Till We Have Faces

  ‘What?’

  ‘At first I was trying to cheer myself with all that old dream of my gold and amber palace on the Mountain . . . and the god . . . trying to believe it. But I couldn’t believe in it at all. I couldn’t understand how I ever had. All that, all my old longings, were clean gone.’

  I pressed her hands and said nothing. But inwardly I rejoiced. It might have been good (I don’t know) to encourage that fancy the night before the Offering, if it supported her. Now, I was glad she had got over it. It was a thing I could not like, unnatural and estranging. Perhaps this gladness of mine is one of the things the gods have against me. They never tell.

  ‘The only thing that did me good,’ she continued, ‘was quite different. It was hardly a thought, and very hard to put into words. There was a lot of the Fox’s philosophy in it—things he says about gods or “the Divine Nature”—but mixed up with things the Priest said, too, about the blood and the earth and how sacrifice makes the crops grow. I’m not explaining it well. It seemed to come from somewhere deep inside me, deeper than the part that sees pictures of gold and amber palaces, deeper than fears and tears. It was shapeless, but you could just hold onto it; or just let it hold onto you. Then the change came.’

  ‘What change?’ I didn’t know well what she was talking about, but I saw she must have her way and tell the story in her own fashion.

  ‘Oh, the weather of course. I couldn’t see it, tied the way I was, but I could feel it. I was suddenly cool. Then I knew the sky must be filling with clouds, behind my back, over Glome, for all the colours on the Mountain went out and my own shadow vanished. And then—that was the first sweet moment—a sigh of wind—west-wind—came at my back. Then more and more wind; you could hear and smell and feel the rain drawing near. So then I knew quite well that the gods really are, and that I was bringing the rain. And then the wind was roaring (but it’s too soft a sound to call it a roar) all round me, and rain. The Tree kept some of it off me; I was holding out my hands all the time and licking the rain off them, I was so thirsty. The wind got wilder and wilder. It seemed to be lifting me off the ground so that, if it hadn’t been for the iron round my waist, I’d have been blown right away, up in the air. And then—at last—for a moment—I saw him.’

  ‘Saw whom?’

  ‘The west-wind.’

  ‘Saw it?’

  ‘Not it; him. The god of the wind; West-Wind himself.’

  ‘Were you awake, Psyche?’

  ‘Oh, it was no dream. One can’t dream things like that, because one’s never seen things like that. He was in human shape. But you couldn’t mistake him for a man. Oh, sister, you’d understand if you’d seen. How can I make you understand? You’ve seen lepers?’

  ‘Well, of course.’

  ‘And you know how healthy people look beside a leper?’

  ‘You mean—healthier, ruddier than ever?’

  ‘Yes. Now we, beside the gods, are like lepers beside us.’

  ‘Do you mean this god was so red?’

  She laughed and clapped her hands. ‘Oh, it’s no use,’ she said. ‘I see I’ve not given you the idea at all. Never mind. You shall see gods for yourself, Orual. It must be so; I’ll make it so. Somehow. There must be a way. Look, this may help you. When I saw West-Wind I was neither glad nor afraid (at first). I felt ashamed.’

  ‘But what of? Psyche, they hadn’t stripped you naked or anything?’

  ‘No, no, Maia. Ashamed of looking like a mortal—ashamed of being a mortal.’

  ‘But how could you help that?’

  ‘Don’t you think the things people are most ashamed of are the things they can’t help?’

  I thought of my ugliness and said nothing.

  ‘And he took me,’ said Psyche, ‘in his beautiful arms which seemed to burn me (though the burning didn’t hurt) and pulled me right out of the iron girdle—and that didn’t hurt either and I don’t know how he did it—and carried me up into the air, far up above the ground, and whirled me away. Of course he was invisible again almost at once. I had seen him only as one sees a lightning flash. But that didn’t matter. Now I knew it was he, not it, I wasn’t in the least afraid of sailing along in the sky, even of turning head over heels in it.’

  ‘Psyche, are you sure this happened? You must have been dreaming!’

  ‘And if it was a dream, sister, how do you think I came here? It’s more likely everything that had happened to me before this was a dream. Why, Glome and the King and old Batta seem to me very like dreams now. But you hinder my tale, Maia. So he carried me through the air and set me down softly. At first I was all out of breath and too bewildered to see where I was; for West-Wind is a merry, rough god. (Sister, do you think young gods have to be taught how to handle us? A hasty touch from hands like theirs and we’d fall to pieces.) But when I came to myself—ah, can you think what a moment that was!—and saw the House before me; I lying at the threshold. And it wasn’t, you see, just the gold and amber house I used to imagine. If it had been just that, I might indeed have thought I was dreaming. But I saw it wasn’t. And not quite like any house in this land, nor quite like those Greek houses the Fox describes to us. Something new, never conceived of—but, there, you can see for yourself—and I’ll show you over every bit of it in a moment. Why need I try to show it in words?

  ‘You could see it was a god’s house at once. I don’t mean a temple where a god is worshipped. A god’s House, where he lives. I would not for any wealth have gone into it. But I had to, Orual. For there came a voice—sweet? oh, sweeter than any music, yet my hair rose at it too—and do you know, Orual, what it said? It said, “Enter your House” (yes, it called it my House), “Psyche, the bride of the god.”

  ‘I was ashamed again, ashamed of my mortality, and terribly afraid. But it would have been worse shame and worse fear to disobey. I went, cold, small, and shaking, up the steps and through the porch and into the courtyard. There was no one to be seen. But then the voices came. All round me, bidding me welcome.’

  ‘What kind of voices?’

  ‘Like women’s voices—at least, as like women’s voices as the wind-god was like a man. And they said, “Enter, Lady, enter, Mistress. Do not be afraid.” And they were moving as the speakers moved, though I could see no one, and leading me by their movements. And so they brought me into a cool parlour with an arched roof, where there was a table set out with fruit and wine. Such fruits as never—but you shall see. They said, “Refresh yourself, Lady, before the bath; after it comes the feast.” Oh, Orual, how can I tell you what it felt like? I knew they were all spirits and I wanted to fall at their feet. But I daren’t; if they made me mistress of that house, mistress I should have to be. Yet all the time I was afraid there might be some bitter mockery in it and that at any moment terrible laughter might break out and—’

  ‘Ah!’ said I, with a long breath. How well I understood.

  ‘Oh, but I was wrong, sister. Utterly wrong. That’s part of the mortal shame. They gave me fruit, they gave me wine—’

  ‘The voices gave you?’

  ‘The spirits gave them to me. I couldn’t see their hands. Yet, you know, it never looked as if the plates or the cup were moving of themselves. You could see that hands were doing it. And, Orual’ (her voice grew very low), ‘when I took the cup, I—I—felt the other hands, touching my own. Again, that burning, though without pain. That was terrible.’ She blushed suddenly and (I wondered why) laughed. ‘It wouldn’t be terrible now,’ she said. ‘Then they had me to the bath. You shall see it. It is in the most delicate pillared court open to the sky, and the water is like crystal and smells as sweet as . . . as sweet as this whole valley. I was terribly shy when it came to taking off my clothes, but—’

  ‘You said they were all she-spirits.’

  ‘Oh, Maia, you still don’t understand. This shame has nothing to do with He or She. It’s the being mortal—being, how shall I say it? . . . insufficient. Don’t you think a dream would feel shy if it were seen walking about
in the waking world? And then’ (she was speaking more and more quickly now) ‘they dressed me again—in the most beautiful things—and then came the banquet—and the music—and then they had me to bed—and the night came—and then—he.’

  ‘He?’

  ‘The Bridegroom . . . the god himself. Don’t look at me like that, sister. I’m your own true Psyche still. Nothing will change that.’

  ‘Psyche,’ said I, leaping up, ‘I can’t bear this any longer. You have told me so many wonders. If this is all true, I’ve been wrong all my life. Everything has to be begun over again. Psyche, it is true? You’re not playing a game with me? Show me. Show me your palace.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ she said, rising. ‘Let us go in. And don’t be afraid whatever you see or hear.’

  ‘Is it far?’ said I.

  She gave me a quick, astonished look. ‘Far to where?’ she said.

  ‘To the palace, to this god’s House.’

  You have seen a lost child in a crowd run up to a woman whom it takes for its mother, and how the woman turns round and shows the face of a stranger, and then the look in the child’s eyes, silent a moment before it begins to cry. Psyche’s face was like that; checked, blank; happiest assurance suddenly dashed all to pieces.

  ‘Orual,’ she said, beginning to tremble, ‘what do you mean?’

  I too became frightened, though I had yet no notion of the truth. ‘Mean?’ said I. ‘Where is the palace? How far have we to go to reach it?’

  She gave one loud cry. Then, with white face, staring hard into my eyes, she said, ‘But this is it, Orual! It is here! You are standing on the stairs of the great gate.’

  XI

  If anyone could have seen us at that moment I believe he would have thought we were two enemies met for a battle to the death. I know we stood like that, a few feet apart, every nerve taut, each with eyes fixed on the other in a terrible watchfulness.

  And now we are coming to that part of my history on which my charge against the gods chiefly rests; and therefore I must try at any cost to write what is wholly true. Yet it is hard to know perfectly what I was thinking while those huge, silent moments went past. By remembering it too often I have blurred the memory itself.

  I suppose my first thought must have been, ‘She’s mad.’ Anyway, my whole heart leaped to shut the door against something monstrously amiss—not to be endured. And to keep it shut. Perhaps I was fighting not to be mad myself.

  But what I said when I got my breath (and I know my voice came out in a whisper) was simply, ‘We must go away at once. This is a terrible place.’

  Was I believing in her invisible palace? A Greek will laugh at the thought. But it’s different in Glome. There the gods are too close to us. Up in the Mountain, in the very heart of the Mountain, where Bardia had been afraid and even the priests don’t go, anything was possible. No door could be kept shut. Yes, that was it; not plain belief, but infinite misgiving—the whole world (Psyche with it) slipping out of my hands.

  Whatever I meant, she misunderstood me horribly.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘you do see it after all.’

  ‘See what?’ I asked. A fool’s question. I knew what.

  ‘Why, this, this,’ said Psyche. ‘The gates, the shining walls—’

  For some strange reason, fury—my father’s own fury—fell upon me when she said that. I found myself screaming (I am sure I had not meant to scream), ‘Stop it! Stop it at once! There’s nothing there!’

  Her face flushed. For once, and for the moment only, she too was angry. ‘Well, feel it, feel it, if you can’t see,’ she cried. ‘Touch it. Slap it. Beat your head against it. Here—’ she made to grab my hands. I wrenched them free.

  ‘Stop it, stop it, I tell you! There’s no such thing. You’re pretending. You’re trying to make yourself believe it.’ But I was lying. How did I know whether she really saw invisible things or spoke in madness? Either way, something hateful and strange had begun. As if I could thrust it back by brute force, I fell upon Psyche. Before I knew what I was doing I had her by the shoulders and was shaking her as one shakes a child.

  She was too big for that now and far too strong (stronger than I ever dreamt she could be) and she flung my grip off in a moment. We fell apart, both breathing hard, now more like enemies than ever. All at once a look came into her face that I had never seen there, sharp, suspicious.

  ‘But you tasted the wine. Where do you think I got it from?’

  ‘Wine? What wine? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Orual! The wine I gave you. And the cup. I gave you the cup. And where is it? Where have you hidden it?’

  ‘Oh, have done with it, child. I’m in no mood for nonsense. There was no wine.’

  ‘But I gave it to you. You drank it. And the fine honey-cakes. You said—’

  ‘You gave me water, cupped in your hands.’

  ‘But you praised the wine, and the cup. You said—’

  ‘I praised your hands. You were playing a game (you know you were) and I fell in with it.’

  She gaped open-mouthed, yet beautiful even then.

  ‘So that was all,’ she said slowly. ‘You mean you saw no cup? Tasted no wine?’

  I wouldn’t answer. She had heard well enough what I said.

  Presently her throat moved as if she were swallowing something (oh, the beauty of her throat!). She pressed down a great storm of passion and her mood changed; it was now sober sadness, mixed with pity. She struck her breast with her clenched fist as mourners do.

  ‘Aiai!’ she mourned. ‘So this is what he meant. You can’t see it. You can’t feel it. For you, it is not there at all. Oh, Maia . . . I am very sorry.’

  I came almost to a full belief. She was shaking and stirring me a dozen different ways. But I had not shaken her at all. She was as certain of her palace as of the plainest thing; as certain as the Priest had been of Ungit when my father’s dagger was between his ribs. I was as weak beside her as the Fox beside the Priest. This valley was indeed a dreadful place; full of the divine, sacred, no place for mortals. There might be a hundred things in it that I could not see.

  Can a Greek understand the horror of that thought? Years after, I dreamed, again and again, that I was in some well-known place—most often the Pillar Room—and everything I saw was different from what I touched. I would lay my hand on the table and feel warm hair instead of smooth wood, and the corner of the table would shoot out a hot, wet tongue and lick me. And I knew, by the mere taste of them that all those dreams came from that moment when I believed I was looking at Psyche’s palace and did not see it. For the horror was the same: a sickening discord, a rasping together of two worlds, like the two bits of a broken bone.

  But in the reality (not in the dreams), with the horror came the inconsolable grief. For the world had broken in pieces and Psyche and I were not in the same piece. Seas, mountains, madness, death itself, could not have removed her from me to such a hopeless distance as this. Gods, and again gods, always gods . . . they had stolen her. They would leave us nothing. A thought pierced up through the crust of my mind like a crocus coming up in the early year. Was she not worthy of the gods? Ought they not to have her? But instantly great, choking, blinding waves of sorrow swept it away and, ‘Oh!’ I cried. ‘It’s not right. It’s not right. Oh, Psyche, come back! Where are you? Come back, come back.’

  She had me in her arms at once. ‘Maia—Sister,’ she said. ‘I’m here. Maia, don’t. I can’t bear it. I’ll—’

  ‘Yes . . . oh, my own child—I do feel you—I hold you. But oh—it’s only like holding you in a dream. You are leagues away. And I . . .’

  She led me a few paces further and made me sit down on a mossy bank and sat beside me. With words and touch she comforted me all she could. And as, in the centre of a storm or even of a battle, I have known sudden stillness for a moment, so now for a little I let her comfort me. Not that I took any heed of what she was saying. It was her voice, and her love in her voice, that counted. He
r voice was very deep for a woman’s. Sometimes even now the way she used to say this or that word comes back to me as warm and real as if she were beside me in the room—the softness of it, the richness as of corn grown from a deep soil.

  What was she saying? . . . ‘And perhaps, Maia, you too will learn how to see. I will beg and implore him to make you able. He will understand. He warned me when I asked for this meeting that it might not turn out all as I hoped. I never thought . . . I’m only simple Psyche, as he calls me . . . never thought he meant you wouldn’t even see it. So he must have known. He’ll tell us . . .’

  He? I’d forgotten this him; or, if not forgotten, left him out of account ever since she first told me we were standing at his palace gates. And now she was saying he every moment, no other name but he, the way young wives talk. Something began to grow colder and harder inside me. And this also is like what I’ve known in wars: when that which was only they or the enemy all at once becomes the man, two feet away, who means to kill you.

  ‘Who are you talking of?’ I asked; but I meant, ‘Why do you talk of him to me? What have I to do with him?’

  ‘But, Maia,’ she said, ‘I’ve told you all my story. My god, of course. My lover. My husband. The master of my House.’

  ‘Oh, I can’t bear it,’ said I, leaping up. Those last words of hers, spoken softly and with trembling, set me on fire. I could feel my rage coming back. Then (like a great light, a hope of deliverance, it came to me) I asked myself why I’d forgotten, and how long I’d forgotten, that first notion of her being mad. Madness; of course. The whole thing must be madness. I had been nearly as mad as she to think otherwise. At the very name madness the air of that valley seemed more breathable, seemed emptied of a little of its holiness and horror.