“A Fabric Shot Through With Glory”: The Chronicles of Narnia as C.S. Lewis’

Affirmative Social Vision

Andrew Haile

A Senior Essay Presented to the Department of English in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Bachelor of Arts

Spring 2007

Middlebury College Middlebury, Vermont

“The tales of Narnia open up to us a certain kind of world. It is a world which has been

made—made by Someone, beautifully made. Its fabric is shot through with glory.”

Thomas Howard

Table of Contents

Introduction: The Chronicles of Narnia: Magical Fairy Tales or Insidious Religious

Propaganda? Framing the Debate Around Lewis’ Classics 1

Chapter 1: Lewis Defines the Terms: Towards a More Nuanced Understanding of

Morality 9

Chapter 2: “To Crush This Vile Traffic in Man’s Flesh”: Of Men, Marsh-wiggles, and the

Triumph of Freedom over Slavery in Narnia 15

Chapter 3: “Deeper Magic from the Dawn of Time”: Of Traitors, Tisrocs, and the

Redemptive Power of Merciful Justice in Narnia 34

Chapter 4: “A Peevish Blend of Racist, Misogynistic, and Reactionary Prejudice?”:

Addressing the Accusations of Lewis’ Fairy Tales 45

Conclusion: Lewis’ Vision in Light of Today’s World 60

Works Consulted 67

The Chronicles of Narnia: Magical Fairy Tales or Insidious Religious Propaganda?

Framing the Debate Around Lewis’ Classics

As a twentieth-century scholar and philosopher, Clive Staples Lewis stands out as a figure of considerable stature, distinguishing himself for his fine writing, scholarship, and public speaking on Medieval and Renaissance literature and the Christian faith. A talented author, Lewis received much attention for his versatility in writing. Indeed, his friend Owen Barfield once noted that there existed, in fact, three “C.S. Lewises.” One

Lewis garnered praise as an academic; as an Oxbridge scholar and medievalist, he was widely considered one of the foremost authorities on Medieval and Renaissance

Literature. The second Lewis was known largely as a Christian apologist. The heralded

“defender of the faith,” this Lewis rose to prominence through his series of World War II radio broadcasts on the basics of Christianity, and wrote fifteen books for adult audiences on various theological topics ranging from miracles to devils to love.1 It is the third

Lewis, the children’s mythopoet, whom the public knows best today, owing largely to the popularity of his beloved children’s series, The Chronicles of Narnia, a seven-book cycle with some 85 million copies in print in 30 languages. This Lewis continues to captivate the minds of children all over the world and is currently enjoying resurgence as the

Narnia books find their way to the Hollywood big screen.

While this paper will deal most directly and specifically with Lewis the novelist, it will consider Lewis’ fiction in light of his other important work. One cannot fully understand Lewis’ motivation to write the Narnia books without considering his remarkable conversion to Christianity and his longtime devotion and commitment to the faith. At the same time, one also appreciates more deeply the world of Narnia through an  1 Lewis’ war broadcasts would later be compiled to form his bestseller, Mere Christianity. Haile 2 understanding of Lewis’ scholarly endeavors. This paper does not seek to separate these three Lewises, but rather, among other things, to understand more fully the whole Lewis and the ideas he illustrates through a critical study of his fiction.

Known primarily for his scholarly and theological work, Lewis’ decision to write children’s stories puzzled many of his readers. “There was some surprise,” writes Walter

Hooper, “when Lewis, very popular at the end of the 1940s for both his literary criticism and his theological writings, turned to writing fairy tales” (397). Such a reaction was perhaps due to the common notion that the “fairy tale” or “fantasy” genre had little to do with adults. Popular opinion dictated that while children could enjoy such a style of writing, once they came of age they would shed these fairy tales and embrace more

“sophisticated” literature. Lewis had little patience for this point of view and vigorously defended the “fairy tale” genre. “When I was ten,” he writes, “I read fairy tales in secret and would have been ashamed if I had been found doing so. Now that I am fifty I read them openly” (Of Other Worlds 22).

Lewis believed that the association of fairy tale and fantasy with childhood was local and accidental, and pointed many of its critics to his friend J.R.R. Tolkien’s essay,

On Fairy Stories, a thoughtful text arguing, among other things, that the fairy tale was one of the highest literary forms for adult enjoyment. Tolkien and Lewis both felt that

“the association of children and fairy stories [was] an accident of our domestic history” and that fairy stories could and should be enjoyed by all people ages “six to sixty”

(Hooper 398). More than that, each man felt that fairy stories spoke to the imagination in ways not afforded by other genres. Haile 3

Lewis believed that fairy tales communicated truth and meaning through the framework of story. He writes,

At all ages, if [fantasy and myth] is used well by the author and meets the right reader, it has the

same power: to generalize while remaining concrete, to present in palpable form not concepts or

even experiences but whole classes of experience, and to throw off irrelevancies. But at its best it

can do more; it can give us experiences we have never had and thus, instead of 'commenting on

life,' can add to it. (Of Other Worlds 48)

Lewis’ desire to “add to life” stands as one reason that after many years as a critic and controversialist he saw fit to begin writing fairy tales. Lewis agreed with Tolkien, who wrote, “Fairy stories offer also, in a peculiar degree or mode, these things: Fantasy,

Recovery, Escape, Consolation, all things of which children have, as a rule, less need than older people” (Tolkien 15). Certainly post-World War II British adults had much need of recovery, escape, and consolation, and Lewis had already been engaged in providing this sort of aid to people through his radio broadcasts. Yet greater than these motivations for writing, Lewis had “a Picture” in his head which begged to be crystallized on paper, and powerful beliefs to give that “Picture” life.

In his essay “It All Began with a Picture…,” Lewis credits his imagination more than his theological views or any allegorical formula as his inspiration for writing the

Narnia books:

Some people seem to think that I began [writing Narnia] by asking myself how I could say

something about Christianity to children; then fixed on the fairy tale as an instrument, then

collected information about child psychology and decided what age group I’d write for; then drew

up a list of basic Christian truths and hammered out “allegories” to embody them. This is all pure

moonshine. I couldn’t write that way. It all began with images; a faun carrying an umbrella, a Haile 4

queen on a sledge, a magnificent lion. At first there wasn’t even anything Christian about them;

that element pushed itself in of its own accord. It was part of the bubbling. (Ryken 30)

Lewis had apparently been toying with the idea of writing fairy tales for a while, and had even begun rough drafts of what would become The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe as early as 1939. These drafts and uncompleted sections of prose sat on Lewis’ desk through the war until 1949, when he began work to work on them in earnest, and in 1950

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe was published, and enjoyed immediate success.

The first book in what would become the seven-book saga immediately thrust

Lewis into fame even greater than that which he was already experiencing. Laudatory reviews were written, speaking engagements offered, and letters piled high on his desk.

One Narnia book soon led to two as Prince Caspian was published in 1951; two books led to three; and before long, The Chronicles of Narnia became a seven-book set. “The series was not planned beforehand as [your mother] thinks,” Lewis wrote in response to a letter from a fan. “When I wrote The Lion I did not know I was going to write any more.

Then I wrote P. Caspian as a sequel and still didn’t think there would be any more, and when I had done The Voyage I felt quite sure it would be the last. But I found I was wrong” (Letters Vol. 3, 848). Readers would be grateful for his willingness to keep writing.

The Narnia books grew in stature as they received glowing reviews like that of

Charles Brady, an America reviewer, who wrote, “[Narnia is] the greatest addition to the imperishable deposit of children’s literature since the Jungle Books. Narnia takes its place forever now beside the jasper-lucent landscapes of Carroll, Anderson, MacDonald and Kipling” (Hooper 451). Christian readers on several continents lauded Lewis for his brilliance in storytelling and theological clarity. Alan Jacobs remarks, “Since [Lewis’] Haile 5 death his fame as a writer of children’s books has probably put his other achievements in the shade—at least if one goes by sales figures—but he remains for many Christians a figure of unique authority” (Jacobs x). Lewis’ popularity amongst Christians has done nothing but grow, and today he enjoys unprecedented fame and status amongst the church-going crowd. The December 2005 cover of Christianity Today, a prominent evangelical magazine, reads, “C.S. Lewis: Superstar” (Smietana 1). The article later goes on to compare Lewis to Elvis Presley.2 Jacobs comments on Lewis’ current prestige amongst Christians: “The position held by Lewis is, I believe, that of Unofficial

Spokesman for Orthodox Christianity” (The Second Coming of C.S. Lewis 2). This popular Christian bestowal of authority on Lewis is largely credited to Lewis’ polished and well-defined articulation of his religious convictions—convictions that had manifested themselves creatively on the pages of captivating children’s literature. Narnia, it seemed, had imagination and beauty and adventure. But more than that, it had a

Christian moral perspective that inspired and challenged.

It is these characteristics of the Narnia books, particularly Lewis’ moral vision, that I wish to examine in further depth. In The Chronicles of Narnia, a diverse mix of characters lives out adventures in an imaginary world. Each story bears the stamp of

Lewis’ clearly defined Christian beliefs, beliefs that manifest themselves in motifs like

Aslan’s portrayal as a Christ-figure, a clear distinction and confrontation between good and evil, and an indisputable conviction that human souls are meant to live forever, to give a few examples. While Lewis insists that his stories are not “allegory,” he clearly infuses his fairy tales with a morality unique to his own Christian worldview.

 2 Seriously. The opening line reads, “At first glance, C. S. Lewis and Elvis Presley seem like polar opposites. But a closer look will show that these two cultural icons have a lot in common.” Haile 6

Lewis’ letter to a curious schoolgirl provides more insight into the idea of allegory and moral teaching:

When I started The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe I don’t think I foresaw what Aslan was

going to do and suffer. I think He just insisted on behaving in His own way. This of course I did

understand and the whole series became Christian.

But it is not, as some people think, an allegory. That is, I don’t say, ‘Let us represent Christ as

Aslan.’ I say, ‘Supposing there was a world like Narnia, and supposing, like ours, it needed

redemption, let us imagine what sort of Incarnation and Passion and Resurrection Christ would

have there. See? (Letters Vol. 3, 1113)

Lewis insists on not having written the books as mere vehicles for his theological ideas, claiming instead that the explicitly Christian nature of Narnia naturally wove itself into the story. This ought to give the reader pause in the hunt for symbolism and religious metaphors. Thomas Howard writes, “Thus we make a mistake if we try to chase symbols up and down the landscape of Narnia, or if we try to pin down allegories. It is much better to read these tales for what they are, namely fairy tales” (36-37). This rejection of a strictly allegorical reading lends important insight into the controversy surrounding the series, as many critics cite “allegory” as a sign of Lewis’ dangerously ulterior motives.

Upon the Chronicles’ release, many readers, offended with the prospect of Lewis

“smuggling” so-called religious allegories into children’s literature, took umbrage with him for what they considered his underhanded attempts to indoctrinate children with a narrow-minded view of the world. Some critics, in Lewis’ lifetime and after, considered

Lewis nothing greater than an arrogant moralizer who had stooped so low as to turn his religious agenda on kids. The recent release of the film version of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe has brought many of these objections back to public sphere, and today, the debate over the morality of Narnia rages harder than ever. English writer Philip Haile 7

Pullman, the author of the bestselling children’s series, His Dark Materials, speaks for the anti-Narnia party in his unflattering commentary on the books:

There is no doubt in my mind that [the Narnia cycle] is one of the most ugly and poisonous things

I’ve ever read…It's propaganda in the service of a life-hating ideology…Death is better than life;

boys are better than girls; light-coloured people are better than dark-coloured people; and so on.

There is no shortage of such nauseating drivel in Narnia, if you can face it. (Jacobs 307)

Pullman and others, among them writers Polly Toynbee, Philip Hensher, and Jim Morrow, consider Lewis’ work to be racist, sexist, and dangerous because of its tendency to influence kids towards a similar worldview. Consider Hensher’s polemic:

Let us drop C.S. Lewis and his ghastly, priggish, half-witted, money-making drivel about Narnia

down the nearest deep hole, as soon as is conveniently possible…They are revoltingly mean-

minded books, written to corrupt the minds of the young with allegory, smugly denouncing

anything that differs in the slightest respect from Lewis’ creed of clean-living, muscular

Christianity, pipe-smoking, misogyny, racism, and the most vulgar snobbery. (Jacobs 306)

While Hensher’s hyperbole reaches almost comical levels, comments like these bring us to the crux of the debate about Narnia. Do the Narnia books offer a positive, affirmative moral outlook? Or are they little more than odious attempts to convey bigoted religious dogma through the seemingly innocuous lens of a fairy tale?3

While Pullman’s and Hensher’s points on misogyny and racism certainly merit further discussion, I intend to take a different view of Lewis’ moral teaching in the

 3 Other writers have asked this question more verbosely. Chad Walsh wrote of Narnia, “Do Christian doctrines seem dragged in by their heels, converting the stories at their most theological moments into sugarcoated Sunday School instruction” (Walsh 131)? Howard addresses the issue, breaking with the vilifiers: “He wrote [fairy tales] because he happened to like that kind of story, not because he wanted to smuggle out a tract that would reintroduce the religious view into everyone’s imagination” (Howard 51). Perhaps most humorously, journalist William Booth wrote, “A timeless fantasy about talking beavers, friendly fauns and a mystical lion named Aslan? Or insidious militaristic propaganda cunningly used to inoculate innocents with rigid Christian dogma penned by a pervy pipe-puffing Oxford prig who actually didn't very much like little children and might have slept with a woman old enough to be his mother? When he wasn't drinking. In pubs. With J.R.R. Tolkien” (Booth 1). Haile 8

Narnia canon. Yes, Lewis’ treatment of women and his demonizing of Calormen (a land that looks and feels remarkably Muslim and Middle Eastern) are certainly troubling, and give one pause.4 However, Lewis’ world of Narnia conveys a set of positive beliefs about virtue and social justice that inspire and challenge the conscience, positive beliefs that go easily overlooked in the rush to pinpoint flaws with our sophisticated twenty-first century lenses. Every book involves the fight for freedom and justice against tyranny, oppression, and slavery. Undergirding each story is a profound belief in the value of life, the importance of community, the goodness of people and of the land, and the moral imperative of free will. These important themes lend credence to Walter Hooper’s sentiment: “The Narnian books are suffused with a moral teaching of a quality which I don’t believe anyone, whatever his beliefs, could fairly object to” (Pinsent 10).

It is this quality of moral teaching, particularly in areas of personal virtue and social justice, which this essay seeks to explore further. These fairy tales, intended to engage the imaginations of men, women and children, communicate a vision of the world that inspires the reader to be brave whether or not they feel brave, to love someone whether or not they like them, and above all, to do the right thing. Not only is this sort of message crucially relevant to the modern world, it may be this brand of moral living which ensures deep, real, powerful, and positive change both within people and within the society in which they live.

 4 These objections will be addressed in depth in Chapter 5: “A Peevish Blend of Misogynistic, Racist, and Reactionary Prejudice?”: Addressing the Accusations of Lewis’ Tales. Haile 9

Lewis Defines the Terms: Towards a More Nuanced Understanding of Morality

In order to most effectively engage the Narnia texts in light of the themes discussed above, it is important to first define the terms that will be employed. What is meant by the phrase “affirmative social vision?” The Oxford English Dictionary offers some help in concretizing the definition. When speaking of a “social vision,” I intend the word “social” to imply, as the OED states, something pertaining, relating, or connected with society as a natural or ordinary condition of human life. By “vision,” I mean something similar to an “ability to conceive what might be attempted or achieved, especially in the realm of politics; statesmanlike foresight” (OED). One might expand this definition to include “that which might be attempted or achieved in the realm of daily human interaction or in society.” Thus, a “social vision” entails that which might be attempted in society as a natural or ordinary condition of human life. One could also say a “social vision” is a visualization of that which could be achieved via social change. To say, then, that the Narnia books give us an “affirmative social vision” merely means that they offer a positive, constructive commentary on what could be achieved in society or in the realm of daily human interaction.

Before continuing, it is important to reaffirm that in writing Narnia, Lewis did not intend to write social or political commentary. As mentioned above, Lewis drew his inspiration from a series of pictures he had in his head and eventually sat down and wrote stories to bring these pictures to life. He intended to write imaginative children’s stories that would draw the reader into this magical world of Narnia, not propagate ideological views on society or politics. This, of course, prompts the question: if Lewis did not intend to write social commentary, why look at his books as a “social vision?” The Haile 10 answer lies both in Lewis’ unique skill as a writer and in a recognition that the influence of great art often extends beyond the limits of the artist’s intentions.

Despite Lewis’ insistence on the Narnia stories not being either “allegory” or dogmatic attempts to send implicit messages to his readers, Lewis’ writing nonetheless carries with it an air of teaching or moralizing. Lewis, himself a university professor and respected expositor of religious beliefs, could not simply divorce that aspect of him when he took up the task of writing children’s books—nor does he mean to. Barfield speaks to this aspect of Lewis’ work. “There was something,” he writes, “in the whole quality and structure of his thinking, something for which the best label I can find is “presence of mind. If I were asked to expand on that, I could say only that somehow what he thought about everything was secretly present in what he said about anything” (Jacobs xxi). This may be a roundabout way of saying that Lewis, regardless of his intentions in writing, just by the nature of being Lewis stamped his worldview on his work in an instructive manner that only a teacher and philosopher of considerable repute could manage.

Perhaps what Lewis “thought about everything” is “secretly present” in the Narnia books.

Thus, the argument for the Narnia books as a “social vision” stems not from

Lewis’ own desire to write social commentary but rather my own assertion that Lewis’ writing, in all its moral clarity, indeed offers us a creative and dynamic perspective on our society and how we ought to live within it. I contend that Lewis’ worldview—lauded by some, despised by others, undoubtedly controversial—proffers a deep and nuanced morality that addresses relevant contemporary issues. The diffusion of this worldview in

Narnia has produced a set of innovative fairy tales whose events and characters inspire and challenge its readers to engage their world and make it better. Haile 11

A more in-depth look at Lewis’ thoughts on morality will give context to the rest of the essay. I may speak frequently of Lewis’ books as “moral,” or as commenting directly on the subject of “morality.” While these are loaded terms, Lewis’ theological writings aid us in understanding his definition of morality, and I will quote freely from them because they are well articulated.

In Mere Christianity, Lewis analogizes humans to machines and claims that

“moral rules are directions for running the human machine” (55). Thus, following moral rules would lead to a smooth operation of the human machine, minimizing “breakdowns” or “friction” in the form of strife, war, extortion, greed, murder, and so on. Lewis talks more on this idea of the “human machine”:

There are two ways in which the human machine goes wrong. One is when human individuals

drift apart from one another, or else collide with one another and do one another damage, by

cheating or bullying. The other is when things go wrong inside the individual—when the different

parts of him (his different faculties and desires and so on) either drift apart or interfere with one

another. You can get the idea plain if you think of us as a fleet of ships sailing in formation. The

voyage will be a success only, in the first place, if the ships do not collide and get in one another’s

way; and secondly, if each ship is seaworthy and has her engines in good order. As a matter of

fact, you cannot have either of these two things without the other. If the ships keep on having

collisions they will not remain seaworthy very long. On the other hand, if their steering gears are

out of order they will not be able to avoid collisions. (56-57)

Thus, Lewis points out that in order for society to run smoothly and amicably, humans need to be concerned not only with harmony between individuals but also harmony within the individual. The Chronicles clearly speak to these two facets of morality, teaching societal morality in their examples of just and orderly kingdoms, and demonstrating individual morality in their scrutinizing portrayals of characters like Lucy, Haile 12

Edmund, or Eustace. Lewis’ picture of morality does not stop with merely individual and societal spheres, however. He writes of the “ships” again,

But there is one thing we have not yet taken into account. We have not asked where the fleet is

trying to get to…However well the fleet sailed, its voyage would be a failure if it were meant to

reach New York and actually arrived at Calcutta…Morality, then, seems to be concerned with

three things. Firstly, with fair play and harmony between individuals. Secondly, with what might

be called tidying up or harmonizing the things inside each individual. Thirdly, with the general

purpose of human life as a whole: what man was made for: what course the whole fleet ought to

be on. (57)

This three-dimensioned view of morality takes center stage in Lewis’ work. For the sake of this analysis, we will focus on two of these three moral dimensions.

As Lewis points out, there is little disagreement today about the first level of morality—social relations. “Almost all people at all times have agreed (in theory) that human beings ought to be honest and kind and helpful to one another,” he writes (57-58).

And this is true. We all recognize the sense in this sort of behavior, and we applaud it when we see it lived out—the young man helping the old woman across the street, the volunteers showing up to rebuild the neighbors’ house after a natural disaster, the child who owns up to having done wrong instead of lying. The controversy comes in the exploration of the second and third levels—“tidying up” oneself and the broader issue of the purpose of human life.

Most people would probably associate Lewis’ writing with the response to the third level of morality—the one concerning “what course the fleet ought to be on”—and certainly, the Narnia books speak to this moral sphere. Outside of the realm of the fairy tale, Lewis makes it clear what he believes. In Mere Christianity and in many other works, he affirms the basic Christian tenet that asserts that God created people to serve Haile 13

Him and follow Christ’s teachings. Thus, “the fleet” ought to be following the course

God has set out for them, a course bound for heaven. It follows naturally that if a one’s destination is heaven, then that will undoubtedly guide and shape the way one lives.

Lewis’ belief in heaven and the eternality of every person makes its way into

Narnia, most explicitly at the end of The Last Battle, when the children find their way to

Aslan’s Country (Lewis’ representation of heaven) and are told that they have died in a railway accident and are there to stay. Lewis writes,

“But for [the children] it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and

all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were

beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has ever read: which goes on for

ever: in which every chapter is better than the one before. (767)

The belief in eternal life is abundantly clear. Of course, this sort of manifestation of

Christian beliefs continues to incense Lewis’ detractors. In response to this passage,

Pullman writes,

One of the most vile moments in the whole of children's literature, to my mind, occurs at the end

of The Last Battle, when Aslan reveals to the children that [they have died and are in heaven]. To

solve a narrative problem by killing one of your characters is something many authors have done

at one time or another. To slaughter the lot of them, and then claim they're better off, is not honest

storytelling: it's propaganda in the service of a life-hating ideology. (Pullman 1)

To Pullman and others of similar ideologies, Lewis’ sentiments regarding the third level of morality, his claim of eternal life, and his corresponding views on heaven and hell were simply unacceptable.

Yet we are on the verge of entering a debate that has a tendency to entangle and polarize, a debate that other writers far more articulate than I have lost themselves in.5 I

 5 See Jacobs’ Afterword in The Narnian for his interesting commentary. Haile 14 do not intend to mire us in ideological controversy, but rather to draw out Narnian themes regarding the first and second “levels of morality,” moral spheres which Lewis had just as much to say about as the one concerning human purpose. The world of Narnia touches frequently on individual and societal morality. And this moral outlook goes beyond shallow universal principles—being kind, helpful, and so on. In Narnia we have a discourse on morality and society that offers guidelines for social behavior and also addresses the deeper issue of “harmonizing the things inside the individual”—a vitally important element. In returning to the people-as-ships analogy, Lewis writes,

What is the good of telling the ships how to steer so as to avoid collisions if, in fact, they are such

crazy old tubs that they cannot be steered at all? What is the good of drawing up, on paper, rules

for social behaviour, if we know that, in fact, our greed, cowardice, ill temper, and self-conceit are

going to prevent us from keeping them? (58)

Lewis addresses these very questions in Narnia, and, in applying himself to the problems of “greed, cowardice, ill temper, and self-conceit,” disseminates an affirmative social vision, rooted and shaped by individual moral choices, that inspires readers to positively engage the world around them.

Haile 15

“To Crush This Vile Traffic in Man’s Flesh”: Of Men, Marsh-wiggles, and the Triumph

of Freedom over Slavery in Narnia

Perhaps the most striking visualization of positive morality in Narnia comes in the

Narnian fight for freedom against slavery. In six of the seven books, much of the action centers on the struggle for freedom against forces of oppression that enslave innocent beings. These forces of oppression and tyranny always threaten the “true” Narnia, a

Narnia like that of the Pevensie children’s reign during the “Golden Age.” Following their bitter struggle to free Narnia from the grips of the evil White Witch and her perpetual winter (but no Christmas!), the Pevensies are crowned Kings and Queens, and their rule ushers in the “Golden Age.” During their reign,

These two Kings and Queens governed Narnia well, and long and happy was their reign…And

they made good laws and kept the peace and saved good trees from being unnecessarily cut down,

and liberated young dwarfs and satyrs from being sent to school, and generally stopped

busybodies and interferers and encouraged ordinary people who wanted to live and let live…And

they entered into friendship and alliance with countries beyond the sea and paid them visits of

state and received visits of state from them. (The Lion, 194)

This is Lewis’ affirmative social vision in a nutshell—a society with just and fair rulers, where there is peace, order, friendship, happiness, and environmental stewardship. This is Narnia as it should be—a Narnia where “ordinary people” can “live and let live.” Note, however, that this Narnia—the true Narnia—can only be realized once the Witch’s oppression has been confronted and conquered.

And this brings us to the heart of Lewis’ stories: the epic battle of good vs. evil.

Like any good fairy tale, Narnian depictions of good and evil are fairly straightforward.

There are good forces and bad forces, and the important characters array themselves on Haile 16 one side or the other. They themselves are often not wholly good or wholly evil; many of the forces of good must wrestle their own temptations towards evil—a common motif in fairy tales. The forces of good in Narnia come marked by courage, justice, compassion, hope, freedom, hospitality, joy, and celebration. Set against these forces are those of evil, marked by oppression, injustice, misery, despair, hate, selfishness, slavery, and exploitation. As we read of the High King Peter’s duel with the usurper Miraz, or of

King Lune’s battle against Rabadash and his marauding Calormenes, or of Tirian and

Eustace’s confrontation with the Ape and his followers, we naturally feel ourselves siding with the good guys, drawn into this epic clash. Lewis makes moral virtues heroic and attractive in his tales, nudging us to side with those fighting against oppression rather than the oppressors. This is the power and appeal of fairy tales. Lewis draws on this classic modus operandi to create his imaginary world.

Within this realm of good and evil, Lewis seems particularly concerned with the idea of freedom and its natural opposite, slavery. Throughout the Narnia books, the grim prospect of slavery threatens the freedom of innocent beings—people and beasts and

Earthmen who simply “wanted to live and let live.” The Voyage of the Dawn Treader offers a fascinating look at this subject, as we are shown, in a microcosmic experience, the nature of the true Narnia and the social vision that accompanies it. King Caspian’s restoration of the Lone Islands depicts the Narnian confrontation of evil through a scrubbing out of depravity and corruption. Here Lewis displays the power of freedom, the evil of slavery, and the spirit of the true Narnia.

Three chapters into The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, the ship and its crew arrive at the Lone Islands, a seedy, degenerate principality that theoretically remains a part of Haile 17 the Narnian kingdom, yet in reality maintains few of the just principles associated with the Narnian throne. Initially Caspian and his friends know nothing about the Lone

Islands—whether or not they remain loyal to the crown, whether or not they are safe, or whether or not they will be greeted favorably. The latter question is answered soon enough as Caspian, Reepicheep, Edmund, Lucy, and Eustace decide to take a stroll across the island of Felimath, where they are greeted by some men who ask them to stay and take a drink:

Caspian thanked him, though neither he nor the others much liked the look of their new

acquaintance, and all of them sat down. But hardly had they raised their cups to their lips when

the black-haired man nodded to his companions and, as quick as lightning, all the five visitors

found themselves wrapped in strong arms. There was a moment’s struggle but all the advantages

were on one side, and soon everyone was disarmed and had their hands tied behind their backs.

(The Voyage of the Dawn Treader 442)

The five Narnians are then taken and sold as slaves. In this treacherous act we are instantly aware of several wrongs committed by the Lone Islanders. Their actions are a major breach in hospitality, an important component of the Narnian moral code. Instead of showing kindness and generosity, the men trick the Narnians and exploit them for their own personal gain through enslavement. In the process they treat them roughly and unjustly, behavior made even worse by their forcible handling of Lucy, a Queen and a woman who would deserve the utmost respect and courtesy by Narnian moral standards.

What is more, it is certainly not a fair fight; if it were, it might be tolerated for the sake of honor. No, “all the advantages were on one side,” and thus the reader sympathizes with

Reepicheep in his indignant protest. In this encounter we understand immediately that there is something dangerously wrong with the state of the Lone Islands. Haile 18

By some measure of good fortune, Caspian soon gets the opportunity to set these wrongs right. Shortly after being tied up, Caspian is spotted and bought by a “fine- looking bearded man,” who we quickly understand is a lord of some sort. Lewis lets the reader know that this lord is not like the other men, as he is treated with respect and as he seems to have nothing but disgust for the slave trade. “Tell me your price, carrion,” responds the man sternly to the slave trader’s sycophancy. “Do you think I want to listen to the rigmarole of your filthy trade?” (443) Caspian soon learns that this man is really the Lord Bern, one of the seven Narnian lords (true Narnians) banished by his wicked uncle (an evil usurper—not a true Narnian). This discovery is crucial, as we soon understand that Bern—a noble man whose “people were all freemen”—is a true Narnian, not a degenerate like most others in the Lone Islands.

Caspian and Bern then mobilize to take back the Islands, abolish slavery, and set freedom and justice in place. “I have moved his Sufficiency the Governor a hundred times to crush this vile traffic in man’s flesh,” says Bern (445). This line shows his abhorrence of slavery—“this vile traffic in man’s flesh”—once more, and also makes the reader cognizant of the Governor’s endorsement of the human trafficking, an institution that Lewis implies is not only inconvenient or ugly, but “vile,” and morally wrong.

Slavery, Bern confirms here, is entrenched in the economy of the Islands—a sure sign of their moray decay. After a stay at Bern’s “happy and prosperous fief,” Caspian, Bern, and the crew of the Dawn Treader march on the Governor’s palace in Narrowhaven to take back what is rightfully theirs:

Then Caspian caused his banner to be advanced and his trumpet to be blown, and every man drew

his sword and set his face in joyful sternness, and they marched up the street so that the street Haile 19

shook, and their armour shone (for it was a sunny morning) so that one could hardly look at it

steadily. (447)

Here we see the glorious forces of Narnia in their full regalia, made more magnificent by their juxtaposition with the scruffy beatniks populating Narrowhaven. “In those days,”

Lewis tells us, “everything in the islands was done in a slovenly, slouching manner”

(448). Caspian and his men soon come face to face with the Governor’s soldiers, who we find “lounging about” and “tumbling out of various doorways.” This messiness and disorderly conduct betrays the deeper sins of corruption and moral deterioration in the

Islands, just as the tidiness of the Narnian forces reflects a moral uprightness.

Caspian and Bern are admitted to see Governor Gumpas, who “sat in the castle, muddling and messing about with accounts and forms and rules and regulations” (448).

Here Lewis comments on the deadening, lifeless quality of bureaucracy, which he detested. When asked why he has not welcomed the King properly, Gumpas responds,

“Nothing about it in the correspondence. Nothing in the minutes. We have not been notified of any such thing. All irregular. Happy to consider applications” (449). A few lines down, in response to Caspian’s accusation of tribute neglect, he replies, “That would be a question to raise at the Council next month. If anyone moves that a commission of enquiry be set up to report on the financial history of the islands at the first meeting next year, why then…” Behind this strongly bureaucratic language—

“correspondence,” “minutes,” “commission of enquiry”—hides a neglectful and selfish ruler, a man who cares only for forms and appointments and committees while his Islands suffer from severe moral decay. Lewis’ scorn for bureaucracy and its potentially decadent nature could, perhaps, be taken as a harmless aside. Yet his other writings Haile 20 reveal a deeper sentiment that bureaucracy, completely absent in his depiction of the true

Narnia, can often be a breeding ground for real evil.

In The Screwtape Letters, Lewis’ novel about the correspondence between two devils, he depicts Hell as almost office-like, a bustling den of noise, papers, and filing cabinets. In his preface, Lewis explains his reasons for portraying Hell in this bureaucratic manner:

The greatest evil is not now done in those sordid “dens of crime” that Dickens loved to paint. It is

not done even in concentration camps and labour camps. In those we see its final result. But it is

conceived and ordered (moved, seconded, carried, and minuted) in clean, carpeted, warmed, and

well-lighted offices, by quiet men with white collars and cut fingernails and smooth-shaven

cheeks who do not need to raise their voice. Hence, naturally enough, my symbol for Hell is

something like the bureaucracy of a police state or the offices of a thoroughly nasty business

concern. (The Screwtape Letters, Preface)

Of course, this sort of statement necessitates placement in its historical context. Lewis wrote The Screwtape Letters and The Chronicles of Narnia during the aftermath of World

War II, perhaps the most haunting, devastating reminder of the reality of evil to mid- century Great Britain. With horrific images fresh from Auschwitz and Buchenwald circulating in the daily paper, the average Englishman had to come to grips with a cold, calculated, and disturbingly premeditated evil—one that Lewis rightly depicts as

“conceived and ordered in clean, carpeted, warmed, and well-lighted offices by quiet men with white collars.” Lewis lays part of the blame for this evil on bureaucracy and its tendency to breed corruption. Bureaucracy, by its very nature, stands at odds with Lewis’ affirmative social vision—it keeps people isolated inside cubicles and behind desks instead of living freely in the beauty of the natural world. The monarchy of Narnia never seems to deal with bureaucracy of any kind—we only see these Kings and Queens riding Haile 21 horses, hunting, hosting balls, voyaging, and making important visits of state. Thus,

Caspian, the ambassador of true Narnia and enjoyer of a government sans bureaucracy, shows little patience for the entrenched officialism of the Lone Islands.

Reminiscent of the gospel story where Christ clears the temple of the money- changers, Drinian and Bern overturn Gumpas’ table and throw the Governor out of his chair. Caspian then confronts Gumpas on the subject of the pernicious slave trade: “I want to know why you have permitted this abominable and unnatural traffic in slaves to grow up here, contrary to the ancient custom and usage of our dominions” (450). The words “abominable” and “unnatural” disclose that slavery, in Narnian estimation, is wrong, intolerable, and contrary to the natural state of man or beast—that is, a state of freedom and self-determination. We also know that slavery is “contrary to the ancient custom and usage of [Narnian] dominions.” In a word, slavery is not Narnian. Caspian stuns Gumpas with his announcement that the slave trade must be stopped. “‘But that would be putting the clock back,’ gasped the governor. ‘Have you no idea of progress, of development?’ ‘I have seen them both in an egg,’ said Caspian. ‘We call it ‘Going Bad’ in Narnia. This trade must stop.’” (450) The moral judgment is clear—slavery, according to Caspian, is objectively wrong. Lewis also points out the importance of not compromising moral standards for the sake of economic or political progress. These matters settled, Caspian then relieves Gumpas of his governorship and makes Bern the

Duke of the Lone Islands—a more kingly and noble-sounding position reflecting true

Narnian heritage.

The last order of business in the restoration of the Lone Islands is a visit to the slave market to free the slaves. Here we see the ultimate mark of corruption and evil— Haile 22 the filthy auction of human flesh. “It was a long low building near the harbour and the scene which they found going on inside was very much like any other auction,” Lewis writes (451). With people bought and sold like objects, this auction embodies the evil of slavery in all its tragic dehumanization. Caspian immediately steps on stage, frees the slaves, and sees that people who have bought slaves are repaid, in an important and fair gesture—slavery must be abolished, but justice must be maintained in the process. Soon thereafter arrangements are made, Bern is safely installed as Duke, and the adventure of the Lone Islands is brought to a close.

This episode provides crucial insight into Lewis’ moral vision for a number of reasons. Here, we see the value of freedom in Lewis’ estimation, and the tragic results of a land that strays from its Narnian roots. The fact that the slave trade has become such an entrenched institution in the Lone Islands stands as a barometer of its significant moral decay. Yet the true Narnia, represented by King Caspian and his comrades, sweeps like a wave over the Islands, washing away its dirtiness and corruption. This Narnia is marked by an emphasis on freedom, order (“At noon tomorrow I wish to see [your men] here in this courtyard looking like men-at-arms and not vagabonds,” says Caspian to the

Gumpas’ guards), justice (the slaves are freed, men are repaid), mercy (no one is killed in the peaceful takeover), and a rejection of bureaucracy. Caspian, in a sense, brings true

Narnia to the Lone Islands. This is Lewis’ affirmative social vision, realized here in the

Lone Islands in two short chapters.

Undergirding these types of Narnian ideals is Lewis’ strong belief in the value of human life. Perhaps the greatest injustice of the slave trade here is the dehumanization of people. Referred to as “wares” and “stock,” the captive children are treated like property, Haile 23 not people—a despicable procedure rightly called “vile” and “abominable.” Lewis points out that the slave auction, where humans are sold to the highest bidder, was “very much like any other auction”—thus equating human value to that of mere goods. To Lewis, humans were precious and unique, made in the “image of God” and meant to live eternally. In his most famous sermon, The Weight of Glory, Lewis preached, “There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations—these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals who we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit” (Screwtape Proposes a Toast 109). Agree or disagree with his theology, Lewis’ convictions clearly place a profound emphasis on the value of human life—a belief that logically leads to an abhorrence of slavery, injustice, or even bureaucracy, which traps “immortals” in a world of files, meetings, and official procedures. This belief seeps into the Narnia books, clearly championed by the ambassadors of true Narnia and all it stands for. The value

Lewis places on freedom and his consistent ethic of human life combine to offer us an undoubtedly positive moral outlook in The Voyage.

We find similar themes in Lewis’ next novel, The Silver Chair. In this book, his fourth Narnia tale, we learn that the evil Green Witch has murdered the good queen of

Narnia and captured the queen’s son Rilian, taking him to her underground kingdom, where he is held captive every day by her evil enchantments which cause him to lose all sense of identity or reality. The children, Eustace Scrubb and Jill Pole, are called into

Narnia by Aslan to help free the Prince and vanquish the evil witch. Jill, before she is sent to Narnia, is given four “signs” from Aslan—directions which will guide them in their quest. Aslan tells her to “know [the signs] by heart and pay no attention to Haile 24 appearances. Remember the signs and believe the signs. Nothing else matters” (560).

Aslan then sends her to Narnia to join Eustace to begin their journey. On their adventure, they are accompanied by a Marsh-wiggle named Puddleglum, a tall, somber creature whose “expression was solemn, his complexion muddy,” and who “you could see at once took a serious view of life” (580). Together, the three adventurers journey north of

Narnia through Giant Country and the ruins of an abandoned city until they are eventually chased down a dark hole, where they at last discover themselves in the Deep

Realm—a gloomy, despondent domain a mile below the earth’s surface.

In the Deep Realm Lewis renders the most depressing, loathsome picture of oppression and slavery in all the Narnia books. The Deep Realm, we learn, is home to the wicked Green Witch, who rules over her underground city by sorcery and enchantment, enslaving thousands of Earthmen—“dreadfully pale little gnomes of all sizes”—to toil endlessly in maintaining and expanding her miserable empire. In the

Earthmen Lewis portrays the tragic hopelessness of slavery: “But in one respect,” he writes, “[the Earthmen] were all alike: every face in the whole hundred was as sad as a face could be. They were so sad that, after the first glance, Jill almost forgot to be afraid of them. She felt she would like to cheer them up” (614). Forced to do hard labor day after day, these Earthmen are robbed of their uniqueness, a distinguishing quality critical to Lewis’ beliefs on the value of human life. The depiction of these deadened souls is haunting:

Crowds of Earthmen, no two alike, rubbed shoulders with them in the crowded streets, and the sad

light fell on many sad and grotesque faces. But no one showed any interest in the strangers.

Every gnome seemed to be as busy as it was sad, though Jill never found what they were so busy

about. But the endless moving, shoving, hurrying, and soft pad-pad-pad went on. (618) Haile 25

Lewis’ repetition of “sad” and “busy” rams home what the reader already knows—this is a realm devoid of joy, life, or hope. This is slavery, not only of the body, but also of the mind and spirit.

Yet we soon discover that the Earthmen are not the only ones enslaved by the

Witch. The travelers, by an amazing twist of fate, arrive on a day when the Green Witch is gone, and are delivered into the charge of a princely young man who “was handsome and looked both bold and kind, though there was something about his face that didn’t seem quite right” (619). We learn what it is that “didn’t seem quite right” soon enough— this man suffers from a strange madness that causes him, for one hour every night, to

“become furious and wild” and allegedly homicidal. In one of the most captivating, powerful scenes in the Narnia books, Puddleglum and the children stay and watch the man—tied up—writhe in his chair and finally command them in Aslan’s name to set them free. The tension palpable, Puddleglum, Eustace, and Jill are faced with a heart- wrenching decision: Obey the sign Aslan gave to Jill—“You will know the lost prince by this, that he will be the first person you have met in your travels who will ask you to do something in my name”—and free what appears to by a homicidal lunatic, or disobey.

Tellingly, they free the man, who then destroys the magic chair and reveals that he is, in fact, the lost Prince Rilian.

Rilian, we learn, has suffered under the brutal enslavement of the Witch’s enchantments. A thrall for ten years, he has lived daily under the sorcery of the Witch, staying in her underground castle and eating her food, all the while oblivious to his true identity or the truth of the dire situation he is in. The only time he has command of his own mind is one hour each day—the same hour when Puddleglum, Eustace, and Jill set Haile 26 him free. In his sane pleas we are given a tragic picture of slavery’s wickedness, as

Rilian, groaning in despair, describes the state of his own suffering:

“Ah, enchantments, enchant-ments…the heavy, tangled, cold, clammy web of evil magic. Buried

alive. Dragged down under the earth, down into the sooty blackness…how many years is it? …

Have I lived ten years, or a thousand years, in the pit? Maggotmen all around me. Oh, have

mercy. Let me out, let me go back. Let me feel the wind and see the sky… (624)

Here Lewis shows us the painful effects of the witch’s evil. Rilian is utterly despondent, his senses tangled in a “clammy web of evil magic.” He clearly has lost proper sense of time—“have I lived ten years, or a thousand years, in the pit?”—as he begs to be set free from his thralldom.

Lewis’ picture of slavery, despair, and abject misery breaks one’s heart. The enchanting slavery of the witch has robbed innocent beings of freedom, discernment, and their true identities—all things that Lewis considered crucially important. Not only are

Rilian and the Earthmen forced to work every day accomplishing the witch’s twisted goals, they lose all sense of self in the process. When Jill blurts to the enchanted Rilian that they are looking for him, he replies flippantly,

“Rilian? Narnia? What land is that? I have never heard the name. It must be a thousand leagues

from those parts of the Overworld that I know. But it was a strange fantasy that brought you

seeking this—how do you call him?—Brillian? Trillian? in my Lady’s realm. Indeed, to my

certain knowledge, there is no such man here.” (619)

The prince has no grip on reality, and even at the moment when his own rescuers stand in front of him, he has lost his own identity, forgetting his own country and name. This demonstrates the crippling, haunting power of evil. In both mind and body, Rilian is enslaved. Haile 27

The beauty and power of freedom shine through in the prince’s liberation. His bonds loosed, Rilian destroys one source of his enslavement (the silver chair) and immediately recalls his true name: “You may well believe that I know Narnia,” he boldly proclaims, “for I am Rilian, Prince of Narnia, and Caspian the great King is my father”

(627). This recovery of identity empowers the prince to take action against his captor, the witch, confronting her and eventually slaying her in her serpentine state. While in bondage, this firm knowledge of the truth was impossible. With freedom, then, comes truth—truth about oneself and truth about the rest of the world. Without freedom, truth is suppressed. For Lewis, freedom and truth seem linked, perhaps in a nod to Christ’s famous teaching: “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8.32).

In the Deep Realm it seems the order is reversed—freedom leads to the discovery of the truth. In addition to freeing Rilian, the killing of the witch emancipates the

Earthmen, who immediately remember their true identities. Rilian, confused by the

Earthmen’s strange behavior after the witch’s death, interrogates one who explains who explains the situation:

You see, we’re all poor gnomes from Bism whom the Witch has called up here by magic to work

for her. But we’d forgotten all about it till that crash came and the spell broke. We didn’t know

who we were or where we belonged. We couldn’t do anything, or think anything, except what she

put into our heads. And it was glum and gloomy things she put there all those years. I’ve nearly

forgotten how to make a joke or dance a jig. (Silver Chair, 643)

Like Rilian, the gnomes suffered a complete loss of free will under the Witch’s enchantments, a tragedy that Lewis considered one of the greatest evils of slavery. Given their free will, the Earthmen all drop their tools and begin celebrating wildly, shouting and cheering and setting off fireworks. “You can see them over there,” says the Haile 28

Earthman, “all letting off rockets and standing on their heads for joy. And I’d be very obliged to your Honours if you’ll soon let me go and join in” (634). What a contrast from the lifeless despondency of the gnomes under enchantment! The discovery of their identity and freedom leads them to celebrate, a natural response to the joy of the moment.

The ecstasy of freedom infects everyone in the once-oppressive Deep Realm. “I think this is simply splendid,” says Jill. “I’m so glad we freed the gnomes as well as ourselves when we cut off the Witch’s head! And I’m so glad they aren’t really horrid and gloomy and more than the Prince really was—well, what he seemed like” (643).

Jill’s discovery of goodness and happiness in the Earthmen reflects the beauty of Lewis’ affirmative social vision in power and clarity. The Earthmen were not evil—they were oppressed by evil, and now, once freed, they embrace gladness and goodwill. Once again, we see a sort of “true Narnia” established in a place where evil reigns. Where there is fear, the Narnians bring hope. Where there is oppression, the Narnians bring liberation.

Where there is slavery, the Narnians bring freedom. The Earthmen, once crushed and lifeless under the witch’s enchantments, now rejoice at the prospect of returning to their home, Bism, and living freely once again. Rilian, bound by evil spells for ten years, now takes on the mantle of Princehood for the first time in the name of Aslan and his father, the King of Narnia. Surely this is an affirmative moral message—Lewis champions freedom, truth, and abolition in this victory of good over evil. In a dialogue on morality, the episode of the Deep Realm clearly voices a powerful story of hope and courage in the face of oppression.

Central to this dialogue is Puddleglum—considered by many to be Lewis’ greatest hero, apart from Aslan. In Puddleglum, Lewis embeds a discourse on the Haile 29 personal moral sphere, the one regarding the “tidying up or harmonizing of things inside the individual.” In spite of his proclivity for pessimism and depressing talk (a mere consequence of his being a gloomy Marsh-wiggle), his courage is unrivaled. And this brand of courage transcends the flat bravado of many fairy tale heroes. Thomas Howard writes,

There seems an implacable requirement laid upon everyone to do the right thing, however small or

big, at the moment when it presents itself…No other principle will prove of much assistance when

the crunch comes. No uncertain emotions will come to your aid then. No visions of glory which

you once saw will unfurl themselves and brace you. You’ve simply got to grit your teeth and do

the impossible for no other reason than that it is clearly the right thing to do. Puddleglum is the

great exemplar of this. It is not for nothing that Lewis has chosen this damp, gangly, gloomy,

unlikely, and ungainly marsh-dweller for his brightest hero (even including Reepicheep): heroism

does not mean feeling brave. (Howard 63)

Puddleglum’s courage is not dictated by emotion—he has the most depressing personality in the world, yet “when the crunch comes,” he takes action where others are impotent.

To illustrate, let us return to the slaying of the witch for a moment. Moments after Rilian destroys the silver chair, the Green Witch returns to the castle and storms into the room, assessing immediately what has happened. Instead of openly fighting with the four Narnians, she opts to try enchantment, and, throwing magic powder in the fire, begins to play her mandolin. The smell from the fire, combined with the witch’s “steady, monotonous thrumming,” soon creates a drowsy, enchanting atmosphere that coaxes the travelers into believing the lies the witch tells them: there is no sun, there is no overworld, there is no Narnia, there is no Aslan; the lamp is the real sun, the Underworld is the only Haile 30 real world, all the things of the overworld are make-believe. The four of them are nearly lulled asleep when Puddleglum musters his strength and takes a stand. Lewis writes:

The Prince and the two children were standing with their heads hung down, their cheeks flushed,

their eyes half closed; the strength was all gone from them; the enchantment almost complete. But

Puddleglum, desperately gathering all his strength, walked over to the fire. Then he did a very

brave thing. He knew it wouldn’t hurt him quite as much as it would hurt a human; for his feet

(which were bare) were webbed and hard and cold-blooded like a duck’s. But he knew it would

hurt him badly enough; and so it did. With his bare foot he stamped on the fire, grinding a large

part of it into ashes on the flat hearth. (632)

Puddleglum’s courage manifests itself in self-sacrificial action on behalf of others, a type of courage that Lewis noticeably exalts. Later in the tale, Jill says to Puddleglum, “You talk as if you were afraid of everything, when you’re really as brave as—as a lion” (658).

The comparison to a lion is clearly significant. Aslan is a lion, and Aslan stands as the epicenter of morality in Lewis’ world. Puddleglum’s brand of courage dictates that regardless of one’s own personal suffering, one chooses to be brave and chooses to do what is right. The Marsh-wiggle’s courage is not blind gallantry—he calculates the risks, acknowledges the potential pain he will suffer, and acts despite the consequences. This is a thoughtful, real, down-to-earth sort of bravery—bravery normal men and women can relate to.

Puddleglum’s words give us more insight into his courageous character. After stomping on the fire, he offers a fearless and moving speech:

One word, Ma’am…All you’ve been saying is quite right, I shouldn’t wonder…Suppose

we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things—trees and grass and sun and moon and stars

and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things

seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours Haile 31

is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that’s a funny thing, when you

come to think of it. We’re just babies making up a game, if you’re right. But four babies playing

a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow. That’s why I’m going to stand

by the play-world. I’m on Aslan’s side even if there isn’t any Aslan to lead it. I’m going to live

as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn’t any Narnia. (633)

This powerful statement catalyzes the climax of the scene. The Witch, enraged, morphs into a snake and attempts to kill Rilian, but the travelers fight back and cut off her head.

Puddleglum’s speech attests to a level of belief that is truly astounding. His insistence on following Aslan “even if there isn’t any Aslan to lead” reflects a faith in an ideal and a way of life that manifests itself in action despite a nearly overwhelming sense of despair. Puddleglum’s speech is a testimony to pessimists and cynics worldwide. It is a tract for idealism. The Marsh-wiggle’s stubborn faith in a better world inspires his friends and strikes a deep blow to his enemy, turning the balance in favor of justice and truth. His courage and idealism bring to mind the life of Martin Luther King, Jr., who stubbornly believed that a racially equitable world was possible, or Mahatma Gandhi, who doggedly preached that Indian independence could be won peacefully.

Puddleglum’s speech lends hope to any activist in the world today, any leader who, like

Puddleglum, feels oppression sinking in and dares to hope for something better. It silences the pessimists who say, “you can’t eliminate poverty,” or “you can’t make peace in Darfur,” or “you can’t solve climate change.” It speaks hope and truth and faith into wilting souls, restoring in them life and vision and joy. Puddleglum sees the world around him, a world dark with slavery, despair, and hopelessness, and clings to the truth that a better world is possible—indeed, a better world already exists. It just needs to be Haile 32 fought for. This profile of faith and courage lifts Puddleglum into the realm of children’s literature’s greatest heroes and sends a powerful moral message to readers of all beliefs.

In writing the character of Puddleglum, Lewis reminds the reader that temperament does not always reflect character. Puddleglum, we must remember, is a

“wet blanket,” always assuming the worst at the most inopportune times. He is hardly your typical hero. Yet in his typically moralizing fashion, Lewis chooses Puddleglum to embody all the qualities of a grand champion, sending several moral messages through his hero. One, temperament and character are entirely different, and often one does not reflect the other. Two, bravery does not necessarily entail feeling brave or confident.

Regardless of how one feels, choosing to do the right thing when the situation calls for it is what is important—and this decision will almost certainly require courage. This sort of courage can manifest itself not just in a Beowulf or a St. George, but in the schoolboy who must stick up for his socially downtrodden companion or the executive who must reject the temptation of a shady but lucrative business transaction. This is a courage meant for the layman.

Lewis portrays this sentiment most explicitly in Peter’s battle with Maugrim the wolf in The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. With his sister in mortal danger, Peter must face the wolf and either kill it or be killed. As he rushes onto the scene, Peter is clearly terrified. “Peter did not feel very brave,” Lewis writes. “Indeed, he felt he was going to be sick. But that made no difference to what he had to do. He rushed straight up to the monster and aimed a slash of his sword at its side” (170). Moments later the wolf is dead, killed by Peter’s sword. In this scene Lewis again advocates a brand of courage that rejects fear and calls for right action ruled not by emotion but conscience. Lewis’ Haile 33 heroes embody this type of bravery—a bravery central to the struggle for a true Narnia of justice and peace.

Lewis’ emphasis on freedom in Narnia reflects his own strong advocacy of free will, the value of human life, and the just struggle against oppression. His model of true

Narnia indicates a personal emphasis on freedom, peace, justice, order, and happiness.

The Voyage of the Dawn Treader and The Silver Chair both paint compelling pictures of good triumphing over evil and offer hopeful myths to those suffering around the world.

With courage, idealism, and the help of good friends, oppression and slavery can indeed be fought and overcome. Lewis’ moral teaching speaks directly to issues relevant to the ebb and flow of daily life—do we care about freedom? Have we considered that millions of people toil in indentured servitude all over the world to this day? Do we have the courage to take action against the forces of evil and oppression that keep people in chains?

When the situation calls for bold and just action (and it will!), will we follow

Puddleglum’s model of bravery and sacrifice? Lewis’ stories give us encouragement that, when tasks and ordeals are set before us, making the right choices will make all the difference.

Haile 34

“Deeper Magic from the Dawn of Time”: Of Traitors, Tisrocs, and the Redemptive

Power of Merciful Justice in Narnia

Sadly enough it seems that in our world right choices are often unrewarded while wrong choices, even systematic and premeditated wrong choices, are made and fail to receive their just consequences. Mobutu conducts the most cruel and oppressive regime in Congo’s history, plundering his country and exploiting his people, while he revels in riches, notoriously flying to Belgium just to get his hair cut. Stalin, the perpetrator of awful ethnic purges that resulted in millions of murders and deportations, enjoys the adoration of countless Soviets and builds his nation into a world superpower. Rapists go unpunished while victims are left battered or diseased. Bullies get away with harassment, scapegoats get the blame deserved by many others, and cheaters get the same test scores as diligent students. It is the hard reality that the world is terribly unjust.

In Narnia we see injustice as well. The Witches, King Miraz, the Ape—every book portrays dark examples of this. In Narnia, however, heroes like Caspian and

Puddleglum rise up to confront and conquer the powers of evil that perpetuate injustice.

The victory of good over evil then gives way to Lewis’ true Narnia, where just Kings and

Queens rule. These Kings and Queens make “good laws” and stamp out evil when it rears its ugly head, all in pursuit of a land where “whole centuries [go by] and all Narnia is so happy that notable dances and feasts, or at most tournaments, were the only things

[anyone] remembered, and every day and week is better than the last” (Last Battle, 716).

In the Narnia books evil acts never go unpunished—nowhere does villainy ultimately triumph or goodness get squelched beneath the weight of injustice. This is, of course, an imaginary world, yet Lewis’ stories seem to provide hope that good will prevail and a Haile 35 model for the confrontation of evil and the pursuit of justice. This Narnian concept of justice deserves further exploration as it plays a key role in the author’s affirmative social vision.

Lewis defines justice in Mere Christianity. “Justice means much more than the sort of thing that goes on in law courts,” he writes. “It is the old name for everything we should now call ‘fairness’; it includes honesty, give and take, truthfulness, keeping promises, and all that side of life” (62). Lewis makes clear that justice, as one of the four

“cardinal virtues,” ought to play a large part in a person’s moral makeup. Indeed, he says,

“a man who perseveres in doing just actions gets in the end a certain quality of character”

(63). This “quality of character” marks a truly moral person, Lewis argues. Right actions done for the right reasons build this up; right actions done for the wrong reasons, however, “do not help to build the internal quality or character called a ‘virtue,’ and it is this quality or character that really matters” (63). Thus, the consistent pursuit of just actions will produce just people. A mass of just people, in turn, will produce a just society.

In Narnia we get a glimpse of this sort of just society. In The Horse and His Boy,

Lewis sets forth a striking vision of justice in Aravis’ encounter with Aslan. Aravis, a young Calormene girl of considerable nobility, has been raised to habitually look down on others for their lack of proper upbringing, and follows the ways of her class in marginalizing and mistreating her slaves. In the story, she sneaks out of her house by drugging her stepmother’s slave, an action that gets the slave whipped badly. Without thinking twice, Aravis continues on her journey towards Narnia in hope of freedom from the rituals and restrictions of her oppressive society (we see the motif of freedom here as Haile 36 well). On the border of Archenland, Aravis, Shasta, and the two horses are chased by a terrible roaring lion that scratches Aravis across the back with its fearsome claws. Shasta, in an exceptionally brave act, dismounts from Bree and confronts the lion, chasing it away, and Aravis is brought to safety. We do not understand the significance of this scene until several chapters later, when Aslan appears to Aravis, Bree, and Hwin and explains.

In a powerful scene, Aslan, after confronting and humbling Bree, turns to Aravis and reveals that he was the lion who cut her.

“Draw near, Aravis my daughter. See! My paws are velveted. You will not be torn this time.”

“This time, sir?” said Aravis.

“It was I who wounded you,” said Aslan. “I am the only lion you met in all of your journeyings.

Do you know why I tore you?”

“No, sir.”

“The scratches on your back, tear for tear, throb for throb, blood for blood, were equal to the

stripes laid on the back of your stepmother’s slave because of the drugged sleep you cast upon her.

You needed to know what it felt like.” (299)

Thus Aslan, the moral pillar of the true Narnia, displays his heart for justice, or

“fairness,” as Lewis would say, and teaches Aravis a valuable lesson. Justice dictates that Aravis share in the undeserved suffering of her slave, thereby teaching her to care for the plight of those under her and treat them with kindness and respect. Aravis’ response shows the lesson has been learned: “Please—,” Aravis says to Aslan, “will any more harm come to her by what I did?” This is the first instance in the book where Aravis shows a genuine consideration for those below her in class. Throughout the story, she consistently acts proudly and condescendingly to her “inferiors,” especially Shasta Haile 37

(himself a former slave). Now Aslan’s just action finally brings her around, humbling her and reminding her of the worth and equality of all people.

The justice of Narnia, both here and elsewhere, is not a vengeful, vindictive justice, but rather one that teaches and builds and brings order and harmony. Aslan justly punishes Aravis, thereby producing a wiser, humbler, more compassionate woman who will eventually become Queen of Archenland. As Queen, Aslan considers it vital that she treats everyone with love and appreciation, and the lion’s administration of justice ensures that she knows how it feels to be unjustly treated. Indeed, soon after her encounter with Aslan, Aravis meets Shasta, and for the first time apologizes for her snobbery and addresses him like an equal. “There’s something I’ve got to say at once,” she says. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a pig. But I did change before I knew you were a

Prince, honestly I did: when you went back, and faced the Lion” (300). Aslan, of course, is the catalyst for Aravis’ change—in his attack on her, in her witnessing of Shasta’s bravery as a result, and in her face-to-face encounter with the Lion.

This brings us to a central motif of the Narnia books—Aslan’s power to transform people and beasts through personal encounters. The central, most important figure in the series, Aslan is the heart and soul of Narnia and the character around which every story seems to revolve. Lewis consistently portrays Aslan as the administer of justice, yet he embodies other virtues as well—compassion, wisdom, courage, and so on. When Aslan appears in the stories, characters often have a change of heart—from arrogance to humility or selfishness to charity, for example. There is Caspian at the end of The

Voyage of the Dawn Treader, who stubbornly and superciliously insists on traveling to the Utter East until Aslan appears in his cabin and humbles him. There is Bree at the end Haile 38 of The Horse and His Boy, who haughtily lectures that Aslan is not, of course, a real lion, until Aslan himself surprises him from behind, showing him in a moment the true depth of his own silliness and vanity. And of course there is Edmund, “a selfish and egoistic cad” until he encounters Aslan’s powerful love and self-sacrifice, which transforms him from an egocentric traitor to a kind and just King (Howard 62). When Aslan arrives in

Narnia, no one is left unchanged. He is the bringer and bearer of justice—a justice that is fair and instructive and good.

We see justice realized at the end of Prince Caspian, when Aslan appears and leads the troupe of “Old Narnians” (true Narnians) on a celebratory romp, freeing his true followers from lives of boredom or repression or something even more loathsome, like school.6 Here the bullies are punished—the nasty, piggish schoolboys are turned into pigs, the domineering teacher is sent packing—while the humble and faithful followers of

Aslan are liberated and encouraged. One poignant scene speaks compellingly to this theme of justice. “At a well in a yard they met a man who was beating a boy,” Lewis writes. “The stick burst into flower in the man’s hand. He tried to drop it, but it stuck to his hand. His arm became a branch, his body the trunk of a tree, his feet took root. The boy, who had been crying a moment before, burst out laughing and joined them” (408).

Here Aslan delivers justice. The oppressor receives just punishment for his cruel actions, and tellingly, is turned from an agent of oppression to a bearer of beauty and life. The

 6 Interestingly enough, Lewis seemed to have had a unique distaste for formal schooling. Considering his own substantial involvement in academia, this attitude is intriguing. Ponder these jabs: “‘Buck up, Bree,’ said Cor. ‘It’s far worse for me than for you. You aren’t going to be educated. I shall be learning reading and writing and heraldry and dancing and history and music while you’ll be galloping and rolling on the hills of Narnia to your heart’s content’” (303). In Caspian, Aslan frees the schoolteachers from having to teach their pig-like students. In The Lion, we learn that it is at “that horrid school” that Edmund “began to go wrong” (193). Also, at the end, the Pevensies are praised for “liberating young dwarves and young satyrs from being sent to school” (194). Perhaps it stems from Lewis’ real-life experiences with teaching. “The plain fact is,” wrote one of Lewis’ friends, “he hated teaching” (Jacobs 163). Haile 39 oppressed boy now rejoices and joins the celebration, showing that true justice punishes the guilty and liberates the innocent.

Justice plays a key role, then, in Lewis’ affirmative social vision. The true Narnia is a just Narnia, where the proud are humbled, the humble are exalted, evil is punished with just retribution, and goodness is rewarded with joy and celebration. Yet Lewis’ social vision does not stop at justice, but goes farther, setting a new precedent—justice tempered with mercy. This bold model of merciful fairness stands out as one of the most powerful and poignant themes of the Narnia books, and sends a strong moral message.

Aslan plays a central role again in the enactment of merciful justice in Narnia. Its most forceful and eloquent picture takes shape in The Lion, The Witch, and The

Wardrobe. In this story, the cowardly Edmund, unable to think of anyone but himself, betrays his brother and sisters to the evil White Witch. In doing so, he forfeits his life to the Witch according to the ancient Law of Narnia. “You at least know the Magic which the Emperor put into Narnia at the very beginning,” says the Witch to Aslan. “You know that every traitor belongs to me as my lawful prey and that for every treachery I have the right to kill” (175). As a result of the Law, the Witch claims the right to kill Edmund:

“That human creature is mine. His life is forfeit to me. His blood is my property” (175).

Aslan agrees with her, acknowledging the truth and sovereignty of the Law.

Despite his undoubted ability to crush the Witch then and there, his strict adherence to justice disallows that kind of behavior. His followers are dismayed: “Oh Aslan!” whispers Susan. “Can’t we—I mean, you won’t [let her take Edmund], will you? Can’t we do something about the Deep Magic? Isn’t there something you can work against it”

(176)? Aslan quashes that idea: “‘Work against the Emperor’s Magic?’ said Aslan, Haile 40 turning to her with something like a frown on his face. And nobody ever made that suggestion to him again.” We have the sense, then, that not only does Aslan respect the

Law of justice, but he must follow it—it would go against his nature not to. And thus we soon come to understand that Edmund must pay for his treachery.

Here we see the unflinching, indiscriminate nature of justice. When loved ones commit crimes, the enacting of justice becomes less happy and triumphant and satisfying.

Justice does not show favoritism, nor is it biased. And Aslan knows this, which makes his subsequent self-sacrifice all the more powerful. That night, unbeknownst to everyone in the Narnian camp save Susan and Lucy, Aslan slips away to meet the Witch and her minions, who cruelly bind, beat, mock, and spit on the Lion while he passively submits.

In a scene intentionally recalling the Passion of Christ, the Lion is silent and compliant as others persecute him.7 Despite Aslan’s innocence, the Witch murders him on the Stone

Table, thereby allowing Aslan to take the punishment meant for Edmund on himself.

Justice is fulfilled as the Witch celebrates Aslan’s weakness and her perceived victory.

Yet she had not reckoned on Aslan’s power as morning dawns and he comes back to life, roaring triumphantly and ready to set all things right again.

This is the turning point of the book, and perhaps the central moment in the whole

Narnia cycle. It also portrays the heart of merciful justice. Justice dictates that Edmund, a traitor, must pay for his selfish betrayal. Yet Aslan, in his love for Edmund, takes the penalty that was meant for him, and thus Edmund receives mercy while justice is fulfilled.

This blend of mercy and justice empowers Edmund, who finally “stops thinking about himself” and eventually becomes King Edmund the Just, “a graver and quieter man than

 7 Lewis writes, “The Passion and Resurrection of Aslan are the Passion and Resurrection Christ might be supposed to have had in that world—like those in our world but not exactly like” (Letters Vol. 3, 1158). Haile 41

Peter [who was] great in council and judgment” (194). This eloquent and beautiful picture of love and self-sacrifice sets a new precedent for dealing with evil. Justice is a necessity—it is the framework which undergirds an ordered society. Without it, mercy has little meaning. “Mercy, detached from justice, grows unmerciful,” wrote Lewis (GID

294). Yet mercy extended within the context of justice oftentimes affects deep and powerful change within the undeserved receiver, transforming them. Lewis portrays this in other Narnia books, as well.

At the end of The Horse and His Boy, the Calormene Prince Rabadash, obsessed with taking the Narnian Queen Susan as his wife, launches an unprovoked attack on the castle of Anvard, where King Lune of Archenland rules. Thanks to Shasta’s courage and perseverance in warning them, the Archenlanders thwart the surprise assault and capture

Rabadash. The Calormene Prince, as the courtier Peridan rightly points out, deserves death for his dastardly conduct. “Your Majesty would have the perfect right to strike off his head,” says Peridan to King Lune. “Such an assault as he made puts him on a level with assassins” (305). While Peridan does speak truth, Edmund counters in favor of mercy. “‘It is very true,’ said Edmund. ‘But even a traitor may mend. I have known one that did.’ And he looked very thoughtful.” This comment shows us both the empathetic disposition of Edmund, who received mercy from Aslan and now seeks to grant it to another, and the redemptive power of merciful justice, displayed in Edmund’s portrayal as thoughtful and compassionate. This Edmund, transformed by Aslan’s mercy, seems to retain none of the selfishness or malice of the traitor Edmund in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Having been redeemed by Aslan’s mercy himself, he now affirms the potential for redemption in all people, even a power-hungry fool like Rabadash. Haile 42

After conferring, the Narnians and Archenlanders decide to have mercy and let the Prince go free. As King Lune politely tells him their terms, citing his “youth and ill nurture” as reasons for his rash conduct, Rabadash explodes in a torrent of venomous insults and refuses to listen, calling him “a barbarian dog” and threatening the “terrible vengeance of the Tisroc” and “burnings and torturings.” The next moment everyone goes silent as Aslan, the administer of justice, suddenly appears among them. “Rabadash,” he says, “Take heed. Your doom is very near, but you may still avoid it. Forget your pride

(what have you to be proud of?) and your anger (who has done you wrong?) and accept the mercy of these good kings” (306). Here Aslan shows his penetrating wisdom, rightly observing that the Prince has been vanquished and has no legitimate grievance—quite the Comment [TU1]: opposite. Justice calls for the Calormene to be punished, yet Lune is ready to extend mercy. Aslan judiciously notes that the Prince’s pride and anger keep him from accepting it—an unfortunate and saddening reality.

Rabadash continues in his refusal to humble himself and accept pardon. Aslan admonishes him once more (“Have a care, Rabadash. The doom is nearer now”), but

Rabadash does nothing but rain down more insults. So Aslan turns him into an ass.

“What had been Rabadash was, simply and unmistakably, a donkey,” Lewis writes (307).

Aslan’s sense of fairness decrees and carries out the Prince’s just penalty, leading

Rabadash, in the final stages of his transformation, to finally call for mercy: “Oh, not a

Donkey! Mercy! If it were even a horse—e’en—a hor—eeh—auh, eeh-auh.” The words die away into a donkey’s bray as justice is fulfilled. Yet Aslan does not stop with the discharge of justice—he extends mercy, as well. Haile 43

“Now hear me, Rabadash,” says Aslan. “Justice shall be mixed with mercy. You shall not always be an ass.” Here Lewis reminds us explicitly of the motif of justice and mercy, a detail marking its significance. The lion tells the Prince that he may be healed later that year:

You have appealed to Tash, and in the temple of Tash you shall be healed. You must stand before

the altar of Tash in Tashbaan at the great Autumn feast this year and there, in sight of all Tashbaan,

your ass’s shape will fall from you and all men will know you for Prince Rabadash. But as long as

you live, if ever you go more than ten miles away from the great temple in Tashbaan you shall

instantly become again as you now are. And from that second change there will be no return.

(308)

Here Aslan demonstrates his unshakeable fairness in several ways. First, he sees that

Rabadash’s invocation of the name of Tash does not go unnoticed. Aslan ensures that the

Prince will better understand the seriousness of appealing to a higher power by ruling that

Rabadash’s condition be healed in the temple of Tash.8 Secondly, Aslan intentionally punishes Rabadash in a manner that will address his greatest flaw—excessive pride. His pride already crushed by his defeat at Anvard, his public transformation will only add insult to injury. On top of that, his disallowance from journeying beyond Tashbaan ensures that he will not get the satisfaction of conquering and subjugating neighboring lands. In effect, these decrees serve mainly to teach and humble the arrogant Prince; indeed, we know that Rabadash becomes “the most peaceable Tisroc Calormen had ever known” (albeit not for his own moral uprightness), thanks chiefly to Aslan’s shrewd dispensation of punishment. Thus, the mercifully tempered justice of Aslan once again

 8 Lewis makes this same point in The Last Battle, when the Ape and his minions flippantly call on the name of Tash. “And this fool of an Ape, who didn’t believe in Tash, will get more than he bargained for!” says Poggin the Dwarf. “He called for Tash; Tash has come” (713). Tash, a terrible demon-like creature, appears and terrorizes Ginger the Cat and the other Calormenes who enter the stable door. See LB, pgs. 710-713, 726-728, 736-737. Haile 44 affects positive, constructive change within an individual, and subsequently, within the community to which he belongs.

Lewis’ emphasis on justice and mercy infiltrates several other Narnia books as well. In The Magician’s Nephew, the author stresses the importance of these two linked virtues, as Aslan tells Polly of the danger of evil in her own world: “And soon, very soon, before you are an old man and an old woman, great nations in your world will be ruled by tyrants who care no more for joy and justice and mercy than the Empress Jadis” (102).

Lewis’ explicit reference to justice and mercy highlights once again the importance he places on them. According to Aslan, “joy and justice and mercy” stand directly at odds with tyranny, leading us to consequently infer that he considers them vital components of freedom and liberty. In Prince Caspian, Aslan justly punishes the conquered Telmarines, the oppressors and ruthless exploiters of Narnia for decades, by removing them from power. While some might call for their death, Aslan is content with banishment and once again has mercy, allowing them to return to their former world unhurt (save in pride).

The satisfying punchline to many resolutions in climax, the Narnian motif of merciful justice sets a new precedent for those who would deal with evil or transgression.

Haile 45

“A Peevish Blend of Racist, Misogynistic, and Reactionary Prejudice?”: Addressing the

Accusations of Lewis’ Fairy Tales

Having shed light on many of Lewis’ positive social themes in the Narnia tales, it remains to speak directly to many of the accusations leveled at the Chronicles and its author. Upon examining many of the objections to the books, it becomes clear that several protests keep recurring. First, critics claim that the Narnia books are sexist and misogynist. Secondly, that they are racist and demonize the land of Calormene, whose inhabitants are dark-skinned and “swarthy.” Thirdly, that they glorify violence and perpetuate the message that might makes right. Fourthly, which I have already touched on, that the books allegorically convey a “corrupting” religious agenda. Philip Pullman, the bestselling author of The Golden Compass and its sequels, called the Narnia cycle “a peevish blend of racist, misogynistic, and reactionary prejudice” (Seipp 1). Pullman is

Lewis’ most famous and outspoken enemy; he is not, however, alone in his criticism of the Narnia series. A host of other critics, mainly British writers, have lent their voices to what Atlantic writer Gregg Easterbook calls “a fad of anti-Narnia writing in Britain,” a trend that has coincided with the release of the recent film (Easterbrook 2). Polly

Toynbee and Alison Lurie of the British newspaper The Guardian, Adam Gopnik of The

New Yorker, and Philip Hensher, author of The Mulberry Empire, have all castigated

Lewis for the reasons cited above. Further exploration of the objections raised by this chorus of voices reveals that some accusations, like misogyny, hold little water. Others, like racism, may indeed be valid. The rest of this chapter will examine these allegations more closely, yet ultimately makes the point that dwelling on details such as these makes the reader miss the bigger picture and the true thrust of Lewis’ art and message. Haile 46

Having already touched on the subject of allegory and on Lewis’ intentions in writing the Narnia cycle, it remains to concentrate on the three most outstanding objections to the Chronicles—that they are misogynistic, racist, and war-glorifying. The first claim, misogyny, almost invariably appears in any criticism of Lewis’ work, often with varying degrees of vehemence. Critics point to Lewis’ lack of adult female characters (or object that the main women in the books are the evil White Witch and

Green Witch), his disdain for “girliness,” or his glorification of stereotypically masculine traits as examples of misogyny in Narnia. Some decry the end of The Silver Chair, where

Lewis pooh-poohs the female Head of The Experiment House (a co-ed, liberal caricature of a school that Lewis scoffs at) as weak, hysterical, and incompetent, and then wryly reports of her eventual ascension into Parliament. Lewis’ narration at the end of the book is indeed a troubling aside—it reveals some of the author’s chauvinistic tendencies and lapses into his social critique on the British school system, neither of which deserve a place in a children’s story. Still worse is his glorification of women only when they act manly, like Aravis in The Horse and His Boy, who cannot stand the typical girliness of her friend Lasaraleen:

The fuss she made about choosing the dresses nearly drove Aravis mad. She remembered now

that Lasaraleen had always been like that, interested in clothes and parties and gossip. Aravis had

always been more interested in bows and arrows and horses and dogs and swimming. (251)

Aravis has no patience for archetypal femininity; as a result, Lewis praises her and casts her as a heroine—she is eventually crowned Queen of Archenland. Lucy is similar, markedly taking risks and reveling in boyish adventures. She also enjoys the closest relationship with Aslan and the deepest sense of holiness and spirituality, characteristics that Lewis intentionally applauds and which are noticeably absent in her more Haile 47 stereotypically feminine sister, Susan. These trends in Narnia seem to validate some critics’ accusations of sexism.

Taken alone, however, these examples hardly add up to intentional misogyny on

Lewis’ part. At worst, they reveal an undercurrent of sexist thought and a strain of more explicit anti-feminism. While not excusing these themes, we must examine them in light of Lewis’ background. University of Surrey professor Pat Pinsent defends Lewis:

Most of the negative aspects of his work result from the fact that the books were written by an

upper middle-class male, educated at public school and the old universities, and spending all his

professional life in a largely masculine academic environment, which at that time was even more

male dominated than it is today. (17)

Lewis’ somewhat sexist views seem consistent with the male chauvinism of his time period. They are not, of course, excusable, but unfortunately they are not at all remarkable when considered amongst the predominant views of Lewis’ contemporaries.

The claim of misogyny could most likely be laid to rest if these were the only accusations.

However, one moment at the end of The Last Battle has kept the controversy alive, perhaps because here critics do indeed have a just war to wage on Lewis.

When Tirian, Jill, and Eustace meet the old kings and queens of Narnia in Aslan’s

Country at the end of The Last Battle, they are met with a shock—Susan, the longtime

Queen of Narnia and lover of Aslan, “is no longer a friend of Narnia” (741):

“My sister Susan,” answered Peter shortly and gravely, “is no longer a friend of Narnia.”

“Yes,” said Eustace, “and whenever you’ve tried to get her to come and talk about Narnia or do

anything about Narnia, she says ‘What wonderful memories you have! Fancy your still thinking

about all those funny games we used to play when we were children.”

“Oh, Susan!” said Jill. “She’s interested in nothing nowadays except nylons and lipstick and

invitations. She always was a jolly sight too keen on being grown-up.” (741) Haile 48

This exchange has incited heated controversy, enraging readers who feel Lewis has essentially kicked Susan out of Narnia for being too girly. Pinsent decries this as Lewis’

“outrageous treatment in banishing Susan” (10), while Pullman uses stronger language, denouncing the passage as proof of Lewis’ hatred for femininity and insecurity about mature women:

Susan, like Cinderella, is undergoing a transition from one phase of her life to another. Lewis

didn't approve of that. He didn't like women in general, or sexuality at all, at least at the stage in

his life when he wrote the Narnia books. He was frightened and appalled at the notion of wanting

to grow up. Susan, who did want to grow up, and who might have been the most interesting

character in the whole cycle if she'd been allowed to, is a Cinderella in a story where the Ugly

Sisters win. (Pullman 2)

Pullman indicts what he considers Lewis’ prejudiced and reactionary views on women and sexuality, yet in a fashion typical of his many condemnations of the Narnia books, he turns from a critique of The Last Battle to a personal attack on Lewis, thereby reducing the credibility of his argument.

Pullman’s views can hardly be ignored as merely personal antipathy, however; even J.K. Rowling, the famous crafter of Harry Potter, who purportedly enjoys the

Narnia series, voices her discontent over Lewis’ treatment of Susan. "There comes a point where Susan, who was the older girl, is lost to Narnia because she becomes interested in lipstick,” says Rowling. “She's become irreligious basically because she found sex. I have a big problem with that” (Grossman 2). These sorts of comments make up the main thrust of allegation against Lewis’ supposedly misogynistic views and indeed have some merit. All things considered, however, Lewis’ banishment of Susan seems to have less to do with hating women and more to do with criticizing worldliness. Haile 49

An emphasis on worldliness rather than misogyny becomes clearer through a close-reading of the passage and a placement of the scene in the context of Lewis’ larger message about women in the Narnia cycle. In his indictment of Susan, Lewis faults her for being “interested in nothing but nylons and lipstick and invitations.” Certainly, a dose of Lewis’ Oxford sexism appears here—what is wrong with nylons, lipstick, and invitations, other than they are alien objects in Lewis’ male-dominated sphere of pubs and medieval literature? Lewis’ showcases a bit of typical male prejudice here.

However, more than girliness, the author seems to be charging Susan with excess worldliness, a term often used in religious context to denote a devotion to worldly pleasures at the expense of spiritual duties. Susan cares about nothing nowadays except parties and dressing up, says Jill. We can infer, then, that she has no time or patience for

Narnia, or the values that this magical world embodies—justice, compassion, spirituality, and so on. Eustace’s comment about Susan’s refusal to even acknowledge the reality of

Narnia’s existence corroborates this inference. Lewis’ main objection, then, seems to lie with Susan’s worldliness and her eager pursuit of being “grown up.”

Lewis blames Susan for “wasting all her school time wanting to be the age she is now,” and once there, wasting “all the rest of her life trying to stay that age” (741). Here

Lewis places the culpability not on her femininity, but rather her refusal to enjoy life in the moment and her insistence on conforming to the social patterns of her shallow society.

On top of this, Lewis takes offense at her pursuit of “grown-up” status. Lewis’ attitude here aligns with his consistently negative portrayal of “grown-ups” in the Narnia books, characters often depicted as stodgy, rigid, and out-of-touch. Uncle Andrew and the

House-keeper in the Kirke residence seem in line with this representation. Children, the Haile 50 books imply, have all the adventures, while adults seem too caught up in the business of daily routine to enjoy life’s real pleasures. Lewis glorifies the attitude of childlikeness in several ways—the children are not allowed back into Narnia once they reach a certain age, children are consistently portrayed as having the most fun,9 and Lucy, the youngest of the Pevensie children, consistently enjoys the closest relationship with Aslan and a keen understanding of deeper matters. Lewis’ emphasis on children and on enjoying life like a child stems perhaps from Christ’s teaching: "I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew

18.3). Narnia is a children’s world, and Lewis, if his flawless correspondence with his child fans is any indication, had a unique appreciation and affection for children. This emphasis on childlikeness seems to take precedence over any misogynistic tendencies he may have harbored.

The important figure of Lucy counters the claims of misogyny as well. In a land where Aslan is deified and where following him is of utmost importance, Lucy always has the closest connection to the lion. In The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, she is the first to gain entrance to Narnia, and shows her bravery by defending the land’s existence before her skeptical siblings. Only the girls Lucy and Susan are present when

Aslan suffers and dies at the hands of the White Witch.10 In Prince Caspian, she sees

Aslan when no one else can, and leads her brothers and sisters through the wood to follow him. In The Last Battle, Lucy quickly comprehends the significance of the Stable

 9 At the end of The Horse and His Boy, Prince Corin, the mischievous, fun-loving son of King Lune, learns that he does not have to be King, and rejoices: “Hurray! Hurray! I shan’t have to be King. I shan’t have to be King. I’ll always be a Prince. It’s princes have all the fun” (309). Later Cor laments that he’s going to be educated while Bree and the other Narnians will be “galloping and rolling on the hills of Narnia to [their] heart’s content” (303). Here Lewis emphasizes the relationship between youth and fun again. 10 This is another noteworthy detail in the Susan controversy. Lewis may have considered her renouncement of Narnia as more despicable because of her once-intimate relationship to Aslan. Haile 51 through which they have passed into Aslan’s Country: “In our world too, a Stable once had something inside it that was bigger than our whole world” (744). Lucy’s positive portrayal is far from misogynistic; Lewis seems to be exalting the female and her capacity to understand and apply important spiritual concepts. Thomas Howard agrees:

“If we read far enough in Lewis we will find a theme, hinted at in this small beginning in

Narnia, of womanhood as being especially receptive to the approaches of mystery or glory, or the divine” (54). Pinsent corroborates this claim, lauding Lucy for being far more spiritually attuned than any of her male counterparts. “Spirituality,” she writes, “is thus firmly associated with a female character” (12). This sentiment is evident in the end of The Last Battle, when Lewis informs us that Lucy delights in Aslan’s Country more than anyone. “It was the first time [Lucy] had spoken, and from the thrill in her voice,

Tirian now knew why,” Lewis writes. “She was drinking in everything more deeply than the others. She had been too happy to speak” (744). Lucy, then, appears to have a greater capacity for joy and understanding than anyone else, even the cast of heroes present at the end of the series. This seems an important message easily overlooked by

Lewis’ detractors.

Other details reveal the claim of misogyny to be off the mark as well. In the

Narnian golden age, the land is ruled over by two kings and two queens, all siblings, in a poignant picture of equality. Females, like Caspian’s Nurse, Mrs. Beaver, and Hwin, seem to have more faith and fortitude than their male counterparts, like Mr. Beaver or

Bree. True Narnians, the characters Lewis exalts, always treat women with the utmost respect, giving them the best of whatever they have to offer. Even the presence of witches in Narnia, decried by many as embodiments of Lewis’ hostility to women, could Haile 52 be viewed as an affirmation of femininity—women make worthy enemies and are capable of holding power and ruling with authority in the world of Narnia. Yet this may be a stretch. Regardless, close examination of the Narnia cycle reveals some latent sexism typical of Lewis’ pedigree and that of his contemporaries; however, the many claims of misogyny seem ultimately unfounded.

Racism, on the other hand, is a much more plausible claim. Allegations of racism in Narnia usually cite the author’s portrayal of Calormen as prejudiced against the

Muslim world. Easterbrook writes,

“There’s no denying that Narnia is an Anglo-American’s fantasy. The realm is forested and

cool—‘Narnia and the North!’ is a rallying cry—and threatened by encroaching Southerm cultures.

The principal bad guys, the Calormenes, are unmistakable Muslim stand-ins: bearded desert

dwellers who spread oil rather than butter on their bread. The sociological structure of Narnia is

aristocratic and favors British imperialism.” (Easterbrook 1)

These observations hit home. Narnians are unmistakably white; Narnia itself resembles a miniature England. In The Horse and His Boy and The Last Battle, the two books where

Calormenes are prominently portrayed, the vast majority of the Calormene figures appear cruel, selfish, and unjust. Calormen is a land of slavery and marked inequality, characteristics marking an evil land. In this case, that evil land happens to resemble typical Muslim Middle-eastern culture. The Calormenes wear turbans and pointy shoes, carry scimitars, have elaborate story-telling rituals, and worship a god named Tash (Allah, anyone?). Their capital, Tashbaan, is a crowded, dusty city with temples and minarets.

These glimpses that we are given of Calormen furnish the distinct impression that Lewis’ characterization of the land and culture is indeed racist and prejudiced. Haile 53

Making some sense of this ostensible bigotry requires, once again, a deeper look at Lewis’ background and the historical context of his time. At first glance, this portrayal of a Muslim-feeling world as the enemy seems odd—the chief foes of Britain in Lewis’ time were, of course, the Nazis, who “made a cult of their blue-eyed, blond-haired

Aryanism” (Jacobs 308). However, Lewis’ imagination, we must remember, was shaped in his childhood, when the Ottoman Empire played the role of traditional enemy to

Western Europe. Thus, the Calormene Tarkaans seem to be caricatures of the “ravaging

Turks” that instilled fear within British schoolchildren everywhere in the early twentieth century. Lewis biographer Alan Jacobs speaks on this at length:

Lewis and Tolkien11 had a ready-made source of “Oriental” imagery on which to draw to enrich

their fictional worlds, and in a time less sensitive to cultural difference than our own, they saw no

reason not to draw upon it. Perhaps this should count against them, but it rarely does. I think this

is because readers can tell the difference between, on the one hand, an intentionally hostile

depiction of some alien culture and, on the other, the use of cultural difference as a mere plot

device. (Jacobs 308)

Here Jacobs seeks to muffle the cries of racism with the suggestion that the author’s portrayal of Calormen is mere plot device, not “an intentionally hostile depiction.”

Jacobs is right that Lewis’ depiction does not seem intentionally hostile, yet that does not settle the matter. Regardless of the author’s intentionality, the Narnia books do seem to reflect a strain of Western prejudice against Middle Eastern culture—a disconcerting aspect of the children’s stories. Despite this, positive portrayals of the Calormenes  11 Critics have also labeled the Lord of the Rings as racist, citing Tolkien’s Haradrim, described as “swarthy” and “dark,” as prejudiced caricatures of Middle Easterners. Tolkien, like Lewis, also enjoys his fair share of vilifiers. For a bit of anti-Tolkien invective, try out fantasy writer China Miéville: “Tolkien is the wen on the arse of fantasy literature. His oeuvre is massive and contagious—you can’t ignore it, so don’t even try. The best you can do is consciously try and lance the boil. And there’s a lot to dislike—his cod-Wagnerian pomposity, his boys-own-adventure glorying in war, his small-minded and reactionary love for hierarchical status-quos, his belief in absolute morality that blurs moral and political complexity. Tolkien’s clichés—elves ‘n’ dwarfs ‘n’ magic rings—have spread like viruses” (Jacobs 306). Haile 54

Aravis and Emeth bring balance to the books’ overall rendering of the “desert-dwellers,” and make a strong case for the Narnia books’ merit in spite of the objections.

In The Horse and His Boy, Aravis, a young Tarkheena, reflects virtues that seem to deviate from her “cruel” and “ancient” culture. She breaks tradition and runs away, befriending slaves and talking beasts in the process. Slaves were treated poorly in

Calormene culture; talking beasts were unheard of; Aravis rejects her own cultural norms by enlisting with Bree, Hwin, and Shasta. Later she encounters Aslan and comes away changed, eventually taking her place on the throne of Archenland alongside Cor

(formerly Shasta the slave). This positive portrayal of Aravis shows Lewis’ attempts to provide a fuller picture of Calormene society and not merely lump all Calormenes in with a racist and negative stereotype of Middle Easterners. It also sends the message that any person, regardless of race or class, has the opportunity to develop values and beliefs outside of their cultural norms—an open-minded view, to be sure. The character of

Aravis softens Lewis’ cultural prejudice. Yet the greatest defense of Lewis’ perceived racism comes in the character of Emeth at the end of The Last Battle.

Towards the end of the seventh Narnia book, Lewis introduces us to a Calormene warrior who is “young and tall and slender, and even rather beautiful in the dark, haughty,

Calormene way” (728). While this description could again ruffle feathers through its association of Calormen (and thereby Middle Eastern culture) with haughtiness, its high- sounding language—“tall,” “beautiful”—gives away the introduction of a noble sort of figure. Lewis goes on to tell of Emeth’s courageous pursuit of Tash, the god whose face he “gladly would die a thousand deaths [to] look on.” Emeth, whose name means “truth” in Hebrew, gains entrance to Aslan’s Country despite his longtime worship of Tash, the Haile 55 god of Calormen. Once there, Aslan welcomes him warmly, and explains that all the good deeds Emeth has done in the name of Tash he counts as service done to him. Aslan explains this:

Child, all the service thou hast done to Tash, I account as service done to me…Therefore, if any

man swear by Tash and keep his oath for the oath’s sake, it is by me that he has truly sworn,

though he know it not, and it is I who reward him. And if any man do a cruelty in my name, then,

though he says the name Aslan, it is Tash whom he serves and by Tash his deed is accepted. (757)

This important scene implies that any man, regardless of race, nation, or faith, is capable of living virtuously and seeking truth. Despite Emeth’s Calormene race and worship of

Tash, he gains entry into Aslan’s Country (read: heaven) and receives praise from the lion himself. Gregg Easterbrook cites this passage as one of the main reasons that the

Narnia books should remain in the canon of children’s literature and why he does not hesitate to read them to his own children. “Aslan tells Emeth that the specifics of religion do not matter: virtue is what’s important, and paradise awaits anyone of good will. This seems an up-to-date message—and a reason the Narnia books should stand exactly as they are” (Easterbrook 4). While Lewis might not agree wholeheartedly with

Easterbook’s claim that “the specifics of religion do not matter,” or that “paradise awaits anyone of good will,” the Atlantic writer’s point is well taken. The portrayal of Emeth counters those who rail against Lewis’ racism and depicts a much more nuanced rendering of the supposedly evil Calormene race.

Potential racism in the Narnia books does give the reader pause—“even as a fan I must admit that certain passages made me wince,” writes Easterbrook. “For example, the wicked dwarves ridicule the Calormenes as ‘darkies’; I skirted the word, because I don’t want it in my kids’ heads” (3). Racial slurs like “darkie” seem to point to bigotry of Haile 56 some sort. However, perceived cultural discrimination should not hinder one from understanding and enjoying the broader, wholesome message of the Chronicles—a series, as shown above, that powerfully conveys themes of virtue and social justice. Easterbrook makes an important point: “But does having characters say “darkies” make Lewis racist?

He was, after all, employing language then in common parlance—and placing it in the mouths of the wicked.” As modern-day readers, we must remember that we filter what we read through a lens shaped by our time; our current era is one hypersensitive to cultural difference and informed of foreign practices more than ever before. The

Adventures of Huckleberry Finn includes 121 uses of the word “nigger,” yet those who see the word and cry racist miss its broader message—its poignant depiction of the runaway slave, Jim, as a father-figure worthy of emulation is a radically progressive portrayal during a dark and bigoted era. In this same sense, one misses the real message of the Narnia books—one of hope, faith, courage, and so on—by focusing solely on slamming Lewis for his ideological flaws. Lewis’ employment of discriminatory views of Middle Easterners typical of his time ought to come off as racist and wrong, yet this does not necessarily allocate the immolation of all things C.S. Lewis. The sustained popularity of the Chronicles gives heart to those who would look past kneejerk reactions to racism into the true character of the septet—others are doing the same.

A final accusation that merits some discourse is that of violence-glorification. A few critics have voiced complaint over Lewis’ penchant for battle—nearly every book involves the physical clash of good and evil, and characters are often praised for their valor in combat or their willingness to dive into confrontation. Good, critics argue, triumphs over evil only through violence and aggression. Guardian writer Polly Toynbee Haile 57 does not mince words: “Here in Narnia,” she writes, “is the perfect Republican, muscular

Christianity for America -- that warped, distorted neo-fascist strain that thinks might is proof of right” (2). This is a harsh blow, yet a close examination of the books proves this statement to be unfounded, and perhaps influenced more by the current state of American foreign affairs and the writer’s own political leanings. The Narnia world does not glorify violence—it only endorses it as a necessary evil in the pursuit of justice and peace.

Throughout the cycle, the forces of good only use violence as a last resort and avoid it when they can. At the beginning of Prince Caspian, the children merely bind the

Telmarines when they could kill them. Later they avert a full-fledged war by having

Peter bravely offer to duel Miraz. In The Voyage of The Dawn Treader, Caspian and his men retake the Lone Islands without a single drop of shed blood, as they do the island with the Dufflepuds. In The Silver Chair, Puddleglum and the children liberate the Deep

Realm with the killing of only one person—the Witch, and her slaying comes only in self-defense. In scenes where battle does take place, Lewis often removes the reader from the heat of the combat by relaying the fighting through an on-looking character. For example, instead of depicting Peter’s duel with Miraz directly with vivid descriptions of the battle sequence, Lewis narrates the action through the conversation between Edmund and Caspian. Similarly, in The Horse and His Boy, the battle for Anvard is narrated by the hermit, who watches the fighting in his magic pool. In this way, Lewis seems to intentionally remove himself and the reader from the conflict by refusing to write dramatic or lengthy battle sequences, perhaps in an exact endorsement of the idea that violence should not be glorified. Haile 58

When Narnians do fight, we must also remember why. Every time it is for the good of the land, for the pursuit of justice, peace, and harmony. Howard provides excellent commentary on this:

Again we may note that the narrative returns with more than random recurrence to scenes where

we find cups of tea or tankards of beer, and cakes and sandwiches, or a fireside and pipes and hot

baths and so forth. Frequently we find this sort of interlude either en route to some great crux in

the action or just after some great peril or victory. It is always very commonplace stuff, and that is

the whole point. It is a theme right at the center of Lewis’ vision: simplicity, good fellowship, the

goodness of creation, the sheer pleasure of good tastes and smells and textures…What are all wars

and all economics and politics about? Do they not all come down in the end to the business of

allowing people to return to their hearthsides and to family and friends and good fellowship? (55)

Violence in Narnia, then, comes only in the pursuit of happiness and simple living, in encouraging “ordinary people to live and let live” (177). The golden age of Narnia is marked by peace and order and good laws; in The Last Battle, Jewel the Unicorn speaks of a Narnia where “there were hundreds and thousands of years when peaceful King followed peaceful King till you could hardly remember their names or count their numbers” (715). The true Narnia is peaceful. Lewis seems to send the message that violence can be condoned only in just pursuit of this peace.

Violence-glorification seems the weakest of any of the objections to the

Chronicles. Many good fairy tales include combat between good and evil, and the historical context from which Lewis was writing showcases the most compelling example of a war justly waged. However, all these accusations, however valid, do force the reader to ask hard questions about how we read literature—an important component to any discourse on the subject. The Chronicles indeed contain some material that may be offensive or objectionable, particularly in areas of racism. Yet focusing on these details Haile 59 often makes the reader miss the broader and far more important messages and themes extant in the books. Getting hung up on Susan’s banishment from Aslan’s Country detracts from Lewis’ idea that a better, more just, and more beautiful world is within our grasp if we are willing to fight for it. Immersing oneself in an indictment of discriminatory depictions of Muslim caricatures distracts from the message that freedom from slavery can be won through courage, determination, and strong friendships.

Hounding Lewis and disparaging his world of Narnia for these regrettable facets of his books represents a true case of missing the forest—a beautiful, rich forest, in Narnia’s case—for the trees.

Haile 60

Lewis’ Vision in Light of Today’s World

The Chronicles of Narnia, as shown above, communicate a positive message to readers that engages the imagination and the conscience through fairy tale. These classics maintain their relevance in light of the pressing problems people face everywhere today. In a world where 27 million people live every day in bonded slavery12, where countless millions of workers are exploited and oppressed at the hands of rich corporations, where over a billion people in the world live on less than a dollar a day, and where widespread conflict threatens to tear apart fragile societies everywhere, the world of Narnia provides powerful moral guidance on how to confront corruption, injustice, and despair and promote freedom, justice, and peace. The Chronicles offer many pictures of the moral challenges that men and women (and children!) will face, and provide hope to those who would lead the forces of good in opposition of evil. Courageous leadership,

Lewis shows, makes all the difference in the struggle for a just world. This essay will conclude by examining two of Lewis’ most poignant and relevant pictures of leadership from The Magician’s Nephew and The Horse and His Boy.

The Magician’s Nephew depicts the founding and establishing of the land of

Narnia and offers a remarkable picture of how Lewis believes a real King or Queen (or

President, Prime Minister, etc.) ought to rule. Aslan, after creating Narnia and giving its beastly inhabitants speech, picks a rough-and-tumble cockney Cabby and his wife to be the first King and Queen of Narnia. The Cabby, who found his way into Narnia by chance with the children, now faces Aslan as the lion gives him his charge: “You shall

 12 Sourced by the UN, New York Times, and Amnesty Int’l. This figure is estimated to be the highest in human history. If you would like to learn more about what to do to fight modern slavery, go to www.ijm.org or www.theamazingchange.com. Also check out David Batstone’s new book Not For Sale. International Justice Mission, ChildVoice Int’l, World Vision, and Free the Slaves are all organizations that do amazing work on behalf of those suffering in bondage. Haile 61 rule and name all these creatures, and do justice among them, and protect them from their enemies when enemies arise” (81). This initial command shows the importance Lewis places on justice—it is one of the first things Aslan mentions to the future King. Aslan’s words also emphasize the imperative of the King’s social responsibility to his subjects— he must “name” them, “do justice” among them, and “protect” them. The lion seems most concerned with how the Cabby and his wife will treat the creatures of Narnia. Do they have a name and a place in society? Is justice being done? Is Narnia safe and peaceful? These are the values that Lewis stresses here—a ruler’s fairness and responsibility to his people. Citizens of nations all over the world today could stand to benefit from rulers that cherish these values and live them out.

The Cabby objects after Aslan’s initial charge and tries to convince the lion that he has the wrong man: “Begging your pardon, sir,” he says. “And thanking you very much I’m sure (which my Missus does the same) but I ain’t no sort of a chap for a job like that. I never ‘ad much eddycation, you see” (82). This modesty seems genuine and not contrived—his profession and his speech lend credence to his assertions that he “ain’t no sort of chap for a job like that” and that he never had much “eddycation.” In response, though, Aslan poses him a series of questions that together get at the heart of moral leadership. “Can you rule these creatures kindly and fairly, remembering that they are not slaves like the dumb beasts of the world you were born in, but Talking Beasts and free subjects?” the lion asks. Here Aslan urges the Cabby to treat his subjects with a kindness and fairness that is born out of a respect for their dignity, freedom, and self- determination. Aslan’s question implies that since the creatures of Narnia are not slaves or dumb beasts, they merit a thoughtful and evenhanded ruler who will treat them with Haile 62 respect and compassion. The Cabby humbly answers that “he will try to do the square thing by them all.” This short exchange, while sounding perhaps childish or unsophisticated, in reality imparts a profound vision of moral leadership that draws strength from its simplicity. If today’s world leaders did treat their subjects with the respect, dignity, and compassion that they deserve, how different would our world be today? If they accepted the bestowal of authority on them with the same humility and meekness that the Cabby shows, perhaps they would think twice before they abuse and exploit those whom they have the privilege of ruling?

The exchange continues: “And you wouldn’t have favorites,” Aslan asks the

Cabby, “either among your own children or among the other creatures, or let any hold another under or use it hardly?” Here Aslan stresses the importance of equality and warns against the tendency towards exploitation. You are allowed no favorites, he says, nor can you allow abuse or oppression to occur while you are King. The Cabby responds affirmatively: “I never could abide such goings on, sir, and that’s the truth. I’d give ‘em what for if I caught ‘em at it.” Couched in the colloquialism of the Cabby’s cockney brogue is a King’s pledge to rule fairly and seek justice for his subjects—a vow taken by precious few of today’s rulers. The Cabby also shows that a responsibility to order and integrity is not new to him—he “could never abide such goings on.” He apparently has a history of fair-dealing, perhaps one of the reasons why Aslan has chosen him to be King. If world leaders made similar commitments to justice and took their obligations to their people seriously, perhaps atrocities like those currently happening in

Iraq or Darfur would never take place. Haile 63

Aslan finishes his cross-examination with one last question. “And if enemies came against the land (for enemies will arise) and there was war, would you be the first in charge and the last in the retreat?” he asks. This is what the lion expects from the King of his country—courage to lead his people into battle (should it arise) and the fortitude to stand firm in retreat (should it be necessary). The Cabby responds humbly and truthfully again: “Well, sir,” he answers, “a chap don’t exactly know till he’s been tried. I dare say

I might turn out ever such a soft ‘un. Never did no fighting except with my fists. I’d try—that is, I ‘ope I’d try—to do my bit.” Aslan is pleased with this: “Then, you will have done all that a King should do. Your coronation will be held presently.”

This exchange between Aslan and the Cabby identifies many key qualities necessary for strong moral leadership. The lion stresses the importance of ruling fairly and courageously by seeking justice and equality. The Cabby responds with a humble and sincere pledge to see these commands fulfilled. Lewis’ choice of a Cabby to be the first King of Narnia reveals his ironic precedent for what he feels makes a suitable ruler.

The Cabby is self-admittedly not “eddycated”, nor has he had any experience leading a nation or fighting in battles. He does, however, show courage in his resistance to the

Witch earlier in the play, and gentility and kindness in his treatment of Strawberry. He appears to have a real consideration for justice and a willingness to rule impartially.

Lewis seems to value these sorts of principles far above status, education, or reputation in choosing the ruler of Narnia. For him, a Cabby with a conscience but no education seems the best choice for a ruler. Our world seems to function antithetically, valuing rank and standing above character. Lewis’ portrayal of leadership laid out in The Magician’s Haile 64

Nephew communicates a social vision for today’s world leaders expressed in the humility and simplicity of a Cabby’s coronation as Narnian King.

The Horse and His Boy holds a similarly inspiring depiction of leadership. At the end of the story, King Lune tells Cor that he will eventually succeed him as king of

Archenland. Cor protests, telling him he does not want to be king and that his brother,

Corin, would be much better suited for the job. He looks for a loophole: “But, Father, couldn’t you make whichever you like to be the next King?” Lune’s response reveals his attitude towards the throne: “No. The King’s under the law, for it’s the law makes him a king. Hast no more power to start away from thy crown than any sentry from his post”

(309). This comparison of a King to a sentry shows that Lune treats his title as a duty— to the law and to his people. He has been made King by the law, and thus is bound by the law in his rule. He has not earned the throne, but has been granted it and thus must treat it as a privilege. This attitude is refreshing and serves to remind the ruler of his place and role in society.

As Cor groans at the prospect of being a King and Corin celebrates at getting to be a Prince (“it’s Princes have all the fun”), his father counsels him on the true nature of kingship:

For this is what it means to be a king: to be first in every desperate attack and last in every

desperate retreat, and when there’s hunger in the land (as must be now and then in bad years) to

wear finer clothes and laugh louder over a scantier meal than any man in your land. (310)

This is a shorter description of kingship than the one we get in The Magician’s Nephew, yet this one draws its strength from its simplicity as well. Lune illustrates a picture of a king who is brave and fearless, and who leads his people by example. Here, as in the other depiction, Lewis does not say that good leadership will lead to a utopia. No, he Haile 65 shows that good leadership is most important in the hardest times, when there is war or famine. Just like the king wearing “finer clothes” and “laughing louder over a scantier meal,” Lewis explains that hardship offers a good leader a time to show off his true colors. This lesson holds true today as hardships seem to become more and more dominant and insurmountable.

Both these descriptions of leadership in these two stories carry real import in a comparison of Narnian rulers to present-day world leaders. Lewis clearly stresses the importance of leading by example; a leader must back up his decrees with action on his own behalf, he says. Each book portrays a ruler who knows the life of a poor person— the Cabby has lived at the bottom of the socioeconomic food chain, Cor has been a slave his whole life—and who is no stranger to hardship or adversity. This reality ensures that each ruler will in turn care about the plight of those who are needy or oppressed. Lewis insists that a ruler must stress integrity, equality, and justice in order to maintain an orderly, fair, and just realm. If exemplified, these models of moral leadership have the foresight to inspire and shape strong men and women who would lead the forces of good in our world today to counter oppression, injustice, and inequality.

Lewis’ portrayals of leadership sum up well many of the positive themes emphasized in the Chronicles. From freedom to justice to mercy to equality, Lewis’ classics have strong moral messages to convey to their readers. These messages have the power, then, to shape our ideas and beliefs and in turn affect our actions in the world.

Yet a voice may interject here, and call this claim a stretch. Books are, after all, just books. What affect can they really have on the world? For the answer to this question, Haile 66 we need look no further than Lewis himself, who wrote extensively on the power of literature and literary experience:

Literary experience heals the wound, without undermining the privilege of individuality…In

reading great literature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself. Like the night sky in the

Greek poem, I see with a myriad eyes, but it is still I who see. Here, as in worship, in love, in

moral action, and in knowing, I transcend myself; and am never more myself than when I do.

(Ryken 52)

In literature, Lewis says, the reader finds the power to transcend himself. Thus, when approached in this spirit of transcendence, The Chronicles of Narnia allow the reader to escape into a fantasy, to be swept up in the landscape of Narnia with Aslan, the White

Witch, and everyone else, only to return to reality inspired and empowered to say along with Puddleglum: “I’m going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn’t any

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