The Pilgrim's Regress (9 page)

‘I see,' said John. ‘But what was the second interpretation?'

‘In the second,' said Reason, ‘the bridge signifies the giant's own favourite doctrine of the wish-fulfilment dream. For this also he wishes to use and not to use.'

‘I don't see how he wishes
not
to use it.'

‘Does he not keep on telling people that the Landlord is a wish-fulfilment dream?'

‘Yes; surely that is true—the only true thing he did say.'

‘Now think. Is it really true that the giant and Sigismund, and the people in Eschropolis, and Mr. Halfways, are going about filled with a longing that there should be a Landlord, and cards of rules, and a mountain land beyond the brook, with a possibility of a black hole?'

Then John stood still on the road to think. And first he gave a shake of his shoulders, and then he put his hands to his sides, and then he began to laugh till he was almost shaken to pieces. And when he had nearly finished, the vastness and impudence and simplicity of the fraud which had been practised came over him all again, and he laughed harder. And just when he had nearly recovered and was beginning to get his breath again, suddenly he had a picture in his mind of Victoriana and Glugly and Gus Halfways and how they would look if a rumour reached them that there
was
a Landlord and he was coming to Eschropolis. This was too much for him, and he laughed so hard that the broken chains of the Spirit of the Age fell off his wrists altogether. But all the while Reason sat and watched him.

‘You had better hear the rest of the argument,' she said at last. ‘It may not be such a laughing matter as you suppose.'

‘Oh, yes—the argument,' said John, wiping his eyes.

‘You see now the direction in which the giant does
not
want the wish-fulfilment theory used?'

‘I'm not sure that I do,' said John.

‘Don't you see what follows if you adopt his own rules?'

‘No,' said John, very loudly: for a terrible apprehension was stealing over him.

‘But you must see,' said Reason, ‘that for him and all his subjects
disbelief
in the Landlord is a wish-fulfilment dream.'

‘I shall not adopt his rules.'

‘You would be foolish not to have profited
at all
by your stay in his country,' said Reason. ‘There is some force in the wish-fulfilment doctrine.'

‘Some, perhaps, but very little.'

‘I only wanted to make it clear that whatever force it had was in favour of the Landlord's existence, not against it—specially in your case.'

‘Why specially in mine?' said John sulkily.

‘Because the Landlord is the thing you have been most afraid of all your life. I do not say that any theory should be accepted because it is disagreeable, but if any should, then belief in the Landlord should be accepted first.'

As Reason said these words they had reached the top of a little hill, and John begged for a halt, being out of breath. He looked back and saw beyond the green, rolling country the dark line of mountains which was the frontier of the giant's land: but behind them, and far bigger, rose the old mountains of the East, picked out in the rays of the declining sun against a dark sky. They seemed no smaller than when John had looked at them long ago from Puritania.

‘I do not know where you are leading me,' he said at last, ‘and among all these winding roads I have lost my sense of direction. As well, I find the pace of your horse fatiguing. If you will excuse me, I think I will henceforth pursue my journey alone.'

‘As you wish,' said Reason. ‘But I would strongly advise you to take this turn to the left.'

‘Where does it go to?' asked John suspiciously.

‘It takes you back to the main road,' said Reason.

‘That will do well enough,' said John. ‘And now, lady, give me your blessing before I go.'

‘I have no blessing to give,' said the Virgin. ‘I do not deal in blessings and cursings.'

Then John bade her good-bye and took the road she had pointed out to him. As soon as she was out of sight, I dreamed that he put down his head and ran; for the silly fellow supposed that she might follow him. And he continued running until he found that he was going up a hill—a hill so steep that it left him no breath for running—and at the very top his road cut into another which ran left and right along the ridge. Then John looked one way along it to the East and the other way along it to the West, and saw that it was indeed the main road. He stayed for a minute to mop his brow. Then he turned to the right, with his face towards the setting sun, and resumed his journey.

BOOK
FIVE

THE GRAND CANYON

Not by road and foot nor by sail and ocean

Shalt thou find any course that reaches

The world beyond the
North.

PINDAR

The ephemerals have no help to give. Behold them;

They are deedless and cripple, like to

A dream. The kind of mortals

Is bound with a chain and their eyes are in darkness.

AESCHYLUS

Alas, what can they teach and not mislead,

Ignorant of themselves, of
God much more,

And how the world began, and how man fell.

MILTON

I

The Grand Canyon

T
HE MAIN ROAD SOON
began to ascend and after a short climb John found himself on a bleak tableland which continued to rise before him, but at a gentler angle. After he had walked a mile or so he saw the figure of a man ahead, outlined against the setting sun. At first the figure stood still: then it took a few paces to the left and to the right as if in indecision. Then it turned about to face him, and to his surprise hailed him as an old acquaintance. Because of the light in his face John could not at first see who it was, and they had joined hands before he knew that it was Vertue.

‘What can have delayed you?' cried John. ‘I thought by your pace when I left you that you would have been a week's journey ahead of me by now.'

‘If you think that,' said Vertue, ‘your way must have been easier than mine. Have you not crossed mountains?'

‘I came through a pass,' said John.

‘The main road took them without a bend,' said Vertue. ‘And I often made scarcely ten miles a day. But that does not signify: I have learned something of climbing and sweated off a good deal of soft flesh. What has really delayed me is this—I have been here for several days.'

With that he motioned John to proceed and they went forward together to the brow of the slope. Then I saw John start back a pace or so with a cry, for he had found that he stood on the edge of a precipice. Then presently he re-approached it with caution and looked.

He saw that the road ran up without warning to the edge of a great gorge or chasm and ended in the air, as if it had been broken off. The chasm might be seven miles wide and as for its length, it stretched southward on his left and northward on his right as far as he could see. The sun shining in his face cast all the further side into shadow, so that he could not see much of it clearly. It seemed to him, however, a rich country from the verdure and the size of the trees.

‘I have been exploring the cliffs,' said Vertue. ‘And I think we could get half-way down. Come a little nearer. You see that ledge?'

‘I have a very poor head for heights,' said John.

‘That one,' said Vertue, pointing to a narrow strip of greenery a thousand feet below them.

‘I could never reach it.'

‘Oh, you could reach
that
easily enough. The difficulty is to know what happens beyond it. I am inclined to think that it overhangs: and though we could get down to it, I am not sure that we could get back if the rest of the descent was impracticable.'

‘Then it would be madness to trust ourselves so far.'

‘I don't know about that. It would be in accordance with the rule.'

‘What rule?'

‘The rule is,' said Vertue, ‘that if we have one chance out of a hundred of surviving, we must attempt it: but if we have none, absolutely none, then it would be self-destruction, and we need not.'

‘It is no rule of mine,' said John.

‘But it is. We all have the same set of rules, really, you know.'

‘If it is a rule of mine, it is one that I cannot obey.'

‘I don't think I understand you,' said Vertue. ‘But of course you may be such a bad climber that
you
wouldn't have even one chance . . . that would make a difference, I allow.'

Then a third voice spoke.

‘You have neither of you any chance at all unless I carry you down.'

Both the young men turned at the sound. An old woman was seated in a kind of rocky chair at the very edge of the precipice.

‘Oh, it's you, Mother Kirk, is it?' said Vertue, and added in an undertone to John, ‘I have seen her about the cliffs more than once. Some of the country people say she is second-sighted, and some that she is crazy.'

‘I shouldn't trust her,' said John in the same tone. ‘She looks to me much more like a witch.' Then he turned to the old woman and said aloud: ‘And how could you carry us down, mother? We would be more fit to carry you.'

‘I could do it, though,' said Mother Kirk, ‘by the power that the Landlord has given me.'

‘So you believe in the Landlord, too?' said John.

‘How can I not, dear,' said she, ‘when I am his own daughter-in-law?'

‘He does not give you very fine clothes,' said John, glancing at the old woman's country cloak.

‘They'll last my time,' said the old woman placidly.

‘We ought to try her,' whispered Vertue to John. ‘As long as there is any chance we are not allowed to neglect it.' But John frowned at him to be silent and addressed the old woman again.

‘Do you not think this Landlord of yours is a very strange one?' he said.

‘How so?' said she.

‘Why does he make a road like this running up to the very edge of a precipice—unless it is to encourage travellers to break their necks in the dark?'

‘Oh, bless you, he never left it like that,' said the old woman. ‘It was a good road all round the world when it was new, and all this gorge is far later than the road.'

‘You mean,' said Vertue, ‘that there has been some sort of catastrophe.'

‘Well,' said Mother Kirk, ‘I see there will be no getting you down tonight, so I may as well tell you the story. Come and sit down by me. You are neither of you so wise that you need be ashamed of listening to an old wives' tale.'

II

Mother Kirk's Story

W
HEN THEY WERE SEATED,
the old woman told the following story:—

‘You must know that once upon a time there were no tenants in this country at all, for the Landlord used to farm it himself. There were only the animals and the Landlord used to look after them, he and his sons and daughters. Every morning they used to come down from the mountains and milk the cows and lead out the sheep to pasture. And they needed less watching, for all the animals were tamer then; and there were no fences needed, for if a wolf got in among the flocks he would do them no harm. And one day the Landlord was going home from his day's work when he looked round on the country, and the beasts, and saw how the crops were springing, and it came into his head that the whole thing was too good to keep to himself. So he decided to let the country to tenants, and his first tenant was a young married man. But first the Landlord made a farm in the very centre of the land where the soil was the best and the air most wholesome, and that was the very spot where you are sitting now. They were to have the whole land, but that was too much for them to keep under cultivation. The Landlord's idea was that they could work the farm and leave the rest as a park for the time being: but later they could divide the park up into holdings for their children. For you must know that he drew up a very different lease from the kind you have nowadays. It was a lease in perpetuity on his side, for he promised never to turn them out; but on their side, they could leave when they chose, as long as one of their sons was there, to take the farm on, and then they could go up to live with him in the mountains. He thought that would be a good thing because it would broaden the minds of his own mountain children to mix with strangers. And they thought so too. But before he put the tenants in possession there was one thing he had to do. Up to this time the country had been full of a certain fruit which the Landlord had planted for the refreshment of himself and his children, if they were thirsty during the day as they worked down here. It was a very good fruit and up in the mountains they say it is even more plentiful: but it is very strong and only those who are mountain-bred ought to eat it, for only they can digest it properly. Hitherto, while there were only beasts in the land, it had done no harm for these mountain-apples to be growing in every thicket; for you know that an animal will eat nothing but what is good for it. But now that there were to be men in the land, the Landlord was afraid that they might do themselves an injury; yet it was not to be thought of that he should dig up every sapling of that tree and make the country into a desert. So he decided that it was best to be frank with the young people, and when he found a great big mountain-apple tree growing in the very centre of the farm he said, “So much the better. If they are to learn sense, they may as well learn it from the beginning: and if they will not, there's no help for it. For if they did not find mountain-apples on the farm, they would soon find them somewhere else.” So he left the apple tree standing, and put the man and his wife into their farm: but before he left them he explained the whole affair to them—as much of it could be explained—and warned them on no account to eat any of the apples. Then he went home. And for a time the young man and his wife behaved very well, tending the animals and managing their farm, and abstaining from the mountain-apples; and for all I know they might never have done otherwise if the wife had not somehow made a new acquaintance. This new acquaintance was a landowner himself. He had been born in the mountains and was one of our Landlord's own children, but he had quarrelled with his father and set up on his own, and now had built up a very considerable estate in another country. His estate marches, however, with this country: and as he was a great land-grabber he always wanted to take this bit in—and he has very nearly succeeded.'