Till We Have Faces

by C. S. Lewis

  ‘Everyone goes from me,’ I said. ‘None of them cares for Psyche. She lives at the very outskirts of their thoughts. She is less to them, far less, than Poobi is to me. They think of her a little and then get tired and go to something else, the Fox to his sleep, and Bardia to his doll or scold of a wife. You are alone, Orual. Whatever is to be done, you must devise and do it. No help will come. All gods and mortals have drawn away from you. You must guess the riddle. Not a word will come to you until you have guessed wrong and they all come crowding back to accuse and mock and punish you for it.’

  I sent Poobi to bed. Then I did a thing which I think few have done. I spoke to the gods myself, alone, in such words as came to me, not in a temple, and without a sacrifice. I stretched myself face downwards on the floor and called upon them with my whole heart. I took back every word I had said against them. I promised anything they might ask of me, if only they would send me a sign. They gave me none. When I began there was red firelight in the room and rain on the roof; when I rose up again the fire had sunk a little lower, and the rain drummed on as before.

  Now, when I knew that I was left utterly to myself, I said, ‘I must do it . . . whatever I do . . . tomorrow. I must, then, rest tonight.’ I lay down on the bed. I was in that state when the body is so tired that sleep comes soon, but the mind is in such anguish that it will wake you the moment the body’s sated. It woke me a few hours past midnight, with no least possibility of further sleep in me. The fire was out; the rain had stopped. I went to my window and stood looking out into the gusty blackness, twisting my hair in my fists with my knuckles against my temples, and thought.

  My mind was much clearer. I now saw that I had, strangely, taken both Bardia’s explanation and the Fox’s (each while it lasted) for certain truth. Yet one must be false. And I could not find out which, for each was well-rooted in its own soil. If the things believed in Glome were true, then what Bardia said stood; if the Fox’s philosophy were true, what the Fox said stood. But I could not find out whether the doctrines of Glome or the wisdom of Greece were right. I was the child of Glome and the pupil of the Fox; I saw that for years my life had been lived in two halves, never fitted together.

  I must give up, then, trying to judge between Bardia and my master. And as soon as I said that, I saw (and wondered I had not seen before) that it made no difference. For there was one point on which both agreed. Both thought that some evil or shameful thing had taken Psyche for its own. Murdering thief or spectral Shadowbrute—did it matter which? The one thing neither of them believed was that anything good or fair came to her in the night. No one but myself had dallied with that thought even for a moment. Why should they? Only my desperate wishes could have made it seem possible. The thing came in darkness and forbade itself to be seen. What lover would shun his bride’s eyes unless he had some terrible reason for it?

  Even I had thought the opposite only for an instant, while I looked at that likeness of a house across the river.

  ‘It shall not have her,’ I said. ‘She shall not lie in those detestable embraces. Tonight must be the last night of that.’

  Suddenly there rose up before me the memory of Psyche in the mountain valley, brightface, brimming over with joy. My terrible temptation came back; to leave her to that fool-happy dream, whatever came of it, to spare her, not to bring her down from it into misery. Must I be to her an avenging fury, not a gentle mother? And part of my mind now was saying, ‘Do not meddle. Anything might be true. You are among marvels that you do not understand. Carefully, carefully. Who knows what ruin you might pull down on her head and yours?’ But with the other part of me I answered that I was indeed her mother and her father, too (all she had of either), that my love must be grave and provident, not slip-shod and indulgent, that there is a time for love to be stern. After all, what was she but a child? If the present case were beyond my understanding, how much more must it be beyond hers? Children must obey. It had hurt me, long ago, when I made the barber pull out the thorn. Had I not none the less done well?

  I hardened my resolution. I knew now what (which of two things) I must do, and no later than on the day which would soon be breaking—provided only that Bardia were not going on the lion hunt and that I could get him clear of that wife of his. As a man, even in great pain or sorrow, can still be fretted by a fly that buzzes in his face, I was fretted by the thought of this wife, this petted thing, suddenly starting up to delay or to hinder.

  I lay down on my bed to wait for morning, calmed and quiet in a way now that I knew what I would do.

  XIV

  It seemed long to me before the palace was stirring, though it stirred early because of the King’s hunting. I waited till that noise was well begun. Then I rose and dressed in such clothes as I had worn the day before, and took the same urn. This time I put in it a lamp and a little pitcher of oil and a long band of linen about a span and a half broad, such as bridesmaids wear in Glome, wrapped over and over round them. Mine had lain in my chest ever since the marriage night of Psyche’s mother. Then I called up Poobi and had food brought to me, of which I ate some and some I put in the urn under the band. When I knew by the horse-hoofs and horns and shoutings that the King’s party was gone, I put on my veil and a cloak and went down. I sent the first slave I met to find whether Bardia were gone to the hunting, and if he were in the palace, to send him to me. I waited for him in the Pillar Room. It was a strange freedom to be in there alone; and indeed, amid all my cares, I could not help perceiving how the house was, as it were, lightened and set at liberty by the absence of the King. I thought, from their looks, that all the family felt it.

  Bardia came to me.

  ‘Bardia,’ said I, ‘I must go again to the Mountain.’

  ‘It’s impossible you should go with me, Lady,’ he said. ‘I was left out of the hunting (ill-luck for me) for one purpose only; to watch over the house. I must even lie here at nights till the King’s back.’

  This dashed me very much. ‘Oh, Bardia,’ said I, ‘what shall we do? I am in great straits. It’s on my sister’s business.’

  Bardia rubbed his forefinger across his upper lip in a way he had when he was gravelled. ‘And you can’t ride,’ he said. ‘I wonder now—but no, that’s foolishness. There’s no horse to be trusted with a rider that can’t ride. And a few days hence won’t serve? The best would be to give you another man.’

  ‘But, Bardia, it must be you. No one else would be able . . . it’s a very secret errand.’

  ‘I could let Gram off with you for two days and a night.’

  ‘Who is Gram?’

  ‘The small dark one. He’s a good man.’

  ‘But can he hold his tongue?’

  ‘It’s more a question if he can ever loosen it. We get hardly ten words from him in as many days. But he’s a true man, true to me, above all, for I once had the chance to do him a good turn.’

  ‘It will not be like going with you, Bardia.’

  ‘It’s the best you can do, Lady, unless you can wait.’

  But I said I could not wait, and Bardia had Gram called. He was a thin-faced man, very black-eyed, and (I thought) looked at me as if he feared me. Bardia told him to get his horse and await me where the little lane meets the road into the city.

  As soon as he was gone, I said, ‘Now, Bardia, get me a dagger.’

  ‘A dagger, Lady? And for what?’

  ‘To use as a dagger. Come, Bardia, you know I mean no ill.’

  He looked strangely at me, but got it. I put it on at my belt where the sword had hung yesterday. ‘Farewell, Bardia,’ said I.

  ‘Farewell, Lady? Do you go for longer than a night?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ said I. Then, all in haste, and leaving him to wonder, I went out and went on foot by the lane and joined Gram. He set me up on the horse (touching me, unless it was my fantasy, as one who touched a snake or a witch) and we began.

  Nothing could be less like that day’s journey and the last. I never got more than, ‘Yes
, Lady,’ or ‘No, Lady,’ out of Gram all day. There was much rain and even between the showers the wind was wet. There was a grey driving sky and the little hills and valleys, which had been so distinct with brightness and shade for Bardia and me the other day, were all sunk into one piece. We had started many hours later, and it was nearer evening than noon when we came down from the saddle into that secret valley. And there at last, as if by some trick of the gods (which perhaps it was), the weather cleared so that it was hard not to think the valley had a sunlight of its own and the blustering rains merely ringed it about as the mountains did.

  I brought Gram to the place where Bardia and I had passed the night and told him to await me there, and not to cross the river. ‘I must go over it myself. It may be I shall re-cross it to your side by nightfall, or in the night. But I think that whatever time I spend on this side I will spend over yonder, near the ford. Do not come to me there unless I call you.’

  He said, as always, ‘Yes, Lady,’ and looked as if he liked this adventure very little.

  I went to the ford—about a long bow-shot from Gram. My heart was still as ice, heavy as lead, cold as earth, but I was free now from all doubting and deliberating. I set my foot on the first stone of the crossing and called Psyche’s name. She must have been very close, for almost at once I saw her coming down to the bank. We might have been two images of love, the happy and the stern—she so young, so brightface, joy in her eye and limbs—I, burdened and resolute, bringing pain in my hand.

  ‘So I spoke truly, Maia,’ she said as soon as I had crossed the water and we had embraced. ‘The King has been no hindrance to you, has he? Salute me for a prophetess!’

  This startled me a moment, for I had forgotten her foretelling. But I put it aside to be thought of later. Now, I had my work to do; I must not, now of all times, begin doubting and pondering again.

  She brought me a little way from the water—I don’t know into what part of her phantom palace—and we sat down. I threw back my hood and put off my veil and set down the urn beside me.

  ‘Oh, Orual,’ said Psyche, ‘what a storm-cloud in your face! That’s how you looked when you were most angry with me as a child.’

  ‘Was I ever angry? Ah, Psyche, do you think I ever scolded or denied you without grieving my heart ten times more than yours?’

  ‘Sister, I meant to find no fault with you.’

  ‘Then find no fault with me today either. For indeed we must talk very gravely. Now listen, Psyche. Our father is no father. Your mother (peace upon her!) is dead, and you have never seen her kindred. I have been—I have tried to be and still I must be—all the father and mother and kin you have. And all the King too.’

  ‘Maia, you have been all this and more since the day I was born. You and the dear Fox are all I ever had.’

  ‘Yes, the Fox. I’ll have something to say of him too. And so, Psyche, if anyone is to care for you or counsel you or shield you, or if anyone is to tell you what belongs to the honour of our blood, it can be only I.’

  ‘But why are you saying all this, Orual? You do not think I have left off loving you because I now have a husband to love as well? If you would understand it, that makes me love you—why, it makes me love everyone and everything—more.’

  This made me shudder but I hid it and went on. ‘I know you love me, Psyche,’ said I. ‘And I think I should not live if you didn’t. But you must trust me too.’

  She said nothing. And now I was right on top of the terrible thing, and it almost struck me dumb. I cast about for ways to begin it.

  ‘You spoke last time,’ I said, ‘of the day we got the thorn out of your hand. We hurt you that time, Psyche. But we did right. Those who love must hurt. I must hurt you again today. And, Psyche, you are still little more than a child. You cannot go your own way. You will let me rule and guide you.’

  ‘Orual, I have a husband to guide me now.’

  It was difficult not to be angered or terrified by her harping on it. I bit my lip, then said, ‘Alas, child, it is about that very husband (as you call him) that I must grieve you.’ I looked straight at her eyes and said sharply, ‘Who is he? What is he?’

  ‘A god,’ she said, low and quivering. ‘And, I think, the god of the Mountain.’

  ‘Alas, Psyche, you are deceived. If you knew the truth, you would die rather than lie in his bed.’

  ‘The truth?’

  ‘We must face it, child. Be very brave. Let me pull out this thorn. What sort of god would he be who dares not show his face?’

  ‘Dares not! You come near to making me angry, Orual.’

  ‘But think, Psyche. Nothing that’s beautiful hides its face. Nothing that’s honest hides its name. No, no, listen. In your heart you must see the truth, however you try to brazen it out with words. Think. Whose bride were you called? The Brute’s. And think again. If it’s not the Brute, who else dwells in these mountains? Thieves and murderers, men worse than brutes, and lecherous as goats we may be sure. Are you a prize they’d let pass if you fell in their way? There’s your lover, child. Either a monster—shadow and monster in one, maybe, a ghostly, un-dead thing—or a salt villain whose lips, even on your feet or the hem of your robe, would be a stain to our blood.’

  She was silent a long time, her eyes on her lap.

  ‘And so, Psyche,’ I began at last, tenderly as I could—but she tossed away the hand that I had laid on hers.

  ‘You mistake me, Orual. If I am pale, it is with anger. There, sister, I have conquered it. I’ll forgive you. You mean—I’ll believe you mean—nothing but good. Yet how—or why—you can have blackened and tormented your soul with such thoughts . . . but no more of that. If ever you loved me, put them away now.’

  ‘Blackened my thoughts. They’re not only mine. Tell me, Psyche, who are the two wisest men we know?’

  ‘Why, the Fox for one. For the second—I know so few. I suppose Bardia is wise, in his own way.’

  ‘You said yourself, that night in the five-walled room, that he was a prudent man. Now, Psyche, these two—so wise and so different—are both agreed with each other and with me concerning this lover of yours. Agreed without doubt. All three of us are certain. Either Shadowbrute or felon.’

  ‘You have told them my story, Orual? It was ill done. I gave you no leave. My lord gave no leave. Oh, Orual! It was more like Batta than you.’

  I could not help it if my face reddened with anger, but I would not be turned aside. ‘Doubtless,’ I said. ‘There is no end to the secrecy of this—this husband as you call him. Child, has his vile love so turned your brain that you can’t see the plainest thing? A god? Yet on your own showing he hides and slinks and whispers, “Mum,” and “Keep counsel,” and “Don’t betray me,” like a runaway slave.’

  I am not certain that she had listened to this. What she said was: ‘The Fox too! That is very strange. I never thought he would have believed in the Brute at all.’

  I had not said he did. But if that was what she took out of my words, I thought it no part of my duty to set her right. It was an error helping her towards the main truth. I had need of all help to drive her thither.

  ‘Neither he nor I nor Bardia,’ said I, ‘believes for one moment in your fancy that it is the god; no more than that this wild heath is a palace. And be sure, Psyche, that if we could ask every man and woman in Glome, all would say the same. The truth is too clear.’

  ‘But what is all this to me? How should they know? I am his wife. I know.’

  ‘How can you know if you have never seen him?’

  ‘Orual, how can you be so simple? I—how could I not know?’

  ‘But how, Psyche?’

  ‘What am I to answer to such a question? It’s not fitting . . . it is . . . and especially to you, sister, who are a virgin.’

  That matronly primness, from the child she was, went near to ending my patience. It was almost (but I think now she did not mean it so) as if she taunted me. Yet I ruled myself.

  ‘Well, if you are so sure, Ps
yche, you will not refuse to put it to the test.’

  ‘What test? Though I need none myself.’

  ‘I have brought a lamp, and oil. See. Here they are.’ (I set them down beside her.) ‘Wait till he—or it—sleeps. Then look.’

  ‘I cannot do that.’

  ‘Ah! . . . You see! You will abide no test. And why? Because you are not sure yourself. If you were, you’d be eager to do it. If he is, as you say, a god, one glimpse will set all our doubts at rest. What you call our dark thoughts will be put to flight. But you daren’t.’

  ‘Oh, Orual, what evil you think! The reason I cannot look at him—least of all by such trickery as you’d have me do—is that he has forbidden me.’

  ‘I can think—Bardia and the Fox can think—of one reason only for such a forbidding. And of one only for your obeying it.’

  ‘Then you know little of love.’

  ‘You fling my virginity in my face again, do you? Better it than the sty you’re in. So be it. Of what you now call love, I do know nothing. You can whisper about it to Redival better than to me—or to Ungit’s girls, maybe, or the King’s doxies. I know another sort of love. You shall find what it’s like. You shall not—’

  ‘Orual, Orual, you are raving,’ said Psyche; herself unangered, gazing at me large-eyed, sorrowful, but nothing humble about her sorrow. You would have thought she was my mother, not I (almost) hers. I had known this long time that the old meek, biddable Psyche was gone forever; yet it shocked me afresh.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I was raving. You had made me angry. But I had thought (you will set me right, I don’t doubt, if I am mistaken) that all loves alike were eager to clear the thing they loved of vile charges brought against it, if they could. Tell a mother her child is hideous. If it’s beautiful she’ll show it. No forbidding would stop her. If she keeps it hidden, the charge is true. You’re afraid of the test, Psyche.’