It is strange how soon I came to understand my surroundings, how soon I found my way among the vain appearances and the wretched nothingness about me. Instinctively I adapted myself to what I saw, doing as others did—in a manner however, shaped by my own individuality. I knew I was only adding my paltry share, that hell might be, what it is, a caricature of the world and her doings. I knew, moreover, that I was being mocked the while, a very fool of vanities.
You must know, then, that each wretched being here is moved by an irresistible impulse to imitate his life on earth, to continue what in sinful folly he worked in that life. And, strange to say, as I have already hinted, we can all obtain here what we like; one need but think of anything, and there it is. Passion and wrongful desires rule here as they do in the world, only the more horribly, being void of substance. In the world they are clothed—clothed in a semblance of beauty even; lawless and pernicious though they are, they at least own the garment of nature. But here they are mere skeletons, unclothed of the flesh, an insult to nature, continuing in the evil bent of former habit, yet incapable of aught but showing their miserable nakedness. For the imaginings of hell are hollow and empty, void of truth and reality, bereft of all means of satisfaction. And yet the very punishment of hell consists in this, that we are driven to conform to this maddening unreality, this death-breathing nothingness. No matter how deeply conscious we are of the vanity of our doings—no matter how we loathe them—they have come to be our masters; we are driven, helplessly driven, to be for ever trying to be what we were on earth.
Supposing, then, that a number of spirits agree we will have a town here, that town straightway appears on the scene; or if others say, let us have a church here and a theatre and a public park, or woods and a lake and mountains, it is all there as soon as imagined. And not only that each one sees for himself what he has called up in vain desire: it is seen by all with whom he comes into contact. But everything is shadowy—nay, less than shadowy: it is empty conceit. Such a state naturally includes change upon change, incessant unrest; this also is vanity.
Neither is there any lack of assisting spirits to carry into effect any desired show. Does anyone here wish to set up an establishment, to live in style, as the phrase went on earth, he is straightway surrounded by faithless stewards, drunken butlers, thieving servants of all kinds. If you imagine that no one would care to be a servant here, you are mistaken, for the inhabitants of hell, in a mere outward way also, carry on the habits of life. Is there anyone here who likes to general an army, he will find plenty of bloodthirsty ruffians to obey his behests, provided indeed he was a general in his days gone by; for, mind you, without a name a man even here could not make his way.
Upon this information you will not be surprised to learn that I have a pleasant abode here not far from town, the image of my own old country-house, with park and river to please my fancy; that I am a gentleman, and see much company. I frequent fashionable society now as formerly, since it yields me gratification, both private and public. Few men knew and drained the sources of enjoyment more thoroughly than I did. But now?—ah, pity me not, for your pity cannot alter the fact. This then is the misery of hell for me; I am hungering after enjoyment, pure or impure, but there is no sense left to gratify; reality has vanished, the greed only remains. Is it not madness?
And let me whisper it to you, I am daily meeting friends and acquaintances; but I shall not betray them, remembering how well-bred the world is. It would be a shame to hurt the feelings of ladies and gentlemen of respectable position by insinuating that any of their relatives are here. Let them call their departed ones blessed: it will not lessen the torments they endure.
Shall I venture upon a local description of hell? I doubt I shall not be able, but will make the attempt.
Hell has its own geography, but no one can tell how far its realm extends; it is infinite—that maybe is the most correct estimate to be given. I believe earth, sun, and moon, and all the planets, would not nearly fill it. But what foolish talk, there being neither space nor time here. And as for boundaries?—on one side only, far, far away, hell has its boundary; whether anyone ever reached it I cannot tell.
In the direction of that pale twilight, which decreases and increases alternately, there is a great gulf, a fathomless abyss, separating hell from Paradise. It is Paradise whence that radiance proceeds. And from the abyss, at regular intervals apparently, dead darkness gushes forth, repressing the faint far-off light of heaven, till the last ghostly glimmer is gone. Then it is night with us, the abyss appearing as a lake of molten fire, but its flames are void of light-giving power. That is Satan’s residence, and the abode of damned souls. I speak of it with fear and trembling. Gradually the abyss, as it were, eats up its own darkness, the fair light reappearing and growing, till we see it as a tender radiance, clear as the twilight of a summer morn. And at times, as though a curtain of mist and cloud were suddenly rent asunder, a cataract of light bursts forth victoriously, overflowing from the heart of glory. Hell stands dazzled, struck to the core as it were. For in beauty and bliss eternal a vision of Paradise is given to the damned ones—no, not the damned ones, for though cast into hell we are not yet judged; it is given to those who, like the rich man, lift up their eyes in torment. And it is not only Paradise we see, but the blessed ones who dwell there.
All this I have learned,—as yet I have not seen it. But now, since dawn is increasing, we seem to be nearing that hour,—shall I say that happy hour? ah no—most dread! most dread! I cannot tell how long the light goes on increasing or decreasing; there is no judging of the length of dawn, as there is no judging of the duration of night itself. According to human ideas, it would seem to be a space of several years. The vision of Paradise, I feel sure, fills but a moment, but some call it long, fearfully long. Shall I rejoice to see that moment, or must I dread it?
Again, hell has a river, the waters of which are heavy, dark, and muddy. You will be thinking of the waters of Lethe. Ah no, my friend, there is no Lethe here whence souls might draw forgetfulness: that is a happy myth; but the river I speak of is real, terribly real. It is fed by the falsehood and injustice of the world; every lie, every wrong, helps to swell it. That is why its waters are so turbid, so fearfully foul, looking like clotted blood at times. And sometimes, when the world is more wicked than usual, the river rises and floods its banks, leaving stench and pestilence behind it. It is scarcely to be endured. But we, hardened spectres of hell, we endure.
Sometimes, I am told, it rains here and snows, but not so often as one would think. It happens when folly and vanity upon earth overflow their measure. The world can stand a good deal, we know, but there are times when even the world has too much of it. The surplus then will drop into hell, and we say, by way of former fashion of speech: Look, it rains; or, Behold it snows!
There is in hell not only a certain natural succession of time, but also something of social and political order. Families herd together, and souls of one and the same century like to congregate. And there is a kind of progressive development. The most recent arrivals, as a rule, take the lowest place, advancing to make room for fresh troops appearing. Those who in the world were of one way of thinking, or alike in manner of acting, soon meet here, though of different nationality or separate centuries. Thus there is here a town of injustice, called also the town of politicians; there is a town of the Holy Inquisition; a gigantic city of Jews, of Mormons; a town of Antediluvians, and many others.
I begin to understand the moving-springs of hell. It is insatiate desire on the one hand, and remorse on the other—I had almost said sorrow; but that is too sweet a grace, admitting of sorrow for sin, for opportunity wasted, and that is unknown here; it is a dull flinty grief, a mere wailing for pain. The punishment of hell is twofold, but after all it is the self-same retribution. Some are driven continuously to brood over the same evil passions they indulged in on earth, satisfaction alone being absent; or with horror and loathing are obliged again and again to commit in the spir
it the self-same crimes that polluted their days in the flesh. The miser forever is dreaming of riches, the voluptuary of uncleanness, the glutton of feasting, the murderer of his bloody deed. Others, on the contrary, are pursuing the very things they neglected on earth; they know it is hopeless, but pursue them they must. Thus men of unjust dealing are anxiously trying to right the wrong, the unmerciful to do deeds of charity, the unnatural parent to live for her children, the suicide to prolong his days.
But whatever we suffer, our torment is not to be viewed in the light of final punishment—that is coming—we await the day of doom; no, it is merely the natural consequence of our life on earth. Oh, men and women, yet walking on earth, consider this! that all sin, great or small, has its own irretrievable consequence, which—ay, think of it—extends far beyond the limits of life, even into hell. And if mere consequence may be so terrible, what must be the punishment to come?
This then is the law of hell: we are not tormented—we torment ourselves! Yet remember that in dying everything depends on whether we lived in the faith of the Son of God, who gave His life that men might be saved. Our sins have that dread importance in as far as they testify that we did not believe. Do you marvel that I speak of God? Ah me, He is still our God! And we know that there is a Son of God who came into the world to save sinners, who loved them unto death, even the death of the Cross. But we know nothing of the way of salvation: everything is forgotten—the very name of the Saviour. We consume ourselves in terrible efforts to remember, were it but the faintest remnant of saving knowledge, but alas it is vain—not even His name! Could we remember that name, call it back to our hearts, I doubt not—I doubt not—even we might be saved. But it is gone—it is too late! too late!
It is incredible how much I have forgotten; indeed, I might say I have forgotten everything except myself. Yes, that is it. I have not forgotten self; on the contrary, whatever of the past concerns my person and my life has followed me hither with a minuteness of detail as strange as it is painful. But the clothes of self, as it were,—the things I once possessed by knowledge, by intellectual acquirement,—they have vanished together with the gifts of mammon and the vanities of the flesh. You will not be surprised then that the feeling of nakedness is so terribly present with me.
I have brought nothing hither but myself. And what comprises this self but a burning remorse which can never be stilled; a greed of desire which can never be satisfied; an unquenchable longing for things left behind; innumerable recollections of sins great and small, causing insufferable anguish, all being equally bitter, equally fraught with vainest regret! This is the picture of myself, O God,—of myself in hell.
FASTOSUS AND AVARO
by John Macgowan
* * *
In his preface to Letters from Hell, George MacDonald noted that “it may be interesting to some to know that the title is not quite a new one, for just before the death of Oliver Cromwell a book was published entitled Messages from Hell; or Letters from a Lost Soul. This I have not had the opportunity of looking into…” None of the details MacDonald gives seems to match up with any book, but it is believed that he was referring to a volume called Infernal Conference: or, Dialogues of Devils, published in 1772 (over a century after Cromwell’s death) as by the Listener, the pseudonym of Baptist minister John Macgowan. Infernal Conference went through several editions through the early nineteenth century before lapsing into obscurity. There is no evidence that Lewis had read it, for in his preface to the 1961 edition of The Screwtape Letters, he wrote, “I am told that I am not the first in the field and that someone in the seventeenth century wrote letters from a devil. I have not seen that book.” But Infernal Conference is of much greater interest than Thisted’s Letters from Hell, for the dialogues are lively, opinionated conversations between (as in The Screwtape Letters) one devil, Fastosus, and his nephew, Avaro. I reprint here their first conversation, as overheard by the Listener in a cave near the Vale of Horrors.
* * *
Avaro. So ho! Fastosus, whither so fast at this time of the morning? Be not in such a hurry; but let a kindred devil exchange a few words with you. Pray, how do you do, uncle?
Fastosus. Hah! my nephew Avaro! I little thought of finding you in the Vale at present. But I am glad to see you. Pray, how do you do?
Avaro. I thank you, Sir, I am pretty well, only tired with much exercise. But pray, where were you going in such a hurry? When I called to you, you seemed to outfly the wind!
Fastosus. Indeed Avaro, I should not be willing to discover my concerns to every inquiry but I descend to make free with you, on account we are near kindred; and knowing you to be a true son of Beelzebub, I can trust you with any secret. As for my present hurry, the occasion of it is this: The right honorable Madame de la Coquette having an inclination to a suit, of some fashion never before invented, was thrown into a violent fever, through the dullness of the mantau-makers, who could devise no one suitable to her ladyship’s desire. Finding her life to be in danger, unless she was gratified, I was last night dispatched to hell, to procure a new pattern from the best artists there; and having got it, I was going post to France, to assist my lady’s mantau-maker in cutting and finishing it: Which done, I suppose I shall have a trip to London to accommodate the countess of Prudeland with a suit against the next court day.
Avaro. What! The courtly Fastosus become the mantau-maker! I should never have thought of such an employment for my part. You have now descended low indeed, uncle!
Fastosus. Indeed Avaro, your ignorance almost provokes me to be angry with you. But you need not be so much surprised at my concerns with the mantau-makers; for I assure you, that I am to much admired for my skill in dress, by both sexes of the human race, that there is scarcely a suit of clothes made, either for man or woman, without my direction. Nor shall you find a peruke maker hardy enough to venture a wig on the block, ere he has had my opinion of it. In short, cousin, there is very little done, and, in dress, there is nothing done, in high life or low, but I have a hand in it.
Avaro. If I have offended my honoured uncle, I humbly beg your pardon. I assure you, I said nothing out of disrespect to you. We all know that your spirit is princely, your monarchy great, and your dominion very extensive. But indeed I never thought of your being conversant with tailors, barbers, and mantau-makers.
Fastosus. Nay, nephew, I am not angry. Nevertheless, you ought to revere me as your elder and better, and not take upon you to call in question the truth of what I say. As for the barbers, they are a set of transformists established wholly by my dexterity; and but for my sovereignty over man, these transformations had never been introduced. Now the transforming trade goes on so successfully, that there is reason to hope very many will be at last transformed into the likeness and nature of our sable fraternity.
Avaro. Pray, uncle, be not angry with me, if I do not speak altogether as you would have me; for you know I never had any inclination to learning or politeness; and I cannot help expressing my wonder at some things you say. Besides, I am amazed to see you look so thin; why you look like a skeleton! What have you been doing, or where have you been? By your looks, you might have traveled barefooted to the Holy-land, or crept on your hands and feet to Medina, and wept forty days by the tomb of our dear fried Mahommet. You have not been on pilgrimage, sure!
Fastosus. I thought, from what I had said, you might have known that I have not been on pilgrimage very lately: Though, I assure you, I have often traveled to Jerusalem and to Mecca as a guide to those holy pilgrims. There is not one of all the bare-legged travellers, who will stir their foot from home, until their good fried Fastosus is equipped in palmerion habiliments, to press forward in the van as their protector. Nor are these pilgrims my only vassals; for the superstitious, of all denominations, have with one consent devoted themselves to me.
Avaro. Well, but, uncle, I am sure they worship me with sincere regard, as well as they do you; and I either attend them in person, or pour my influences upon every one of them, in al
l their religious journies to Jerusalem, Mecca, or elsewhere.
Fastosus. It may be so, Avaro; but their prostitution to covetousness hinders not their devotion to pride: For I have conducted many of this fraternity to the supposed sepulchre of Jesus of Nazareth who, in their own opinion, were made so holy thereby, that when they returned to their native country, they thought the earth itself unworthy to bear the pressure of a foot, which had trod the threshold of the adored sepulchre. These religious adventures (especially if they obtain some precious relicks, of which there are great store in Palestine) generally lift them so far above their fellow-creatures, that thence-forward they can hold no intercourse with the common people, lest their supposed spotless garments should be polluted with worldly filthiness. Nor is it uncommon for these fantastical devotees to imagine, that by their journies to Judea they have gained considerably above the price of heaven. So that when they come to die, they have holiness sufficient for themselves, and a handsome legacy to bequeath, as an help-out to some poor brother, who loves home better than the Holy-land.
Avaro. Aye, Fastosus, but then you may thank my brother Falax and me for your Jerusalem journies: None of them would have been instituted but through falsehood, deceit, and covetousness. And I really think that we did excellent service to the great Beelzebub and the sublime port of hell, in imposing that cheat upon mankind. Though, by the way, one would wonder that the reasonable mind should be so easily deceived, seeing there is nothing in any of these pilgrimages, that has so much as the appearance of religion.
Often have I laughed in my sleeve, to see the foolish pilgrims, with holy awe and profound reverence, approach a log of rotten wood, fully believing it to be part of the cross on which Immanuel was crucified. Oh! how have I seen them congratulate themselves on their supposed happiness, if by any means they had procured a diminutive chip of an old gate post from the hand of a venerable priest, with his holy word upon it, that it was part of the cross! And, to speak the truth, which you know I am not very fond of, these reverend gentlemen have words and wood equally plenty; for when one log is sold off they immediately replace it with another; so that this market will not stop for want of merchandise, whilst there is a tree left in the forest of Lebanon. I would not on any account, that the world should know that the traffick in relicks is all a cheat by the help whereof my dear children, the Jerusalem priests, get more money for chips of rotten wood, than the greatest merchant in Norway gets for his masts, and yards, &c.
Tales Before Narnia Page 17