by C. S. Lewis
‘But you must,’ said Vertue.
‘The young gentleman is soft, sir, very soft,’ said Drudge. ‘He is not used to this sort of thing. We’ll have to help him along.’
So they took him, one by each arm, and helped him along for a few hours. They found nothing to eat or drink in the waste. Towards evening they heard a desolate voice crying ‘Maiwi-maiwi,’ and looked up, and there was a seagull hanging in the currents of the wind as though it sauntered an invisible stair towards the low rain-clouds.
‘Good!’ cried Vertue. ‘We are nearing the coast.’
‘It’s a good step yet, sir,’ said Drudge. ‘These gulls come forty miles inland and more in bad weather.’
Then they plodded on for many more miles. And the sky began to turn from sunless grey to starless black. And they looked and saw a little shanty by the roadside and there they knocked on the door.
II
Three Pale Men
WHEN THEY WERE let in they found three young men, all very thin and pale, seated by a stove under the low roof of the hut. There was some sacking on a bench along one wall and little comfort else.
‘You will fare badly here,’ said one of the three men. ‘But I am a Steward and it is my duty according to my office to share my supper with you. You may come in.’ His name was Mr. Neo-Angular.
‘I am sorry that my convictions do not allow me to repeat my friend’s offer,’ said one of the others. ‘But I have had to abandon the humanitarian and egalitarian fallacies.’ His name was Mr. Neo-Classical.
‘I hope,’ said the third, ‘that your wanderings in lonely places do not mean that you have any of the romantic virus still in your blood.’ His name was Mr. Humanist.
John was too tired and Drudge too respectful to reply: but Vertue said to Mr. Neo-Angular, ‘You are very kind. You are saving our lives.’
‘I am not kind at all,’ said Mr. Neo-Angular with some warmth. ‘I am doing my duty. My ethics are based on dogma, not on feeling.’
‘I understand you very well,’ said Vertue. ‘May I shake hands with you?’
‘Can it be,’ said the other, ‘that you are one of us? You are a Catholic? A scholastic?’
‘I know nothing about that,’ said Vertue, ‘but I know that the rule is to be obeyed because it is a rule and not because it appeals to my feelings at the moment.’
‘I see you are not one of us,’ said Angular, ‘and you are undoubtedly damned. Virtutes paganorum splendida vitia. Now let us eat.’
Then I dreamed that the three pale men produced three tins of bully beef and six biscuits, and Angular shared his with the guests. There was very little for each and I thought that the best share fell to John and Drudge, for Vertue and the young Steward entered into a kind of rivalry who should leave most for the others.
‘Our fare is simple,’ said Mr. Neo-Classical. ‘And perhaps unwelcome to palates that have been reared on the kickshaws of lower countries. But you see the perfection of form. This beef is a perfect cube: this biscuit a true square.’
‘You will admit,’ said Mr. Humanist, ‘that, at least, our meal is quite free from any lingering flavour of the old romantic sauces.’
‘Quite free,’ said John, staring at the empty tin.
‘It’s better than radishes, sir,’ said Drudge.
‘Do you live here, gentlemen?’ said Vertue when the empty tins had been removed.
‘We do,’ said Mr. Humanist. ‘We are founding a new community. At present we suffer the hardships of pioneers and have to import our food: but when we have brought the country under cultivation we shall have plenty—as much plenty as is needed for the practice of temperance.’
‘You interest me exceedingly,’ said Vertue. ‘What are the principles of this community?’
‘Catholicism, Humanism, Classicism,’ said all three.
‘Catholicism! Then you are all Stewards?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Classical and Humanist.
‘At least you all believe in the Landlord?’
‘I have no interest in the question,’ said Classical.
‘And I,’ said Humanist, ‘know perfectly well that the Landlord is a fable.’
‘And I,’ said Angular, ‘know perfectly well that he is a fact.’
‘This is very surprising,’ said Vertue. ‘I do not see how you have come together, or what your common principles can possibly be.’
‘We are united by a common antagonism to a common enemy,’ said Humanist. ‘You must understand that we are three brothers, the sons of old Mr. Enlightenment of the town of Claptrap.’
‘I know him,’ said John.
‘Our father was married twice,’ continued Humanist. ‘Once to a lady name Epichaerecacia, and afterwards to Euphuia. By his first wife he had a son called Sigmund who is thus our step-brother.’
‘I know him too,’ said John.
‘We are the children of his second marriage,’ said Humanist.
‘Then,’ cried Vertue, ‘we are related—if you care to acknowledge the kinship. You have probably heard that Euphuia had a child before she married your father. I was that child—though I confess that I never discovered who my father was and enemies have hinted that I am a bastard.’
‘You have said quite sufficient,’ replied Angular. ‘You can hardly expect that the subject should be agreeable to us. I might add that my office, if there were nothing else, sets me apart even from my legitimate relations.’
‘And what about the common antagonism?’ said John.
‘We were all brought up,’ said Humanist, ‘by our step-brother in the university at Eschropolis, and we learned there to see that whoever stays with Mr. Halfways must either come on to Eschropolis or else remain at Thrill as the perpetual minion of his brown daughter.’
‘You had not been with Mr. Halfways yourselves, then?’ asked John.
‘Certainly not. We learned to hate him from watching the effect which his music had on other people. Hatred of him is the first thing that unites us. Next, we discovered how residence in Eschropolis inevitably leads to the giant’s dungeon.’
‘I know all about that too,’ said John.
‘Our common hatred therefore links us together against the giant, against Eschropolis, and against Mr. Halfways.’
‘But specially against the latter,’ said Classical.
‘I should rather say,’ remarked Angular, ‘against half-measures and compromises of all sorts—against any pretence that there is any kind of goodness or decency, any even tolerable temporary resting place, on this side of the Grand Canyon.’
‘And that,’ said Classical, ‘is why Angular is for me, in one sense, the enemy, but, in another, the friend. I cannot agree with his notions about the other side of the canyon: but just because he relegates his delusions to the other side, he is free to agree with me about this side and to be an implacable exposer (like myself) of all attempts to foist upon us any transcendental, romantical, optimistic trash.’
‘My own feeling,’ said Humanist, ‘is rather that Angular is with me in guarding against any confusion of the levels of experience. He canalizes all the mystical nonsense—the sehnsucht and Wanderlust and Nympholepsy—and transfers them to the far side: that prevents their drifting about on this side and hindering our real function. It leaves us free to establish a really tolerable and even comfortable civilization here on the plateau; a culture based alike on those truths which Mr. Sensible acknowledges and on those which the giant reveals, but throwing over both alike a graceful veil of illusion. And that way we shall remain human: we shall not become beasts with the giant nor abortive angels with Mr. Halfways.’
‘The young gentleman is asleep, sir,’ said Drudge: and indeed John had sunk down some time ago.
‘You must excuse him,’ said Vertue. ‘He found the road long to-day.’
Then I saw that all six men lay down together in the sacking. The night was far colder than the night they passed in Mr. Sensible’s house: but as there was here no pretence of comfort and
they lay huddled together in the narrow hut, John slept warmer here than at Thelema.
III
Neo-Angular
WHEN THEY ROSE in the morning John was so footsore and his limbs ached so that he knew not how to continue his journey. Drudge assured them that the coast could not now be very far. He thought that Vertue could reach it and return in a day and that John might await him in the hut. As for John himself, he was loth to burden hosts who lived in such apparent poverty: but Mr. Angular constrained him to stay, when he had explained that the secular virtue of hospitality was worthless, and care for the afflicted a sin if it proceeded from humanitarian sentiment, but that he was obliged to act as he did by the rules of his order. So, in my dream, I saw Drudge and Vertue set out northwards alone, while John remained with the three pale men.
In the forenoon he had a conversation with Angular.
‘You believe, then,’ said John, ‘that there is a way across the canyon?’
‘I know there is. If you will let me take you to Mother Kirk she will carry you over in a moment.’
‘And yet, I am not sure that I am not sailing under false colours. When I set out from home, crossing the canyon was never in my thoughts—still less was Mother Kirk.’
‘It does not matter in the least what was in your thoughts.’
‘It does, to me. You see, my only motive for crossing, is the hope that something I am looking for may be on the other side.’
‘That is a dangerous, subjective motive. What is this something?’
‘I saw an Island—’
‘Then you must forget it as soon as you can. Islands are the Half-ways’ concern. I assure you, you must eradicate every trace of that nonsense from your mind before I can help you.’
‘But how can you help me after removing the only thing that I want to be helped to? What is the use of telling a hungry man that you will grant him his desires, provided there is no question of eating?’
‘If you do not want to cross the canyon, there is no more to be said. But, then, you must realize where you are. Go on with your Island, if you like, but do not pretend that it is anything but a part of the land of destruction this side of the canyon. If you are a sinner, for heaven’s sake have the grace to be a cynic too.’
‘But how can you say that the Island is all bad, when it is longing for the Island, and nothing else, that has brought me this far?’
‘It makes no difference. All on this side of the canyon is much of a muchness. If you confine yourself to this side, then the Spirit of the Age is right.’
‘But this is not what Mother Kirk said. She particularly insisted that some of the food was much less poisonous than the rest.’
‘So you have met Mother Kirk? No wonder that you are confused. You had no business to talk to her except through a qualified Steward. Depend upon it, you have misunderstood every word she said.’
‘Then there was Reason, too. She refused to say that the Island was an illusion. But perhaps, like Mr. Sensible, you have quarrelled with Reason.’
‘Reason is divine. But how should you understand her? You are a beginner. For you, the only safe commerce with Reason is to learn from your superiors the dogmata in which her deliverances have been codified for general use.’
‘Look here,’ said John. ‘Have you ever seen my Island?’
‘God forbid.’
‘And you have never heard Mr. Halfways either.’
‘Never. And I never will. Do you take me for an escapist?’
‘Then there is at least one object in the world of which I know more than you. I tasted what you call romantic trash; you have only talked about it. You need not tell me that there is a danger in it and an element of evil. Do you suppose that I have not felt that danger and that evil a thousand times more than you? But I know also that the evil in it is not what I went to it to find, and that I should have sought nothing and found nothing without it. I know this by experience as I know a dozen things about it which of you betray your ignorance as often as you speak. Forgive me if I am rude: but how is it possible that you can advise me in this matter? Would you recommend a eunuch as confessor to a man whose difficulties lay in the realm of chastity? Would a man born blind be my best guide against the lust of the eye? But I am getting angry. And you have shared your biscuit with me. I ask your pardon.’
‘It is part of my office to bear insults with patience,’ said Mr. Angular.
IV
Humanist
IN THE AFTERNOON Mr. Humanist took John out to show him the garden, by whose produce, in time, the new culture was to become self-supporting. As there was no human, or indeed animal, habitation within sight, no wall or fence had been deemed necessary but the area of the garden had been marked out by a line of stones and sea-shells alternately arranged: and this was necessary as the garden would else have been indistinguishable from the waste. A few paths, also marked by stones and shells, were arranged in a geometrical pattern.
‘You see,’ said Mr. Humanist, ‘we have quite abandoned the ideas of the old romantic landscape gardeners. You notice a certain severity. A landscape gardener would have had a nodding grove over there on the right, and a mound on the left, and winding paths, and a pond, and flowerbeds. He would have filled the obscurer parts with the means of sensuality—the formless potato and the romantically irregular cabbage. You see, there is nothing of the sort here.’
‘Nothing at all,’ said John.
‘At present, of course, it is not very fruitful. But we are pioneers.’
‘Do you ever try digging it?’ suggested John.
‘Why, no,’ said Mr. Humanist, ‘you see, it is pure rock an inch below the surface, so we do not disturb the soil. That would remove the graceful veil of illusion which is so necessary to the human point of view.’
V
Food from the North
LATE THAT EVENING the door of the hut opened and Vertue staggered in and dropped to a sitting position by the stove. He was very exhausted and it was long before he had his breath to talk. When he had, his first words were:
‘You must leave this place, gentlemen. It is in danger.’
‘Where is Drudge?’ said John.
‘He stayed there.’
‘And what is this danger?’ asked Mr. Humanist.
‘I’m going to tell you. By the by, there’s no way over the gorge northward.’
‘We have been on a fool’s errand, then,’ said John, ‘ever since we left the main road.’
‘Except that now we know,’ replied Vertue. ‘But I must eat before I can tell my story. To-night I am able to return our friends’ hospitality,’ and with that he produced from various parts of his clothing the remains of a handsome cold pie, two bottles of strong beer and a little flask of rum. For some time there was silence in the hut, and when the meal was finished and a little water had been boiled so that each had a glass of hot grog, Vertue began his story.
VI
Furthest North
‘IT IS ALL LIKE this as far as the mountains—about fifteen miles—and there is nothing to tell of our journey except rock and moss and a few gulls. The mountains are frightful as you approach them, but the road runs up to a pass and we had not much difficulty. Beyond the pass you get into a little rocky valley and it was here that we first found any signs of habitation. The valley is a regular warren of caves inhabited by dwarfs. There are several species of them, I gather, though I only distinguished two—a black kind with black shirts and a red kind who call themselves Marxomanni. They are all very fierce and apparently quarrel a good deal but they all acknowledge some kind of vassalage to this man Savage. At least they made no difficulty in letting me through when they heard that I wanted to see him—beyond insisting on giving me a guard. It was there I lost Drudge. He said he had come to join the red dwarfs and would I mind going on alone. He was just the same up to the end—civil as ever—but he was down one of their burrows and apparently quite at home before I could get in a word. Then my dwarfs took me on. I didn�
�t care for the arrangements much. They were not men, you know, not dwarf men, but real dwarfs—trolls. They could talk, and they walk on two legs, but the structure must be quite different from ours. I felt all the time that if they killed me it wouldn’t be murder, any more than if a crocodile or a gorilla killed me. It is a different species—however it came there. Different faces.
‘Well, they kept taking me up and up. It was all rocky zig-zags, round and round. Fortunately, I do not get giddy. My chief danger was the wind whenever we got on a ridge—for of course my guides, being only some three feet high, did not offer it the same target. I had one or two narrow escapes. Savage’s nest is a terrifying place. It is a long hall like a barn and when I first caught sight of it—half-way up the sky from where they were leading me—I thought to myself that wherever else we were going it could not be there; it looked so inaccessible. But on we went.
‘One thing you must get into your heads is that there are caves all the way up, all inhabited. The whole mountain must be honeycombed. I saw thousands of the dwarfs. Like an ant-hill—and not a man in the place except me.
‘From Savage’s nest you look straight down to the sea. I should think it is the biggest sheer drop on any coast. It was from there that I saw the mouth of the gorge. The mouth is only a lowering of the cliff: from the lowest part of the opening it is still thousands of feet to the sea. There is no conceivable landing. It is no use to anyone but sea-gulls.
‘But you want to hear about Savage. He sat on a high chair at the end of his barn—a very big man, almost a giant. When I say that I don’t mean his height: I had the same feeling about him that I had about the dwarfs. That doubt about the species. He was dressed in skins and had an iron helmet on his head with horns stuck in it.
‘He had a woman there, too, a great big woman with yellow hair and high cheek-bones. Grimhild her name is. And the funny thing is that she is the sister of an old friend of yours, John. She is Mr. Halfways’ elder daughter. Apparently Savage came down to Thrill and carried her off: and what is stranger still, both the girl and the old gentleman were rather pleased about it than otherwise.
