Goat-Foot God: A Novel - Softcover

Fortune, Dion

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0877285004 ISBN 13: 9780877285007

Verlag: Red Wheel/Weiser, 1971

Inhaltsangabe

An original novel in which the 15th and 20th centuries meet with uncanny results, due to the invocation of Pan. This work is of special interest to students of magic and the Western Mystery Tradition.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Dion Fortune (1891-1946), founder of The Society of the Inner Light, is recognized as one of the most luminous figures of 20th-century esoteric thought. A prolific writer, pioneer psychologist, powerful psychic, and spiritualist, she dedicated her life to the revival of the Western Mystery Tradition. She was also a member of the Order of the Golden Dawn, whose members included at various times such people as A.E. Waite, Aleister Crowley, and W.B. Yeats.

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The Goat-Foot God

A Novel

By DION FORTUNE

Samuel Weiser, Inc.

Copyright © 2013 Dion Fortune
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-87728-500-7

Contents

CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
A MAGICAL INVOCATION OF PAN

CHAPTER 1

The double doors of 98 Pelham Street opened to the latch-key of their owner,who, to judge from his habiliments, had just returned from a funeral. The butlerwho advanced to meet him in the outer hall and take from him his neatly-rolledumbrella, his top-hat with the deep mourning band, and his close-fitting blackovercoat, damp with rain—for one cannot hold up an umbrella during the actualcommitting of the body to the ground—endeavoured to put into his expression theexactly right proportions of sympathy and deprecation.

The problem was not an easy one, and he had given a lot of thought to it whileawaiting his master's return. Too much sympathy was very definitely not calledfor; but, on the other hand, too much deprecation would be in bad taste, andprobably resented as indicating an over-intimate acquaintance with painfulprivate affairs. He finally decided to have both expressions ready and take hiscue from his master's countenance. But that impassive, cadaverous visage toldhim nothing; in fact his employer might as well have been hanging his hat on thehat-stand as placing it in a human hand for all the indication he gave ofrecognising the presence of a fellow-being who presumably had an immortal soul.

Hugh Paston passed through the wide inner hall and into his study, shut the doorbehind him, and helped himself to a drink from the cocktail cabinet. He neededit.

He flung himself into an enormous arm-chair beside the hearth, and extended hisfeet to the electric fire. The soles of his shoes, wet with churchyard clay,began to steam, but he never heeded them. He sat motionless, staring into theglow; endeavouring, if the truth were known, to solve exactly the same problemthat had so severely taxed his butler.

He had just returned from the funeral of his wife, who had been killed in amotoring accident. That is no uncommon occurrence. Most men have wives, andmotoring accidents are frequent. But this was not quite an ordinary motoringaccident. The car had gone up in flames; and though the proprietor of the RedLion Hotel, at whose gates the accident had occurred, had identified the bodiesas those ofa Mr and Mrs Thompson, well known to him as frequent visitors forseveral years past, an inscription inside the watch found on the man hadidentified him as Trevor Wilmott, one of Hugh Paston's most intimate friends,and an inscription inside the wedding-ring of the woman had identified her asHugh Paston's wife.

What should be the attitude of a husband at once outraged and bereaved? Shouldit be grief and forgiveness or a disgusted repudiation? Hugh Paston did notknow. He only knew he had had a severe shock, and was just beginning to rousefrom the dazed numbness that had been a merciful anesthetic against the fullstress of the blow. He had been hit on every tender spot on which a man could behit. If Frida had left a note on her dressing-table to say that she was elopingwith Trevor Wilmott, he would have pitied and forgiven. But they were actuallyon their way home when the accident occurred; she had phoned to say she would beback in time for tea. Trevor himself was dining with them that evening. Thething had indisputably been going on for a considerable period; it must, infact, have been going on from the earliest days of the marriage, if the innkeeper'schronology were to be relied on.

Sitting there, sipping his drink and gazing at the impersonal glow of theelectric fire, Hugh Paston began to go over things in his mind, asking himselfwhat he felt, and what he had better think.

The soles of Hugh's shoes had long ceased to steam and were beginning to crackby the time he had finished reviewing his life with Frida in the light of whathe now knew. He had believed that there had once been mutual love betweenhimself and Frida, even if it had not stood the test of marriage. And he askedhimself again and again what it was that had killed that love? Had marriage withhim been a disillusioning experience for Frida? He sighed, and supposed thatthat was it. So far as he knew, he had left nothing undone that he could havedone. But evidently he had not filled the bill. He compared Trevor and Frida toTristram and Iseult, and left it at that.

He rose suddenly to his feet. One thing he knew for certain, he couldn't stop inthe house. He would go out for a walk, and when he was tired, turn in at somehotel and phone his man to bring along his things. He looked round at the roomwith its shadow less, concealing lighting and rectilinear furniture, whichcontrived at one and the same time to be so austere and so bulky, and the jaggedpoints in the pattern of the carpet and hangings stabbed at him like so manydentist's drills.

He went hastily out into the hall. The butler was not about, and he got his hatand coat unaided. He closed the big doors silently behind him and set out at abrisk pace northward. But by the time he had crossed Oxford Street, and wasmaking his way through the modified version of Mayfair that lies beyond it, hehad slackened his pace. He had had precious little food or sleep since theinquest had revealed certain facts, and that is a thing which takes it out of aman.

Tired of going north, and finding that the district was beginning to get sordid,he turned sharp right, and in another moment found himself in a narrow andwinding street of shabby aspect, given up chiefly to second-hand furniture-dealingand cheap eating-houses.

Hugh Paston made his way down this dingy thoroughfare slowly. His energy did notamount to a brisk walk, but he had no wish to return to the deadly emptiness ofhis home. He found the curious old thoroughfare interesting, enabling him toturn his mind away from the things on which it had been grinding for days. Therag-bag stock-in-trade amused him, and he stood contemplating it. No onebothered him; no one importuned him to buy. Everyone was completely indifferentto his existence. Which was as he wished it to be. Had he taken his walk abroadin Mayfair, he would have been hailed at every turn by his friends, inquisitiveand eager for information, or embarrassed and anxious to be kind. Whereas theone thing he wanted was to be allowed to crawl away quietly and lick his wounds.

He sauntered on, dislodged...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Red Wheel/Weiser
• Erscheinungsdatum: 1971
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0877285004
• ISBN 13: 9780877285007
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 392
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
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