Essay by Anika Islam
Art by Paula Mohar
In the English literary canon, the shift into modernism attempted to explain the questions that arose twice over when the dust cleared from each World War. But for a few, it seemed modernity was a mistake, and the answers to their questions lay in the past. This concern entails much of the worldbuilding for authors J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, who tackled these questions through their writing. Tolkien and Lewis’ respective novels, The Hobbit (1937) and The Magician’s Nephew (1955), explore the question of England’s post-war future through their mythologically-inspired worldbuilding. Tolkien’s text advocates for a return to an idyllic, pre-modern English past through his protagonist’s incorruptibility in an Old Norse-inspired world, reflecting the problems of the twentieth century. Meanwhile, Lewis’ novel champions the idea of creating a new world steeped in Christian values, depicted in opposition to modernism and demonstrated through the novel’s Christian elements. Through their heroes’ identities in these worlds, both The Hobbit and The Magician’s Nephew deem “Englishness” as central to their post-war goals, thus endorsing a sense of nationalism as the way to move forward.
Much of the scholarship on Tolkien and Lewis focuses on the mythological and religious inspirations for their work. Jane Chance and Susan Robbins observe the specific texts and stories from which Tolkien drew inspiration, while Maria Cecire takes the discussion further to explore how Tolkien and Lewis’ integration of mythology and religion “spread medieval and new fantasy narratives that could convey the importance of the premodern past,” in “heroic realms dominated by implicitly white, English or broadly British, Christian or proto-Christian men” (“Relegated” 43), creating a sense of nationalism based in the Middle Ages and associating an Anglicised identity with a romanticized view of the time period. Philip Smith examines the medieval settings of novels in the Chronicles through a postcolonial lens, drawing connections between the glorification of the Narnian medieval settings and “a desire to go back to an earlier, mythic, medieval white British monoculture” (16). Christopher Toner takes a slightly different approach by investigating the hobbit concept of home, which can be expanded through examining the idea of returning to a nationalistic, English concept of home. Finally, Lily Glasner discusses religion in Chronicles as a political call to action for children to “look at the world they are living in… [and] learn to identify and embrace that which is good and worthy and to identify and reject that which is bad and unworthy” (68), a progressive action which is made possible when following Christian ideals. In this paper, I will build on these scholars’ ideas through a new historicist lens, looking at the novels’ romanticization of mythology and religion and its interconnectedness with English identity, as well as examining the ways in which the novels interact with the English post-war environment.
The world of The Hobbit is inspired by stories adapted from Norse mythology, many used as a mirror for Tolkien’s own world prior to, during, and following World War I. As Jane Chance points out, the framing of The Hobbit borrows from the Norse story of Sigurd, with its themes of all-consuming greed and corruption resulting from heady power being used “as a mirror of pity towards man” (83). Meanwhile, Susan Robbins lays out in her paper the ways in which Tolkien drew from Old Norse sources to build the world of The Hobbit and populate it. I build on both Robbins’ writings on Tolkien’s use of Old Norse stories and Chance’s writings on Tolkien and the story of Sigurd. I especially focus on Chance’s idea of these Norse myths mirroring the human world, re-examining her theory through a new historicist lens, and positing that the choice to use this specific tale is significant in that it places Thorin and the dwarves’ previously noble quest to reclaim the Lonely Mountain under a new light—a sinister one, as the events that transpire on the Lonely Mountain echo the moral failings that led to the outbreak of World War I. The curse upon the gold in both stories—or, the “dragon-sickness”—works in a non-literal way to expose the flawed nature of the inhabitants of Middle-earth in how easily they can succumb to this supposed sickness, defined as “a kind of bewilderment or confusion that makes one so greedy for the gold that one would rather starve to death rather than give any of it up” (Robbins 72). Thorin’s manic obsession that begins to overtake him after having repossessed the gold is a mirror for the early twentieth century. The avarice and corruption that plunged the world into a war are the same problems found in the Old Norse story of Sigurd slaying the dragon from the Saga of the Völsungs, so it is apt that Tolkien writes these sources of conflict into his own novel to highlight the constants of ill human nature. Though Thorin’s actions lead to his demise, his descent into greed and violence is not an isolated incident. The last page of the novel leaves the reader with a warning:
The old Master had come to a bad end. Bard had given him much gold for the help of the Lake-people, but being of the kind that easily catches such disease he fell under the dragon-sickness, and took most of the gold and fled with it, and died of starvation in the Waste, deserted by his companions. (Tolkien 351)
Evidently, this greed for gold (representing more—honour, land, etc.) is something innately built into individuals, which marks Middle-earth as a world filled with a deep sadness, not unlike our own, as World War I can largely be attributed to the imperial races and greed of political leaders. Cecire remarks that “[t]he story of the dragon Smaug’s attack . . . allegorically conveys the importance of taking seriously old stories and their embedded knowledge, even when they seem hopelessly outdated . . . to the modern mind” (“Relegated” 58), which can be expanded to suggest that the old stories incorporated into the novel highlight the similarities reality shares with fiction.
While Middle-earth brims with sadness, the Shire is a completely separate world, retaining its own customs; the latter is the world which the text glorifies as a representation of pre-modern English country life and advocates for a return to. Indeed, through his writing, Tolkien wished to create a “[reimagining] of a heroic Anglicised past” (Cecire “Medievalism” 386), and I argue that while he built his ancient English mythology in Middle-earth, the Shire is where Tolkien creates the idyllic English past. The mundanity that informs the ideals of English pastoral culture are represented and accounted for within the peace of the Shire; for instance, Bilbo remains uncorrupted during his journey, even as Thorin succumbs. I suggest that Bilbo’s personal stakes were lower, as he joined the quest purely out of a desire to prove himself brave and in possession of an adventurous spirit, but the ruin of the Lake-Master in the conclusion proves that there is no need for personal stakes when speaking of vice. Instead, it is the English values of the Shire instilled in Bilbo which save him from the general moral corruption that pervades Middle-earth and makes its inhabitants susceptible to illnesses such as the “dragon-sickness.” On the subject of home in Tolkien, Christopher Toner notes that “home requires a culture that is not only expressive of the character of its people, but that is also a living culture, one that is appropriately responsive to the world in which the home is situated” (140). To expand on his idea, this is not only a living culture in the novel, but one which Tolkien proposes existed in its own past, and should be returned to. The structure that the novel follows—“home-away-home”—insists on a return to this idyllic English past, for however exciting his adventures had been, at the end of his long journey, Bilbo still “wishes . . . only to be in [his] own armchair” (Tolkien 340), to return to life in the Shire. The novel’s extended title, There and Back Again, further emphasizes the importance of returning home to this haven; this is the heroic, Anglicised past which Tolkien depicts in his novel, and for a post-war society emerging out of the devastating results of war and modernization, a harmonious paradise acts as the ideal counter to the ruin inflicted by their new world. Perhaps it is Thorin who says it best, contrasting the values and the ways of life of the hobbits with the rest of the inhabitants of Middle-earth: “If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world” (Tolkien 333).
The environments of the worlds Digory and Polly travel through in The Magician’s Nephew are not unfamiliar to the readers living in the immediate aftermath of the conclusion of World War II; The Magician’s Nephew is a post-World War II novel, despite its fantastical setting. Lewis’ experiences with Europe’s devastating post-war climate seep into his world-building, as Charn embodies the post-war state, while Narnia represents the possibility of what could be, described to be “all in ruins,” and even the silence is “dead, cold, [and] empty” (Lewis 43). Lily Glasner writes that while the horrors of the war are not named, “[this] does not mean the author did not use his imaginative fiction to reflect the catastrophic reality outside the text” (66). Through a historical lens, the destruction of Charn at the hands of Jadis parallels Europe’s state following World War II, particularly London post-Blitz, while the “Deplorable Word,” with its power “to destroy all living things,” parallels the threat of nuclear annihilation (Lewis 62). Charn reflecting the post-war world is characterized in Aslan’s warning:
It is not certain that some wicked one of your race will not find out a secret as evil as the Deplorable Word and use it to destroy all living things. 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 Empress Jadis. (Lewis 186)
The reader’s tragedy is knowing that Aslan’s warning has come to fruition, as world leaders “poured out the blood of [their] armies like water,” and “[their] pride had destroyed the whole world” (Lewis 61–2); in contrast, the creation of Narnia represents what the world could be. The resemblances between the biblical creation story and Narnia are clear; however, the conclusions diverge, with the latter’s story resulting in a world without the fall of man; meanwhile, Narnia remains free from corruption through the implication that the faults of this world and Charn are a result of straying from God. Jadis’ belief in being “the Queen of the World” brings catastrophe to Charn (Lewis 61); by contrast, Digory in Narnia “instinctively recognizes Aslan’s divinity . . . [granting him] the abilities needed to [fix what] he has done” (Glasner 68). Narnia becomes a vision of what the world could become if remade with Christian morals:
The creation of Narnia enabled Lewis to bring Christian ideals back to their original meaning, as he saw those ideals reflected in the teachings of Jesus . . . This is the simple . . . answer that Lewis gives to a world that had both drifted far away from the original Word and had lost its moral compass. (Glasner 69)
Unlike in The Hobbit, the reader does not start with a formed world. Lewis’ choice to write the creation of a new world stands on the premise that the world that emerged in the post-war period needed a fresh beginning rather than mere repairs as a consequence of the changes the war had wrought; the correct way to do so would be through Christian morals. The triumph of Christian values through the biblical creation story interwoven with the story of Narnia’s creation is Lewis’ proof that “[k]nowing God [and] devotedly walking in His path . . . are the weapons needed by the one called to fight the horrors of a reality in which adult political leaders have lost their way” (Glasner 68).
As Narnia is created, it is its English characters who are at the forefront of creating this new and good world. If Christianity is the heart of Narnia, then whoever first introduces Christianity to Narnia should be seen as a moral leader. Significantly, it is The Cabby, Frank, who “[strikes] up at once a harvest thanksgiving hymn” (Lewis 100); only after Frank sings does Aslan manifest and begin his song of creation. It is then Frank, an Englishman, who is the first to preach Christianity in this new world, leading the charge in imbuing this world with goodness; thus, the English pastoral ideal present in The Hobbit’s Shire is realized in The Magician’s Nephew through Aslan’s crowning of Frank and his wife, Helen, as Narnia’s first monarchs. When expressing doubts about his qualifications, Aslan’s first question is to ask Frank if he “can . . . use a spade and a plough and raise food out of the earth” (Lewis 144). Aslan asking this indicates what he deems important to being a king: a sense of humility which tilling the soil brings. Following this pronouncement, Frank undergoes changes that restore him to his former countryside glory, when he still held rural English values, and he demonstrates a “courage and kindness which he had always had” (Lewis 174–5). A direct link is created between courage and life in the English countryside, and Frank is suited to rule precisely for his courageous disposition. In order to face the post-war world, it is vital to lead with a strong English identity, as it is this “Englishness” that retains the traits necessary to shoulder through difficulties to create a good world. Contrast this with Narnia, where sin is not born, but rather, imported, and wherein Jadis stands as the figure of the malevolent foreigner intruding into this English space, and “manifest[s] [the] fear of invasion and the instability of British cultural identity” in a time of increasing immigration (Smith 16), as many former British colonies began to declare independence. Further, Jadis’ destruction of her own world associates the modernity of destructive weapons and global war with her. For Lewis, English identity is automatically linked with “a white Christian Englishness” that makes for the optimum creation of a new world: one that is based in Christian principles, and led in charge by the English (Cecire “Relegated” 75).
It seems fitting that Tolkien and Lewis should write novels creating elseworlds; for the pair, modernity was not the answer—it was the very problem that they were trying to fight. The worlds that they built explored the flaws of human nature in order to provide an alternate path for a post-war world irrevocably changed. J.R.R Tolkien and C.S. Lewis’ respective novels, The Hobbit and The Magician’s Nephew, grapple with the uncertainties of England’s post-war future through their mythologically-infused worldbuilding. Tolkien’s novel advocates for a return to an idealized, pre-modern English past through its protagonist’s incorruptibility in an Old Norse-inspired world that reflects a chaotic twentieth century, while Lewis’ text pushes the idea of creating a new world rooted in Christian values and opposed to modernism, as demonstrated through the novel’s Christian elements. Their respective heroes’ identities in these worlds demonstrate “Englishness” as central to their post-war goals, thus embracing nationalism as the way to move forward. The post-war period in the English literary canon saw a trend towards modernism to try and come to terms with the horrors of the century, but Tolkien and Lewis’ differing choice provides an important lesson: for better or worse, many of the answers society seeks may be found in the pasts that they leave behind.
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