Likewise, the description of the battle between Caspian and the forces of Miraz redounds with the miscalculations and depredations of the combat soldier:
At last there came a night when everything had gone as badly as possible, and the rain which had been falling heavily all day had ceased at nightfall only to give place to raw cold. . . . Poor Wimbleweather, though as brave as a lion, was a true Giant in that respect. He had broken out at the wrong time and from the wrong place, and both his party and Caspian’s had suffered badly and done the enemy little harm. The best of the Bears had been hurt, a Centaur terribly wounded, and there were few in Caspian’s party who had not lost blood. It was a gloomy company that huddled under the dripping trees to eat their scanty supper.79
The military blunders, the fruitless acts of bravery, the bone-chilling rain, the meager rations: there were many days and nights just like these along the Western Front. Imaginary beasts aside, such scenes could have been lifted from the journal of any front-line soldier. Like Tolkien, though, Lewis includes these images not for their own sake, but to provide the matrix for the moral and spiritual development of his characters: “Eustace stood with his heart beating terribly, hoping and hoping that he would be brave.”80 Indeed, the most compelling personalities in their stories face down their fears and find themselves transformed by the crisis of their age.
THE HEROIC QUEST
The evils of the Great War created many cynics and pacifists in the years after peace was established. For them, there could be nothing heroic about the folly of war. Yet, as veterans of this conflict, Tolkien and Lewis chose to remember not only its horrors and sorrows: they wanted to recall the courage, sacrifice, and the friendships that made it endurable.
Retrieving the medieval concept of the heroic quest—reinventing it for the modern mind—is one of the signal achievements of their work. Whether in epics such as Beowulf or romances like Malory’s Morte d’Arthur, Tolkien and Lewis both found in medieval literature a set of motifs and ideals worth recalling.81 More than that, they believed the genre offered a tonic for the spiritual malaise of the modern age. Biographer John Garth’s judgment of Tolkien applies to Lewis as well: “He did not simply preserve the traditions that the war threatened, but reinvigorated them for his own era.”82
Each of the installments in The Chronicles of Narnia is awash in these traditions. Narnia is a realm of kings and queens, where a code of honor holds sway, where knighthood is won or lost on the field of battle. “This is the greatest shame and sorrow that could have fallen on us,” says the Prince in The Silver Chair. “We have sent a brave lady into the hands of enemies and stayed behind in safety.”83 The heroes of these stories—whether they take the form of princes or mice or Marsh-wiggles—are imbued with the medieval ideals of sacrifice and chivalry. “Sire, my life is ever at your command,” pledges Reepicheep to Prince Caspian, “but my honor is my own.”84
Tolkien once said that when he read a medieval work it stirred him to produce a modern work in the same tradition. This is what he has done in The Lord of the Rings.85 As Verlyn Flieger observes, two of the central heroic figures of the story, Frodo and Aragorn, carry “a rich medieval heritage.”86 Yet in them Tolkien presents us with two kinds of heroes: the extraordinary man, the hidden king determined to fight for his people and regain his throne; and the ordinary man, the hobbit who, like many of us, is “not made for perilous quests” and prefers the comforts and safety of home.
In Aragorn we see the classic elements of the medieval knight: the casting of his broken sword upon the table at the Council of Elrond, his secret love for Arwen, his kingly leadership of the people of Gondor. Yet it is Aragorn’s chivalrous character that holds the greatest appeal. His courage and ferocity in battle occur alongside his mercy and tenderness, especially toward the weak. His commitment to a just cause never devolves into a campaign for personal glory. “I am Aragorn son of Arathorn,” he announces to Frodo and Sam, “and if by life or death I can save you, I will.”87
At first glance, Frodo seems to have little in common with Aragorn. His is an orphan, with no kingly lineage. As a hobbit, he is small of stature, reticent by nature. He is no warrior. He views the burden of the Ring resentfully, and accepts it almost by accident. Yet in Tolkien’s treatment, Frodo’s character is deepened and enlarged by the trial he endures. He conquers his fears to face death against the Black Riders. He finds pity for the despicable Gollum. He battles the constant temptation of the Ring and summons the strength to press on, surprising even Gandalf with his courage. “My dear Frodo!” he exclaims. “Hobbits really are amazing creatures, as I have said before. You can learn all that there is to know about their ways in a month, and yet after a hundred years they can still surprise you at a pinch.”88
In the aftermath of the First World War, there was deep cynicism about “the moralistic idealism” that created the slaughterhouse of the Western Front.89 Modern liberalism had come to regard man’s combative nature as an evil, and the chivalrous sentiment as the “false glamour” of war.90 Even before the Enlightenment, of course, many Europeans (and Americans) had learned to despise the values associated with the medieval world. The forces of democracy, secularism, and feminism would discard them altogether.
No wonder critics accuse Tolkien and Lewis of forming a “cultural rearguard of the Middle Ages.” Writes Lee Rossi: “They exhibit a tremendous nostalgia for the political stability and cultural cohesion of the Middle Ages.”91 In fact, neither sought a return to the political or social ideals of Christendom.92 Nevertheless, they saw its tradition of valor and chivalry as both practical and vital. “It taught humility and forbearance to the great warrior,” Lewis observed, “because everyone knew by experience how much he usually needed that lesson.”93
Thus the noblest characters in their stories display gentleness as well as fierceness, the qualities embodied in the greatest knight in Morte d’Arthur: “Thou wert the meekest man that ever ate in hall among ladies; and thou wert the sternest knight to thy mortal foe that ever put spear in the rest.” The heroes of Narnia and Middle-earth do not shrink from the sight of hacked-off limbs and smashed skulls; yet they also are men and women of great humility and modesty. The intended effect of these characters is to retrieve the medieval virtues and make them attractive, even to a modern audience.
Why did Tolkien and Lewis, ignoring the most powerful trends of their culture, embark on this task? Part of the answer lies in the battlefields of France. It was there, as young soldiers, that they encountered these virtues—in the officers and privates and medics at the Western Front. It was there, according to Tolkien, that the inspiration for his most beloved mythic character occurred. The exploits of the hobbits reveal how the “unforeseen and unforeseeable acts of will, and deeds of virtue of the apparently small, ungreat, forgotten in the places of the Wise and Great” shaped the destinies of nations.94
Rejecting equally the moods of militarism and pacifism, these authors charted a middle course: a partial return to the chivalrous ideal. Only a society that upheld this ideal—in its art, literature, and its institutions—could hope to resist the dark and hungry forces arrayed against it. The serene and pacific Rivendell is a vision, perhaps, of the world as it ought to be, but not as we actually find it. “There are in fact things with which it cannot cope,” Tolkien said, “and upon which its existence nonetheless depends.”95 The heroic ideal in their stories is not escapism, they argued, but the only realistic path available in a dangerous world. As Lewis explained: “It offers the only possible escape from a world divided between wolves who do not understand, and sheep who cannot defend, the things which make life desirable.”96
THE GIFT OF FRIENDSHIP
The heroic quest as understood by Tolkien and Lewis is unlike our modern notions of heroism in at least one other way: it is not a solitary endeavor. Students of war understand this truth better than most. Historian Stephen Ambrose introduced millions of readers to the importance of comradeship in wartime with his book Ba
nd of Brothers, the basis for the award-winning HBO miniseries. It is the story of the men of E Company, the 506th Regiment of America’s 101st Airborne Division, from their initial training in 1942 to the end of the Second World War. “Within Easy Company they had made the best friends they had ever had, or would ever have,” writes Ambrose. “They were prepared to die for each other; more important, they were prepared to kill for each other.”97
This fact about the experience of combat was as relevant for the soldiers who went off to fight in 1914 as for those in 1939. The distance of that earlier war from our own time, the ruthlessness of the conflict, the ambiguity of its aims, its disastrous consequences for Western civilization—all these factors combine to prevent us from appreciating the intense sense of comradeship that shaped the lives of millions of young soldiers.
Yet for Tolkien and Lewis, their personal knowledge of the fellowship of men under fire must rank as another defining experience for their literary lives. As Lewis biographer Alan Jacobs observes, friendship is one of the most significant themes in The Chronicles of Narnia.98 In The Silver Chair, we watch not only the growing friendship between Eustace and Jill Pole, but the stubborn loyalty of Puddleglum, as he decides to share the dangers of their quest: “Don’t you lose heart, Pole,” said Puddleglum. “I’m coming, sure and certain. . . . Now a job like this—a journey up north just as winter’s beginning, looking for a prince who probably isn’t there, by way of a ruined city that no one has ever seen—will be just the thing. If that doesn’t steady a chap, I don’t know what will.”99
We see the cords of friendship develop between Aravis and Shasta in The Horse and His Boy, as the demands of war force them to work together, slowly replacing their resentments with deep admiration and, eventually, love. “In this idea about Aravis, Shasta was once more quite wrong,” Lewis wrote. “She was proud and could be hard enough but she was as true as steel and would never have deserted a companion, whether she liked him or not.”100
Indeed, it might be argued that friendship replaces romance as the preeminent expression of love in Lewis’s stories. In The Chronicles of Narnia it flourishes between the children (the “sons and daughters of Adam”); between these children and the noble Narnians (the myriad of talking animals and mythological beasts); and, supremely, between Aslan, the great Lion, and all who serve him in love and obedience.101 “To the Ancients, Friendship seemed the happiest and most fully human of all loves; the crown of life and the school of virtue,” wrote Lewis. “The modern world, in comparison, ignores it.”102 In the world of Narnia—a realm ravaged by war—its essential role in human happiness is affirmed throughout.
Lewis first established friendships of this quality during the war years: with his brother, Warnie, whom he called “my dearest and closest friend,” and in whom he found a confidant who understood the horrors of combat; with Laurence Johnson, who fought alongside him on the Western Front and shared his love of literature and philosophy; and with Edward “Paddy” Moore, who was sent to the Somme and with whom he made a pact to care for each other’s family if either should be killed.103 Years later, reflecting on the nature of friendship, Lewis turned naturally to the experience of war to explain what distinguished the love among friends from all other earthly loves:
Every step of the common journey tests his metal; and the tests are tests we fully understand because we are undergoing them ourselves. Hence, as he rings true time after time, our reliance, our respect and our admiration blossom into an Appreciative love of a singularly robust and well-informed kind. If, at the outset, we had attended more to him and less to the thing our Friendship is “about,” we should not have come to know or love him so well. You will not find the warrior, the poet, the philosopher or the Christian by staring into his eyes as if he were your mistress: better to fight beside him, read with him, argue with him, pray with him.104
We have seen how Tolkien was devoted to the friends of his school days, the men of the TCBS. In 1916, expecting to be sent soon into the theater of war, they held their own war meeting, “the Council of London.” There they spoke of the ideas that moved them deeply, and pledged to support one another through the storms of war. When Tolkien enlisted with the 19th Lancashire Fusiliers, he hoped, like Lewis, to be going into combat with one of his closest friends.105
It is no accident, of course, that Tolkien called the first book of his trilogy The Fellowship of the Ring. Part of the immense attraction of the story is watching a contentious assemblage of hobbits, dwarves, and elves put away their differences and fight alongside one another against each new threat and danger. They begin their quest as reluctant allies, suspicious and even distrustful. Before it is complete—and after facing many terrors and setbacks—they are transformed into a fellowship of the noblest kind.
At the start of their journey, Elrond advises the Company that each may continue only as far as he chooses; none are under obligation to help the Ring-bearer all the way to Mount Doom. Gimli is quick to respond: “Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens.” When Frodo arrives at Crickhollow, before setting out into the Old Forest, he is determined to leave on his own; he does not want to expose his companions to the perils that lie ahead. But Merry, Pippin, and Sam are wise to his plans and confront him before he can slip away. They insist on coming with him. Frodo, deeply moved, nevertheless protests. “But it does not seem that I can trust anyone.” Merry is unflappable:
“It all depends on what you want. You can trust us to stick to you through thick and thin—to the bitter end. And you can trust us to keep any secret of yours—closer than you keep it yourself. But you cannot trust us to let you face trouble alone, and go off without a word. We are your friends, Frodo. Anyway, there it is. We know most of what Gandalf has told you. We know a good deal about the Ring. We are horribly afraid—but we are coming with you; or following you like hounds.”106
As vital as the Fellowship of the Ring is to Tolkien’s story, the bond of friendship between Sam Gamgee and Frodo Baggins is one of the great triumphs of the work, inspired, as we have seen, by the rugged service of the batmen and soldiers in the trenches along the front. Like no other, Sam is the friend who would “jump down a dragon’s throat” to save Frodo, “if he did not trip over his own feet.”107 Tolkien once called Sam “this jewel among the hobbits.”108
Sam’s loyalty is tested from beginning to end, from the decision to leave the Shire to the final approach to Mordor. “It is going to be very dangerous, Sam. It is already dangerous,” warns Frodo. “Most likely neither of us will come back.” Sam doesn’t flinch: “If you don’t come back, sir, then I shan’t, that’s certain. ‘Don’t you leave him!’ they said to me. ‘Leave him!’ I said. ‘I never mean to. I am going with him, if he climbs to the Moon; and if any of those Black Riders try to stop him, they’ll have Sam Gamgee to reckon with.’ ”109
When Frodo and Sam are at the threshold of Mount Doom, near the very end of their quest, they find themselves nearly without strength to carry on. For Frodo there was “no taste of food, no feel of water, no sound of wind, no memory of tree or grass or flower.” The desolation of the landscape, the black skies, the noxious fumes, the ash and slag and burned stone, and the dark slopes of the Mountain towering over them are almost overwhelming. They stagger toward their goal. Frodo, weakened by the great burden of carrying the Ring, begins to crawl on his hands.
Sam looked at him and wept in his heart, but no tears came to his dry and stinging eyes. “I said I’d carry him, if it broke my back,” he muttered, “and I will!”
“Come, Mr. Frodo!” he cried. “I can’t carry it for you, but I can carry you and it as well. So up you get! Come on, Mr. Frodo dear! Sam will give you a ride. Just tell him where to go, and he’ll go.”110
It is a good bet that only men who knew friendships of this kind—who experienced them on the field of combat—could write passages of such compassion, grit, and courage. After the war, Tolkien and Lewis sought to recapture something like the camaraderi
e that sustained them during the crisis years of 1914–1918. At Oxford they launched the Inklings, the group of friends and fellow scholars who met weekly—Tuesday mornings at the Eagle and Child pub over beer and Thursday evenings in Lewis’s college rooms over various drinks—to discuss their works.111
For sixteen years these men gathered to read, recite, argue, and laugh together. They met faithfully, even during the darkest days of the Second World War. As Tolkien put it in a letter dated September 23, 1944: “The Inklings have already agreed that their victory celebration, if they are spared to have one, will be to take a whole inn in the country for at least a week, and spend it entirely in beer and talk, without any reference to a clock!”112 Lewis read aloud many of his most important works during these gatherings. “What I owe them is incalculable,” he acknowledged. “Is any pleasure on earth as great as a circle of Christian friends by a good fire?”113
During the course of four decades, Tolkien and Lewis became devoted to each other’s success. Tolkien, through long talks and late evenings, played a crucial role in Lewis’s conversion to Christianity. He helped Lewis find a publisher for his first novel, and was a major force in securing his appointment to the Chair of English at Magdalene College, Cambridge, in 1954, after Oxford denied him a professorship.
A Hobbit, a Wardrobe, and a Great War: How J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis Rediscovered Faith, Friendship, and Heroism In the Cataclysm of 1914–1918 Page 17