by C. S. Lewis
‘What I tell you is the evangelium eternum. This has been known always: ancients and moderns bear witness to it. The stories of the Landlord in our own time are but a picture-writing which show to the people as much of the truth as they can understand. Stewards must have told you—though it seems that you neither heeded nor understood them—the legend of the Landlord’s Son. They say that after the eating of the mountain-apple and the earthquake, when things in our country had gone all awry, the Landlord’s Son himself became one of his Father’s tenants and lived among us, for no other purpose than that he should be killed. The Stewards themselves do not know clearly the meaning of their story: hence, if you ask them how the slaying of the Son should help us, they are driven to monstrous answers. But to us the meaning is clear and the story is beautiful. It is a picture of the life of Spirit itself. What the Son is in the legend, every man is in reality: for the whole world is nothing else than the Eternal thus giving itself to death that it may live—that we may live. Death is life’s mode, and the increase of life is through repeated death.
‘And what of the rules? You have seen that it is idle to make them the arbitrary commands of a Landlord: yet those who do so were not altogether astray, for it is equally an error to think that they are each man’s personal choice. Remember what we have said of the Island. Because I am and am not Spirit, therefore I have and have not my desire. The same double nature of the word “I,” explain the rules. I am the lawgiver: but I am also the subject. I, the Spirit, impose upon the soul which I become, the laws she must henceforth obey: and every conflict between the rules and our inclinations is but a conflict of the wishes of my mortal and apparent self against those of my real and eternal. “I ought but I do not wish”—how meaningless the words are, how close to saying, “I want and I do not want.” But once we have learned to say “I, and yet not I, want,” the mystery is plain.
‘And now your sick friend is almost whole, and it is nearly noon.’
BOOK EIGHT
AT BAY
He that hath understanding in himself is best;
He that lays up his brother’s wisdom in his breast
Is good. But he that neither knoweth, nor will be taught
By the instruction of the wise—this man is naught.
HESIOD
Persons without education certainly do not want either acuteness or strength of mind in what concerns themselves, or in things immediately within their observation; but they have no power of abstraction—they see their objects always near, never in the horizon.
HAZLITT
I
Two Kinds of Monist
THAT AFTERNOON AS John was walking in the water meadow he saw a man coming towards him who walked blunderingly like one whose legs were not his own. And as the man came nearer he saw that it was Vertue, with his face very pale.
‘What,’ cried John, ‘are you cured? Can you see? Can you speak?’
‘Yes,’ said Vertue in a weak voice, ‘I suppose I can see.’ And he leaned heavily on a stile and breathed hard.
‘You have walked too far,’ said John, ‘Are you ill?’
‘I am still weak. It is nothing. I shall get my breath in a moment.’
‘Sit down by me,’ said John. ‘And when you have rested we will go gently back to the house.’
‘I am not going back to the house.’
‘Not going back? You are not fit to travel—and where are you going?’
‘I am not fit for anything, apparently,’ said Vertue. ‘But I must go on.’
‘Go on where? You are not still hoping to cross the canyon? Do you not believe what Wisdom has told us?’
‘I do. That is why I am going on.’
‘Sit down at least for a moment,’ said John, ‘and explain yourself.’
‘It is plain enough!’
‘It isn’t plain at all.’
Vertue spoke impatiently.
‘Did you not hear what Wisdom said about the rules?’ he asked.
‘Of course I did,’ said John.
‘Well, then, he has given me back the rules. That puzzle is solved. The rules have to be obeyed, as I always thought. I know that now better than I have ever known it before.’
‘Well?’
‘And didn’t you see what all the rest came to? The rules are from this Spirit or whatever he calls it, which is somehow also me. And any disinclination to obey the rules is the other part of me—the mortal part. Does it not follow from that, and from everything else he said, that the real disobedience to the rules begins with being in this country at all? This country is simply not the Island, not the rules: that is its definition. My mortal self—that is, for all practical purposes, myself—can be defined only as the part of me that is against the rules. Just as the Spirit answers to the Landlord, so this whole world answers to the black hole.’
‘I take it all exactly the other way,’ said John. ‘Rather this world corresponds to the Landlord’s castle. Everything is this Spirit’s imagination, and therefore everything, properly understood, is good and happy. That the glory of this world in the end is appearance, leaves the world more glorious yet. I quite agree that the rules—the authority of the rules—becomes stronger than ever: but their content must be—well, easier. Perhaps I should say richer—more concrete.
‘Their content must become harsher. If the real good is simply “what is not here” and here means simply “the place where the good is not,” what can the real rule be except to live here as little as possible, to commit ourselves as little as we can to the system of this world? I used to talk of innocent pleasures, fool that I was—as if anything could be innocent for us whose mere existence is a fall—as if all that a man eats or drinks or begets were not propagated curse.’
‘Really, Vertue, this is a very strange view. The effect of Mr. Wisdom’s lessons on me has been just the opposite. I have been thinking how much of the Puritanian virus there must still be in me, to have held me back so long from the blameless generosity of Nature’s breasts. Is not the meanest thing, in its degree, a mirror of the One; the lightest or the wildest pleasure as necessary to the perfection of the whole as the most herioc sacrifice? I am assured that in the Absolute, every flame even of carnal passion burns on—’
‘Can even eating, even the coarsest food and the barest pittance, be justified? The flesh is but a living corruption—’
‘There was a great deal to be said for Media after all—’
‘I see that Savage was wiser than he knew—’
‘It is true she had a dark complexion. And yet—is not brown as necessary to the spectrum as any other colour?’
‘Is not every colour equally a corruption of the white radiance?’
‘What we call evil—our greatest wickednesses—seen in the true setting is an element in the good. I am the doubter and the doubt.’
‘What we call our righteousness is filthy rags. You are a fool, John, and I am going. I am going up into the rocks till I find where the wind is coldest and the ground hardest and the life of man furthest away. My notice to quit has not yet come, and I must be stained a while longer with the dye of our country. I shall still be part of that dark cloud which offends the white light: but I shall make that part of the cloud which is called Me as thin, as nearly not a cloud, as I can. Body and mind shall pay for the crime of their existence. If there is any fasting, or watching, any mutilation or self-torture more harsh to nature than another, I shall find it out.’
‘Are you mad?’ said John.
‘I have just become sane,’ said Vertue. ‘Why are you staring at me thus? I know I am pale and my pulse beats like a hammer. So much the saner! Disease is better than health and sees clearer, for it is one degree nearer to the Spirit, one degree less involved in the riot of our animal existence. But it will need stronger pains than this to kill the obscene thirst for life which I drank in with my mother’s milk.’
‘Why should we leave this pleasant valley?’ John began, but Vertue cut him short.
&
nbsp; ‘Who spoke of We? Do you think that I asked or expected you to accompany me? You to sleep on thorns and eat sloes?’
‘You don’t mean that we are to part?’ said John.
‘Pah!’ said Vertue. ‘You could not do the things I intend to do: and if you could, I would have none of you. Friendship—affection—what are these but the subtlest chains that tie us to our present country? He would be a fool indeed who mortified the body and left the mind free to be happy and thus still to affirm—to wallow in—her finite will. It is not this pleasure or that, but all that are to be cut off. No knife will cut deep enough to end the cancer. But I’ll cut as deep as I can.’
He rose, still swaying, and continued his way over the meadow northward. He held his hand to his side as though he was in pain. Once or twice he nearly fell.
‘What are you following me for?’ he shouted to John. ‘Go back.’
John stopped for a moment, checked by the hatred in his friend’s face. Then, tentatively, he went on again. He thought that Vertue’s illness had harmed his brain and had some indistinct hope that he might find means to humour him and bring him back. Before they had gone many paces, however, Vertue turned again and lifted a stone in his hand. ‘Be off,’ he said, ‘or I’ll throw it. We have nothing to do with one another, you and I. My own body and my own soul are enemies, and do you think I will spare you?’
John halted, undetermined, and then ducked, for the other had hurled the stone. I saw them go on like this for some way, John following at a distance, and stopping, and then continuing again, while Vertue every now and then stoned him and reviled him. But at last the distance between them was too great either for voice or stone to carry.
II
John Led
AS THEY WENT ON thus John saw that the valley narrowed and the sides of it grew steeper. At the same time, the crevasse on his left hand which separated him from the western forest, became wider and wider: so that, what with that, and with the narrowing of the valley as a whole, the level piece where they were travelling was constantly diminished. Soon it was no longer the floor of the valley but only a ledge on its eastern side: and the crevasse revealed itself as being not a slot in the floor but the very floor. John saw that he was, in fact, walking on a shelf half-way down one side of the Grand Canyon. The cliff towered above him.
Presently a kind of spur or root of rock came out from the cliff and barred their way—crossing the ledge with a ruin of granite. And as Vertue began to scramble about the bases of this ascent, trying this grip and that to go up, John gained on him and came again within ear-shot. Before he came to the foot of the crags, however, Vertue had begun to climb. John heard his gasping as he struggled from hold to hold. Once he slipped back and left a little trail of blood where the rock skinned his ankle: but he went on again, and soon John saw him stand up, shaking and wiping the sweat out of his eyes, apparently at the top. He looked down and made gestures threateningly, and shouted, but he was too far for John to hear his words. Next moment John leaped aside to save his limbs, for Vertue had sent a great boulder rolling down: and as its thunder ceased echoing in the gorge and John looked up again, Vertue had gone over the spur out of sight and he saw no more of him.
John sat down in the desolate place. The grass here was finer and shorter, such grass as sheep love, which grows in the quiet intervals between the rocks. The windings of the gorge had already shut off the sight of Wisdom’s Valley: yet I saw that John had no thought save of going back. There was indeed a confusion of shame and sorrow and bewilderment in his mind, but he put it all aside and held fast to his fear of the rocks and of meeting Vertue, now mad, in some narrow place whence he could not retreat. He thought, ‘I will sit here and rest, till I get my wind, and then I will go back. I must live out the rest of my life as best I can.’ Then suddenly he heard himself hailed from above. A Man was descending where Vertue had gone up.
‘Hi!’ shouted the Man. ‘Your friend has gone on. Surely you will follow him?’
‘He is mad, sir,’ said John.
‘No madder than you, and no saner,’ said the Man. ‘You will both recover if only you will keep together.’
‘I cannot get up the rocks,’ said John.
‘I will give you a hand,’ said the Man. And he came down till he was within reach of John, and held out his hand. And John grew pale as paper and nausea came upon him.
‘It’s now or never,’ said the Man.
Then John set his teeth and took the hand that was offered him. He trembled at the very first grip he was made to take but he could not go back for they were speedily so high that he dared not attempt the return alone: and what with pushing and pulling the Man got him right up to the top and there he fell down on his belly in the grass to pant and to goan at the pains in his chest. When he sat up the Man was gone.
III
John Forgets Himself
JOHN LOOKED BACK AND turned away with a shudder. All thought of descending again must be put aside at once and for ever. ‘That fellow has left me in a nice fix,’ he said bitterly. Next, he looked ahead. The cliffs still rose high above him and dropped far below him: but there was a ledge on a level with him, a narrow ledge, ten feet broad at its best and two at its worst, winding away along the cliff till it became but a green thread. His heart failed him. Then he tried to recall the lessons of Mr. Wisdom, whether they would give him any strength. ‘It is only myself,’ he said. ‘It is I myself, eternal Spirit, who drives this Me, the slave, along that ledge. I ought not to care whether he falls and breaks his neck or not. It is not he that is real, it is I—I—I. Can I remember that?’ But then he felt so different from the eternal Spirit that he could call it ‘I’ no longer. ‘It is all very well for him,’ said John, ‘but why does he give me no help? I want help. Help.’ Then he gazed up at the cliffs and the narrow sky, blue and remote, between them, and he thought of that universal mind and of the shining tranquillity hidden somewhere behind the colours and the shapes, the pregnant silence under all the sounds, and he thought, ‘If one drop of all that ocean would flow into me now—if I, the mortal, could but realize that I am that, all would be well. I know there is something there. I know the sensuous curtain is not a cheat.’ In the bitterness of his soul he looked up again, saying: ‘Help. Help. I want Help.’
But as soon as the words were out of his mouth, a new fear, far deeper than his fear of the cliffs, sprang at him from the hiding-place, close to the surface, where it had lain against this moment. As a man in a dream talks without fear to his dead friend, and only afterwards bethinks himself, ‘It was a ghost! I have talked with a ghost!’ and wakes screaming: even so John sprang up as he saw what he had done.
‘I have been praying,’ he said. ‘It is the Landlord under a new name. It is the rules and the black hole and the slavery dressed out in a new fashion to catch me. And I am caught. Who would have thought the old spider’s web was so subtle?’
But this was insupportable to him and he said that he had only fallen into a metaphor. Even Mr. Wisdom had confessed that Mother Kirk and the Stewards gave an account of the truth in picture writing. And one must use metaphors. The feelings and the imagination needed that support. ‘The great thing,’ said John, ‘is to keep the intellect free from them: to remember that they are metaphors.’
IV
John Finds his Voice
HE WAS MUCH COMFORTED by this idea of metaphor, and as he was now also rested, he began his journey along the cliff path with some degree of timid resolution. But it was very dreadful to him in the narrower places: and his courage seemed to him to decrease rather than to grow as he proceeded. Indeed he soon found that he could go forward at all only by remembering Mr. Wisdom’s Absolute incessantly. It was necessary by repeated efforts of the will to turn thither, consciously to draw from that endless reservoir the little share of vitality that he needed for the next narrow place. He knew now that he was praying, but he thought that he had drawn the fangs of that knowledge. ‘In a sense,’ he said, ‘Spirit is not
I. I am it, but I am not the whole of it. When I turn back to that part of it which is not I—that far greater part which my soul does not exhaust—surely that part is to me an Other. It must become, for my imagination, not really “I” but “Thou.” A metaphor—perhaps more than a metaphor. Of course there is no need at all to confuse it with the mythical Landlord. . . . However I think of it, I think of it inadequately.’
Then a new thing happened to John, and he began to sing: and this is as much of his song as I remember from my dream: