Till We Have Faces: A Myth Retold

by C.S. Lewis

“Today I shall meet cruel men, cowards and liars, the envious and the drunken. They will be like that because they do not know what is good from what is bad. This is an evil which has fallen upon them not upon me. They are to be pitied, not—”’

This shame has nothing to do with He or She. It’s the being mortal—being, how shall I say it? . . . insufficient.

‘You don’t think—not possibly—not as a mere hundredth chance—there might be things that are real though we can’t see them?’ ‘Certainly I do. Such things as Justice, Equality, the Soul, or musical notes.’

I would set out boldly each morning to be just and calm and wise in all my thoughts and acts; but before they had finished dressing me I would find that I was back (and knew not how long I had been back) in some old rage, resentment, gnawing fantasy, or sullen bitterness.

‘Did we really do these things to her?’ I asked. ‘Yes. All here’s true.’ ‘And we said we loved her.’ ‘And we did. She had no more dangerous enemies than us. And in that far distant day when the gods become wholly beautiful, or we at last are shown how beautiful they always were, this will happen more and more. For mortals, as you said, will become more and more jealous. And mother and wife and child and friend will all be in league to keep a soul from being united with the Divine Nature.’

The earth and stars and sun, all that was or will be, existed for his sake. And he was coming. The most dreadful, the most beautiful, the only dread and beauty there is, was coming. The pillars on the far side of the pool flushed with his approach. I cast down my eyes. Two figures, reflections, their feet to Psyche’s feet and mine, stood head downwards in the water. But whose were they? Two Psyches, the one clothed, the other naked? Yes, both Psyches, both beautiful (if that mattered now) beyond all imagining, yet not exactly the same. ‘You also are Psyche,’ came a great voice.

I ended my first book with the words no answer. I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer would suffice? Only words, words; to be led out to battle against other words. Long did I hate you, long did I fear you. I might—