The Pilgrim's Regress

by C. S. Lewis

  John was silent for a few minutes. Then he began again:

  ‘But how do you know there is no Landlord?’

  ‘Christopher Columbus, Galileo, the earth is round, invention of printing, gunpowder! !’ exclaimed Mr. Enlightenment in such a loud voice that the pony shied.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said John.

  ‘Eh?’ said Mr. Enlightenment.

  ‘I didn’t quite understand,’ said John.

  ‘Why, it’s as plain as a pikestaff,’ said the other. ‘Your people in Puritania believe in the Landlord because they have not had the benefits of a scientific training. For example, I dare say it would be news to you to hear that the earth was round—round as an orange, my lad!’

  ‘Well, I don’t know that it would,’ said John, feeling a little disappointed. ‘My father always said it was round.’

  ‘No, no, my dear boy,’ said Mr. Enlightenment, ‘you must have misunderstood him. It is well known that everyone in Puritania thinks the earth flat. It is not likely that I should be mistaken on such a point. Indeed, it is out of the question. Then again, there is the palaeontological evidence.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Why, they tell you in Puritania that the Landlord made all these roads. But that is quite impossible for old people can remember the time when the roads were not nearly so good as they are now. And what is more, scientists have found all over the country the traces of old roads running in quite different directions. The inference is obvious.’

  John said nothing.

  ‘I said,’ repeated Mr. Enlightenment, ‘that the inference was obvious.’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes, of course,’ said John hastily, turning a little red.

  ‘Then, again, there is anthropology.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know—’

  ‘Bless me, of course you don’t. They don’t mean you to know. An anthropologist is a man who goes round your backward villages in these parts, collecting the odd stories that the country people tell about the Landlord. Why, there is one village where they think he has a trunk like an elephant. Now anyone can see that that couldn’t be true.’

  ‘It is very unlikely.’

  ‘And what is better still, we know how the villagers came to think so. It all began by an elephant escaping from the local zoo; and then some old villager—he was probably drunk—saw it wandering about on the mountain one night, and so the story grew up that the Landlord had a trunk.’

  ‘Did they catch the elephant again?’

  ‘Did who?’

  ‘The anthropologists.’

  ‘Oh, my dear boy, you are misunderstanding. This happened long before there were any anthropologists.’

  ‘Then how do they know?’

  ‘Well, as to that . . . I see that you have a very crude notion of how science actually works. To put it simply—for, of course, you could not understand the technical explanation—to put it simply, they know that the escaped elephant must have been the source of the trunk story because they know that an escaped snake must have been the source of the snake story in the next village—and so on. This is called the inductive method. Hypothesis, my dear young friend, establishes itself by a cumulative process: or, to use popular language, if you make the same guess often enough it ceases to be a guess and becomes a Scientific Fact.

  After he had thought for a while, John said:

  ‘I think I see. Most of the stories about the Landlord are probably untrue; therefore the rest are probably untrue.’

  ‘Well, that is as near as a beginner can get to it, perhaps. But when you have had a scientific training you will find that you can be quite certain about all sorts of things which now seem to you only probable.’

  By this time the fat little pony had them several miles, and they had come to a place where a by-road went off to the right. ‘If you are going West, we must part here,’ said Mr. Enlightenment, drawing up. ‘Unless perhaps you would care to come home with me. You see that magnificent city?’ John looked down by the by-road and saw in a flat plain without any trees a huge collection of corrugated iron huts, most of which seemed rather old and rusty.

  ‘That,’ said Mr. Enlightenment, ‘is the city of Claptrap. You will hardly believe me when I say that I can remember it as a miserable village. When I first came here it had only forty inhabitants: it now boasts a population of twelve million, four hundred thousand, three hundred and sixty-one souls, who include, I may add, the majority of our most influential publicists and scientific popularizers. In this unprecedented development I am proud to say that I have borne no small part: but it is no mock modesty to add that the invention of the printing press has been more important than any merely personal agency. If you would care to join us—’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ said John, ‘but I think I will keep to the main road a little longer.’

  He got out of the trap and turned to bid good-bye to Mr. Enlightenment. Then a sudden thought came into his head, and he said:

  ‘I am not sure that I have really understood all your arguments, sir. Is it absolutely certain that there is no Landlord?’

  ‘Absolutely. I give you my word of honour.’

  With these words they shook hands. Mr. Enlightenment turned the pony’s head up the by-road, gave it a touch with the whip, and in a few moments was out of sight.

  II

  The Hill

  THEN I SAW JOHN bounding forward on his road so lightly that before he knew it he had come to the top of a little hill. It was not because the hill had tired him that he stopped there, but because he was too happy to move. ‘There is no Landlord,’ he cried. Such a weight had been lifted from his mind that he felt he could fly. All round him the frost was gleaming like silver; the sky was like blue glass; a robin sat in the hedge beside him: a cock was crowing in the distance. ‘There is no Landlord.’ He laughed when he thought of the old card of rules hung over his bed in the bedroom, so low and dark, in his father’s house. ‘There is no Landlord. There is no black hole.’ He turned and looked back on the road he had come by: and when he did so he gasped with joy. For there in the East, under the morning light, he saw the mountains heaped up to the sky like clouds, green and violet and dark red; shadows were passing over the big rounded slopes, and water shone in the mountain pools, and up at the highest of all the sun was smiling steadily on the ultimate crags. These crags were indeed so shaped that you could easily take them for a castle: and now it came into John’s head that he had never looked at the mountains before, because, as long as he thought that the Landlord lived there, he had been afraid of them. But now that there was no Landlord he perceived that they were beautiful. For a moment he almost doubted whether the Island could be more beautiful, and whether he would not be wiser to go East, instead of West. But it did not seem to him to matter, for he said, ‘If the world has the mountains at one end and the Island at the other, then every road leads to beauty, and the world is a glory among glories.’

  At that moment he saw a man walking up the hill to meet him. Now I knew in my dream that this man’s name was Mr. Vertue, and he was about of an age with John, or a little older.

  ‘What is the name of this place?’ said John.

  ‘It is called Jehovah-Jirah,’ said Mr. Vertue.

  Then they both turned and continued their journey to the West. After they had gone a little way Mr. Vertue stole a glance at John’s face and then he smiled a little.

  ‘Why do you smile?’ said John.

  ‘I was thinking that you looked very glad.’

  ‘So would you be if you had lived in the fear of a Landlord all your life and had just discovered that you were a free man.’

  ‘Oh, it’s that, is it?’

  ‘You don’t believe in the Landlord, do you?’

  ‘I know nothing about him—except by hearsay like the rest of us.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like to be under his thumb.’

  ‘Wouldn’t like? I wouldn’t be under anyone’s thumb.’

  ‘You might have
to, if he had a black hole.’

  ‘I’d let him put me in the black hole sooner than take orders if the orders were not to my mind.’

  ‘Why, I think you are right. I can hardly believe it yet—that I need not obey the rules. There’s that robin again. To think that I could have a shot at it if I liked and no one would interfere with me!’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I do,’ said John, fingering his sling. But when he looked round on the sunshine and remembered his great happiness and looked twice at the bird, he said. ‘No, I don’t. There is nothing I want less. Still—I could if I liked.’

  ‘You mean you could if you chose.’

  ‘Where’s the difference?’

  ‘All the difference in the world.’

  III

  A Little Southward

  I THOUGHT THAT JOHN would have questioned him further, but now they came in sight of a woman who was walking slower than they so that presently they came up with her and wished her good-day. When she turned, they saw that she was young and comely, though a little dark of complexion. She was friendly and frank, but not wanton like the brown girls, and the whole world became pleasanter to the young men because they were travelling the same way with her. But first they told her their names, and she told them hers, which was Media Halfways.

  ‘And where are you travelling to, Mr. Vertue?’ she asked.

  ‘To travel hopefully is better than to arrive,’ said Vertue.

  ‘Do you mean you are just out for a walk, just for exercise?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Vertue, who was becoming a little confused. ‘I am on a pilgrimage. I must admit, now that you press me, I have not a very clear idea of the end. But that is not the important question. These speculations don’t make one a better walker. The great thing is to do one’s thirty miles a day.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that is the rule.’

  ‘Ho-ho!’ said John. ‘So you do believe in the Landlord after all.’

  ‘Not at all. I didn’t say it was the Landlord’s rule.’

  ‘Whose is it then?’

  ‘It is my own rule. I made it myself.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Well, that again is a speculative question. I have made the best rules I can. If I find any better ones I shall adopt them. In the meantime, the great thing is to have rules of some sort and to keep them.’

  ‘And where are you going?’ said Media, turning to John.

  Then John began to tell his companions about the Island, and how he had first seen it, and was determined to give up everything for the hope of finding it.

  ‘Then you had better come and see my father,’ said she. ‘He lives in the city of Thrill, and at the bottom of this hill there is a turn to the left which will bring us there in half an hour.’

  ‘Has your father been to the Island? Does he know the way?’

  ‘He often talks about something very like it.’

  ‘You had better come with us, Vertue,’ said John, ‘since you do not know where you are going and there can be no place better to go than the Island.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Vertue. ‘We must keep to the road. We must keep on.’

  ‘I don’t see why,’ said John.

  ‘I dare say you don’t,’ said Vertue.

  All this time they were going down the hill, and now they came to a little grassy lane on the left which went off through a wood. Then I thought that John had a little hesitation: but partly because the sun was now hot and the hard metal of the road was becoming sore to his feet, and partly because he felt a little angry with Vertue, and most of all because Media was going that way, he decided to turn down the lane. They said good-bye to Vertue, and he went on his way stumping up the next hill without ever looking back.

  IV

  Soft Going

  WHEN THEY WERE in the lane they walked more gently. The grass was soft under their feet, and the afternoon sun beating down on the sheltered place made it warm. And presently they heard a sound of sweet and melancholy chimes.

  ‘Those are the bells of the city,’ said Media.

  As they went on they walked closer together, and soon they were walking arm in arm. Then they kissed each other: and after that they went on their way kissing and talking in slow voices, of sad and beautiful things. And the shadow of the wood and the sweetness of the girl and the sleepy sound of the bells reminded John a little bit of the Island, and a little bit of the brown girls.

  ‘This is what I have been looking for all my life,’ said John. ‘The brown girls were too gross and the Island was too fine. This is the real thing.’

  ‘This is Love,’ said Media with a deep sigh. ‘This is the way to the real Island.’

  Then I dreamed that they came in sight of the city, very old, and full of spires and turrets, all covered with ivy, where it lay in a little grassy valley, built on both sides of a lazy, winding river. And they passed the gate in the ruinous old city wall and came and knocked at a certain door and were let in. Then Media brought him in to a darkish room with a vaulted roof and windows of stained glass, and exquisite food was brought to them. With the food came old Mr. Halfways. He was a gliding gentleman with soft, silver hair and a soft, silver voice, dressed in flowing robes: and he was so solemn, with his long beard, that John was reminded of the Steward with his mask on. ‘But it is much better than the Steward,’ thought John, ‘because there is nothing to be afraid of. Also, he doesn’t need a mask: his face is really like that.’

  V

  Leah for Rachel

  AS THEY ATE John told him about the Island.

  ‘You will find your Island here,’ said Mr. Halfways, looking into John’s eyes.

  ‘But how can it be here in the middle of the city?’

  ‘It needs no place. It is everywhere and nowhere. It refuses entry to none who asks. It is an Island of the Soul,’ said the old gentleman. ‘Surely even in Puritania they told you that the Landlord’s castle was within you?’

  ‘But I don’t want the castle,’ said John. And I don’t believe in the Landlord.’

  ‘What is truth?’ said the old man. ‘They were mistaken when they told you of the Landlord: and yet they were not mistaken. What the imagination seizes as beauty must be truth, whether it existed before or not. The Landlord they dreamed to find, we find in our hearts: the Island you seek for, you already inhabit. The children of that country are never far from their fatherland.’

  When the meal was ended the old gentleman took a harp, and at the first sweep of his hand across the strings John began to think of the music that he had heard by the window in the wall. Then came the voice: and it was no longer merely silver sweet and melancholy like Mr. Halfways’ speaking voice, but strong and noble and full of strange over-tones, the noise of the sea, and of all birds, and sometimes of wind and thunder. And John began to see a picture of the Island with his eyes open: but it was more than a picture, for he sniffed the spicy smell and the sharp brine of the sea mixed with it. He seemed to be in the water, only a few yards from the sand of the Island. He could see more than he had ever seen before. But just as he had put down his feet and touched a sandy bottom and was beginning to wade ashore, the song ceased. The whole vision went away. John found himself back in the dusky room, seated on a low divan, with Media by his side.

  ‘Now I shall sing you something else,’ said Mr. Halfways.

  ‘Oh, no,’ cried John, who was sobbing. ‘Sing the same again. Please sing it again.’

  ‘You had better not hear it twice in the same evening. I have plenty of other songs.’

  ‘I would die to hear the first one again,’ said John.

  ‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Halfways, ‘perhaps you know best. Indeed, what does it matter? It is as short to the Island one way as another.’ Then he smiled indulgently and shook his head, and John could not help thinking that his talking voice and talking manner were almost silly after the singing. But as soon as the great deep wail of the mus
ic began again it swept everything else from his mind. It seemed to him that this time he got more pleasure from the first few notes, and even noticed delicious passages which had escaped him at the first hearing; and he said to himself, ‘This is going to be even better than the other. I shall keep my head this time and sip all the pleasure at my ease.’ I saw that he settled himself more comfortably to listen and Media slipped her hand into his. It pleased him to think that they were going to the Island together. Now came the vision of the Island again: but this time it was changed, for John scarcely noticed the Island because of a lady with a crown on her head who stood waiting for him on the shore. She was fair, divinely fair. ‘At last,’ said John, ‘a girl with no trace of brown.’ And he began again to wade ashore holding out his arms to embrace that queen: and his love for her appeared to him so great and so pure, and they had been parted for so long, that his pity for himself and her almost overwhelmed him. And as he was about to embrace her the song stopped.

  ‘Sing it again, sing it again,’ cried John. ‘I liked it better the second time.’

  ‘Well, if you insist,’ said Mr. Halfways with a shrug. ‘It is nice to have a really appreciative audience.’ So he sang it the third time. This time John noticed yet more about the music. He began to see how several of the effects were produced and that some parts were better than others. He wondered if it were not a trifle too long. The vision of the Island was a little shadowy this time, and he did not take much notice of it. He put his arm round Media and they lay cheek to cheek. He began to wonder if Mr. Halfways would never end: and when at last the final passage closed, with a sobbing break in the singer’s voice, the old gentleman looked up and saw how the young people lay in one another’s arms. Then he rose and said:

  ‘You have found your Island—you have found it in one another’s hearts.’

  Then he tiptoed from the room, wiping his eyes.

  VI

  Ichabod

  ‘MEDIA, I LOVE YOU,’ said John.