by Jesse Roarke
onwhite, achieved a bird that seemed almost ready to fly from the paper.Another was painting a meltingly beautiful portrait of his mistress,with flowers in her hair.
"When we get back, I'll show you a real picture," the old poet said."It's called Vasuki. He's the king of the snakes, according to theHindus. I don't know much about the man who did it, except that he'sgot the most wonderful eyes I ever saw. I tried to do him justicein a sonnet once, but I failed. He just appeared one day, and thendisappeared one day, and that's all anyone seems to know. Two of ourbest young painters went out to look for him over a year ago, and theyhaven't returned."
There were musical concerts, operas and plays. There were potters attheir wheels, and sculptors with their chisels and their clay. Every artseemed represented.
"In that hut over there," said the poet, "lives one of the greatestmusical geniuses the world has ever known. Better even than Beethoven,I think. Maybe you'll have a chance to meet him, if he turns sociablewhile you're here. I trust you'll be here for a long time. Maybe you'llstay for good? You seem to have the mark in your forehead."
He stayed for several months. He luxuriated in the splendor and thebeauty of this dedicated life. Great artistry of sound and word, colorand form, filled him: but never to overflowing, and never, fully, tosatisfaction. He grew weary of the continual reaching out, the perpetualfeeding upon dreams. He shared the raptures and the torments of theartists, he felt powerfully and saw deeply, more than ever before:but something was lacking. The occasional flashes of insight werenot enough, and the labor, the aspiration, was heart-breaking. Whathe sought was still beyond, beyond art itself, beyond all possiblecreation. And yet, it must be attainable.
* * * * *
He aspired to poetry, he tried to give a voice to his aspiration andhis need. But it was not in him. And what if it had been? Why should hewrite verses to complain that he was not Lit with the Sun? He thoughtbriefly of the Twentieth Century poetry that he had read, the poetry ofthe Dark Ages, and shuddered at the thought of adding to that store.He would never attempt expression again, until he knew something toexpress. But when the time came, perhaps it would flow from him in sucha golden stream as he remembered from the great masters. Perhaps thepoet had not read too mistakenly the sign in his forehead.
He noticed that some of the artists, and those he considered theprofoundest and the surest, were not permanent residents here. They cameand went, with a light as of far peaks in their eyes. Like the painterof Vasuki, which was truly a marvelous picture, instinct with a spiritthat made most other productions seem like mere daubs of paint. He feltthat that man knew something, and that he did not learn it here, thathe did not learn it as a painter at all. There must be other places,or another place, in which art and the artists were mature. He had hadenough of this unquiet, the greatest ecstasies of which obviously fellbelow the peace and the assurance that called to him. He was weary ofthis perpetual straining with materials and methods inadequate to thetask.
And so, reluctantly, he left the artists, and continued his pilgrimage.As he departed, a symphony orchestra was performing Mozart's Requiem,and this perfect artistry, serene and soaring, dedicated to the verySource, and, it seemed, instinct with something of its light, compriseda fitting and a reassuring farewell.
As the dying strains played upon him, he was filled again with theravishing verses of Sidney Lanier. Out of the high beauty, these wordsmingled clearly with his consciousness:
O long ago the billow-flow of sense Aroused by passion's windy vehemence Upbore me out of depths to heights intense, But not to thee, Nirvana.
It was so true, and so much beyond him! The meaning was never clear, andyet, against it, all else was a deeper darkness. But it called him, andthat was sufficient. He must continue, patiently, on the way.
* * * * *
The walk was pleasant, and the evergreens were soughing gently, as hepassed. Midway in the afternoon he sat down by a convenient spring, andate quickly a light meal. As he was resting, a man came through thetrees before him: balding and rather stout, and apparently approachingthe end of middle age. He did not know whether he cared to talk withthis man. But he had little choice, for he hailed him with a sort ofgood-natured camaraderie, and came and sat beside him.
"You may consider me a philosopher," the man announced; "that is, in thefine old sense, a lover of wisdom. I don't think that will frighten youaway," he chuckled. "I think I can see that you agree with Socrates:that you consider an unexamined life to be a life that is not worthliving. Is this correct?"
He replied that it was, and that he was a seeker of wisdom, and hopedone day to prove to be a lover of it--after he had found it.
The philosopher smiled, and continued, "Perhaps it is best to be alover of the search; perhaps, indeed, the search itself is the greatestwisdom. This used to be considered a platitude," he laughed, "wheneducation was more wide-spread in the world. But I have never foundanything bright and brand new that matches it. I do not want to be oneof those who 'give to dust that is a little gilt more laud than gilto'erdusted'. How about you?"
He smiled agreement. He was beginning somewhat to like this man: butstill he could not respect him, either as an embodiment of wisdom oras a seeker of it. His mind seemed only clever, and rather lazy andcomplacent with its cleverness: it seemed quite incapable of any reallydeep probing, or high flight. This was not his idea of a philosopher.
The object of this scrutiny seemed somewhat to sense its import, and toshrug it off.
"I could tell it at a glance," he said. "You're one of the mostintelligent men I've ever seen escape from that monstrosity of a City.Let me congratulate you! It's a terrible thing to live like that.
"One immense mechanized mass! One big idiot's delight, full of nothingbut idiots, or morons at best. Everybody "happy": food, shelter and sexall taken care of, and real human contact at a minimum: a true earthlyparadise. A paradise for morons, that is, for people who really preferto live worse than hogs. God bless the dear technologists, who keep itgoing: they as stupid as the majority, of course, just morons with alittle mechanical know-how, as the phrase was. And bless whatever powersthere are, for the library, and the chance to escape!
"I don't know how it came about, but there's something behind it. Justbefore the poor little fools could blow themselves up, the Disasters hitthem: and while they were still traumatized, this system began to takecare of them. It's a fine thing, I guess, for those that aren't capableof a life worth living. And for those that are, too: it seems to takehold of them at just the right time. It seems that it gives everyonejust what he is best fitted for, and then lets him go.
* * * * *
"It never really let go of me--or got rid of me. I alternate, from cityto country: read myself to a standstill, and then travel awhile. It'salways pleasant, up here. It's like the coast: the seasons don't changeanymore. That is, there aren't any seasons--just hints of them. Butmaybe you know that by now. Ah--yes. I guessed as much. You look like aman that has been out long enough to--well, to look like a man.
"I wonder how it will end? The birth-rate's way down, and seems tocontinue decreasing, even in the country. Maybe the race is graduallydying out: evolution getting rid of an unfit species. But I wouldn'texpect it to be so gentle about it.
"The more I think about it, the better I see what an infinite amountI've got to learn. Another platitude: Newton picking up pebbles on thesea-shore. Maybe the craze for sheer novelty is one of the things thatmade this mess. I don't know. But I think that there is such a thing astruth, and that it doesn't adapt itself to conditions: conditions haveto adapt themselves to it. Do you agree? Yes, I thought so. I think I'llhave to be heading back to the library in a few days. I've seen enoughthis trek.
"There seems to be a guardian angel, somehow, if you believe in that.The explanation's probably a purely natural one. But people come out andlive as they like to, with no hindrance, and they prosper. They
do alittle simple farming, and always have bumper crops. The weather and thewild animals never hurt them, and they never hurt each other. The onesthat like to fight do it, but only with swords and knives, and nobodyever seems to get killed. All the literature and art of the world ispreserved, for those that want it: as many copies as demanded. SometimesI bring copies of books with me. It helps, to read them out here.Nature's a lot vaster and more wonderful than we know.
"Everything seems to be taken care of. Nobody lives in want or fearanymore. Except," he smiled ruefully, "want of understanding, and fearof death. But we can take things philosophically, to use an old popularexpression."
The philosopher paused awhile, thinking, observing his perplexingcompanion. He
