then horrible things began happening. A spasm like that preceding a deadly vomit twisted Weston’s face out of recognition. As it passed, for one second something like the old Weston reappeared – the old Weston, staring with eyes of horror and howling, ‘Ransom, Ransom! For Christ’s sake don’t let them –’ and instantly his whole body spun round as if he had been hit by a revolver bullet and he fell to the earth, and was there rolling at Ransom’s feet, slavering and chattering and tearing up the moss by handfuls. Gradually the convulsions decreased. He lay still, breathing heavily, his eyes open but without expression. Ransom was kneeling beside him now. It was obvious that the body was alive, and Ransom wondered whether this were a stroke or an epileptic fit, for he had never seen either. He rummaged among the packages and found a bottle of brandy which he uncorked and applied to the patient’s mouth. To his consternation the teeth opened, closed on the neck of the bottle and bit it through. No glass was spat out. ‘O God, I’ve killed him,’ said Ransom. But beyond a spurt of blood at the lips there was no change in his appearance. The face suggested that either he was in no pain or in a pain beyond all human comprehension. Ransom rose at last, but before doing so he plucked the revolver from Weston’s belt, then, walking down to the beach, he threw it as far as he could into the sea.

He stood for some moments gazing out upon the bay and undecided what to do. Presently he turned and climbed up the turfy ridge that bordered the little valley on his left hand. He found himself on a fairly level upland with a good view of the sea, now running high and teased out of its level gold into a continually changing pattern of lights and shadows. For a second or two he could catch no sight of the islands. Then suddenly their tree-tops appeared, hanging high up against the sky, and widely separated. The weather, apparently, was already driving them apart – and even as he thought this they vanished once more into some unseen valley of the waves. What was his chance, he wondered, of ever finding them again? A sense of loneliness smote him, and then a feeling of angry frustration. If Weston were dying, or even if Weston were to live, imprisoned here with him on an island they could not leave, what had been the danger he was sent to avert from Perelandra? And so, having begun to think of himself, he realised that he was hungry. He had seen neither fruit nor gourd on the Fixed Land. Perhaps it was a death trap. He smiled bitterly at the folly which had made him so glad, that morning, to exchange those floating paradises, where every grove dropped sweetness, for this barren rock. But perhaps it was not barren after all. Determined, despite the weariness which was every moment descending upon him, to make a search for food, he was just turning inland when the swift changes of colour that announce the evening of that world overtook him. Uselessly he quickened his pace. Before he had got down into the valley, the grove where he had left Weston was a mere cloud of darkness. Before he had reached it he was in seamless, undimensioned
night. An effort or two to grope his way to the place where Weston’s stores had been deposited only served to abolish his sense of direction altogether. He sat down perforce. He called Weston’s name aloud once or twice but, as he expected, received no answer. ‘I’m glad I removed his gun, all the same,’ thought Ransom; and then, ‘Well,
qui dort dine
and I suppose I must make the best of it till the morning.’ When he lay down he discovered that the solid earth and moss of the Fixed Land was very much less comfortable than the surfaces to which he had lately been accustomed. That, and the thought of the other human being lying, no doubt, close at hand with open eyes and teeth clenched on splintered glass, and the sullen recurring pound of breakers on the beach, all made the night comfortless. ‘If I lived on Perelandra,’ he muttered, ‘Maleldil wouldn’t need to
forbid
this island. I wish I’d never set eyes on it.’

He woke, after a disturbed and dreamful sleep, in full daylight. He had a dry mouth, a crick in his neck, and a soreness in his limbs. It was so unlike all previous wakings in the world of Venus, that for a moment he supposed himself back on Earth: and the dream (for so it seemed to him) of having lived and walked on the oceans of the Morning Star rushed through his memory with a sense of lost sweetness that was well-nigh unbearable. Then he sat up and the facts came back to him. ‘It’s jolly nearly the same as having waked from a dream, though,’ he thought. Hunger and thirst became at once his dominant sensations, but he conceived it a duty to look first at the sick man – though with very little hope that he could help him. He gazed round. There was the grove of silvery trees all right, but he could not see Weston. Then he glanced at the bay; there was no punt either. Assuming that in the darkness he had blundered into the wrong valley, he rose and approached the stream for a drink. As he lifted his face from the water with a long sigh of satisfaction, his eyes suddenly fell on a little wooden box – and then beyond it on a couple of tins. His brain was working rather slowly and it took him a few seconds to realise that he was in the right valley after all, and a few more to draw conclusions from the fact that the box was open and empty, and that
some of the stores had been removed and others left behind. But was it possible that a man in Weston’s physical condition could have recovered sufficiently during the night to strike camp and to go away laden with some kind of pack? Was it possible that any man could have faced a sea like that in a collapsible punt? It was true, as he now noticed for the first time, that the storm (which had been a mere squall by Perelandrian standards) appeared to have blown itself out during the night; but there was still a quite formidable swell and it seemed out of the question that the Professor could have left the island. Much more probably he had left the valley on foot and carried the punt with him. Ransom decided that he must find Weston at once: he must keep in touch with his enemy. For if Weston had recovered, there was no doubt he meant mischief of some kind. Ransom was not at all certain that he had understood all his wild talk on the previous day; but what he did understand he disliked very much, and suspected that this vague mysticism about ‘spirituality’ would turn out to be something even nastier than his old and comparatively simple programme of planetary imperialism. It would be unfair to take seriously the things the man had said immediately before his seizure, no doubt; but there was enough without that.