The Golden Key

In the previous episode, I talked about an exhibit of the inklings– Token, Williams, and Barfield. But I would like to devote this entire episode to an individual who is arguably the most well-known of the inklings–CS Lewis. 

Mr. Lewis, how do you believe the inklings influenced you as a writer.

Ah, Mr. Bartley, I began as a rationalist atheist, but the Inklings helped me blend logic, imagination, and faith. The result was stories that enchant across generations, such as The Chronicles of Narnia and essays that provoke thought I wanted to show that fantasy could carry deep moral and spiritual truths, and that literature could entertain while transforming the mind and heart.  I would like to think that I did not just write books– I crafted worlds, ideas, and moral truths that continue to inspire readers to imagine, believe, and wonder.”

Transcript

In the previous episode, I talked about an exhibit of the inklings– Token, Williams, and Barfield. But I would like to devote this entire episode to an individual who was also a member of the inklingsi CS Lewis. 

Mr. Lewis, how do you believe the inklings influenced you as a writer.

Ah, Mr. Bartley, I began as a rationalist atheist, but the Inklings helped me blend logic, imagination, and faith. The result was stories that enchant across generations, such as The Chronicles of Narnia and essays that provoke thought I wanted to show that fantasy could carry deep moral and spiritual truths, and that literature could entertain while transforming the mind and heart.  I would like to think that I did not just write books– I crafted worlds, ideas, and moral truths that continue to inspire readers to imagine, believe, and wonder.”

Could you tell us a little bit about your background?

Certainly Mr. Bartley. I studied at Oxford, excelling in literature and philosophy. My early writing were mostly scholarly essays and literary criticism.  But debates and readings with Tolkien, Williams, and Barfield pulled me toward faith, imagination, and moral storytelling. I began to combine rigorous logic (from Tolkien’s influence) with spiritual and mystical awareness (from Williams) and philosophical insight (from Barfield).

Mr. Lewis, what were your major works or collections of literature

Oh, Mr. Bartley - my most well received wereThe Chronicles of Narnia – which can be described as an imaginative, accessible fantasy that conveys deep moral and spiritual thmes.

The Screwtape Letters – which are a rather witty, pointed exploration of human nature and Christian ethics and

Mere Christianity – a clear, rational exposition of faith and Christian belief

Mr. Lewis, why would you say that your works are important?

I believe my works are important because I felt that I was able to bridge scholarship and storytelling, showing that fantasy can be a vehicle for moral and spiritual truth.  I also attempted to make philosophy, theology, and imagination engaging and accessible to a wide audience.  I believe that my influence extends beyond literature: I firmly believe that my works shaped thinking about morality, faith, and imagination in the modern era.

Yes, Lewis may be the most “famous” today - with Tolkien a close second - but he was part of a creative network that challenged and inspired him.

Exactly, Mr. Bartley Understanding me without my Inklings friends is like seeing a single star—you miss the constellation that gave what critics have called my context and depth.

Mr. Lewis, how would you say that you expressed your genius?

Oh I would not say I am a genius, but I like to think I have the ability to bridge scholarship and storytelling with philosophy and imagination, making complex ideas both understandable and compelling. I would like to thank that I demonstrated how fantasy could carry deep moral and spiritual truths, and that literature could be both entertaining and transformative.

Mr. Lewis I think it's rather obvious that you did have individual brilliance.

Oh Mr. Bartley, any creativity was inseparable from the Inklings. The debates, readings, and camaraderie of that Oxford group shaped my my thinking, expanded my imagination, and helped me refine the stories and essays that continue to resonate today.   You might say that trying to understand me without the Inklings is like reading a single star in the night sky—you miss the constellation that gave me me shape, depth, and context.

Mr. Lewis could you tell us about your most popular works?

Mr. Bartley, My most popular novel, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, was first published 1950. It is the first published and best known of theseven novels in The Chronicles of Narnia series. Most of the novel is set in Narnia, a land of talking animals and mythical creatures that is ruled by the evil White Witch. In the story, four English children are relocated to a large, old country house following a wartime evacuation. The youngest, Lucy, visits Narnia three times via the magic of a wardrobe in a spare room. Lucy's three siblings are with her on her third visit to Narnia. In Narnia, the siblings fullfil an old prophecy and find themselves adventuring to save Narnia and their own lives. The lion Aslan gives his life to save one of the children; he later rises from the dead, vanquishes the White Witch, and crowns the children Kings and Queens of Narnia.

Mr. Lewis, Were you thinking of any specific individual when you wrote the series?

Most definitely. I wrote the book for (and dedicated it to) my dear goddaughter, Lucy Barfield. She was the daughter of Owen Barfield, my friend, teacher, adviser, trustee, and - as you know - also a member of the Inklings.

But let me emphasize, that I did not write The Chronicles of Narnia all by himself. My imagination was shaped by the Inklings—a group of Oxford friends—who challenged, inspired, and sometimes mercilessly debated with me.

Mr. Tolkein, would you say that the ink links were the most significant effective on your work?

Mr. Bartley, let me end this podcast episode with this observation. You see, Many people imagine that the Inklings gathered merely to read one another's manuscripts. We did indeed read Tolkien's chapters and Charles Williams's strange and wonderful novels. But we were also nourished by the great writers who had come before us. None meant more to me than George MacDonald. If you would understand something of the imagination that eventually gave birth to Narnia, perhaps I should let MacDonald speak for himself in this excerpt from one of his works–

The Golden Key (1867)

by

George MacDonald

There was a boy who used to sit in the twilight and listen to his great-aunt's stories. She told him that if he could reach the place where the end of the rainbow stands he would find there a golden key.

"And what is the key for?" the boy would ask. "What is it the key of? What will it open?"

"That nobody knows," his aunt would reply. "He has to find that out."\

"I suppose, being gold," the boy once said, thoughtfully, "that I could get a good deal of money for it if I sold it."

"Better never find it than sell it," returned his aunt.

And the boy went to bed and dreamed about the golden key.

Now all that his great-aunt told the boy about the golden key would have been nonsense, had it not been that their little house stood on the borders of Fairyland. For it is perfectly well known that out of Fairyland nobody ever can find where the rainbow stands. The creature takes such good care of its golden key, always flitting from place to place, lest any one should find it! But in Fairyland it is quite different. Things that look real in this country look very thin indeed in Fairyland, while some of the things that here cannot stand still for a moment, will not move there. So it was not in the least absurd of the old lady to tell her nephew such things about the golden key.

"Did you ever know anybody to find it?" he asked, one evening.

"Yes. Your father, I believe, found it."

"And what did he do with it, can you tell me?"

"He never told me."

"What was it like?"

"He never showed it to me."

"How does a new key come there always?"

"I don't know. There it is."

"Perhaps it is the rainbow's egg."

"Perhaps it is. You will be a happy boy if you find the nest."

"Perhaps it comes tumbling down the rainbow from the sky."

"Perhaps it does."

One evening, in summer, he went into his own room and stood at the lattice-window, and gazed into the forest which fringed the outskirts of Fairyland. It came close up to his great-aunt's garden, and, indeed, sent some straggling trees into it. The forest lay to the east, and the sun, which was setting behind the cottage, looked straight into the dark wood with his level red eye. The trees were all old, and had few branches below, so that the sun could see a great way into the forest and the boy, being keen-sighted, could see almost as far as the sun. The trunks stood like rows of red columns in the shine of the red sun, and he could see down aisle after aisle in the vanishing distance. And as he gazed into the forest he began to feel as if the trees were all waiting for him, and had something they could not go on with till he came to them. But he was hungry and wanted his supper. So he lingered.

Suddenly, far among the trees, as far as the sun could shine, he saw a glorious thing. It was the end of a rainbow, large and brilliant. He could count all seven colours, and could see shade after shade beyond the violet; while before the red stood a colour more gorgeous and mysterious still. It was a colour he had never seen before. Only the spring of the rainbow-arch was visible. He could see nothing of it above the trees.

"The golden key!" he said to himself, and darted out of the house, and into the wood.

He had not gone far before the sun set. But the rainbow only glowed the brighter. For the rainbow of Fairyland is not dependent upon the sun, as ours is. The trees welcomed him. The bushes made way for him. The rainbow grew larger and brighter; and at length he found himself within two trees of it.

It was a grand sight, burning away there in silence, with its gorgeous, its lovely, its delicate colours, each distinct, all combining. He could now see a great deal more of it. It rose high into the blue heavens, but bent so little that he could not tell how high the crown of the arch must reach. It was still only a small portion of a huge bow.

He stood gazing at it till he forgot himself with delight—even forgot the key which he had come to seek. And as he stood it grew more wonderful still. For in each of the colours, which was as large as the column of a church, he could faintly see beautiful forms slowly ascending as if by the steps of a winding stair. The forms appeared irregularly—now one, now many, now several, now none—men and women and children—all different, all beautiful.

He drew nearer to the rainbow. It vanished. He started back     dismay. It was there again, as beautiful as ever. So he contented himself with standing as near it as he might, and watching the forms that ascended the glorious colours towards the unknown height of the arch, which did not end abruptly but faded away in the blue air, so gradually that he could not say where it ceased.

When the thought of the golden key returned, the boy very wisely proceeded to mark out in his mind the space covered by the foundation of the rainbow, in order that he might know where to search, should the rainbow disappear. It was based chiefly upon a bed of moss.

Meantime it had grown quite dark in the wood. The rainbow alone was visible by its own light. But the moment the moon rose the rainbow vanished. Nor could any change of place restore the vision to the boy's eyes. So he threw himself down upon the mossy bed, to wait till the sunlight would give him a chance of finding the key. There he fell fast asleep.

When he woke in the morning the sun was looking straight into his eyes. He turned away from it, and the same moment saw a brilliant little thing lying on the moss within a foot of his face. It was the golden key. The pipe of it was of plain gold, as bright as gold could be. The handle was curiously wrought and set with sapphires. In a terror of delight he put out his hand and took it, and had it.

He lay for a while, turning it over and over, and feeding his eyes upon its beauty. Then he jumped to his feet, remembering that the pretty thing was of no use to him yet. Where was the lock to which the key belonged? It must be somewhere, for how could anybody be so silly as make a key for which there was no lock? Where should he go to look for it? He gazed about him, up into the air, down to the earth, but saw no keyhole in the clouds, in the grass, or in the trees.

Just as he began to grow disconsolate, however, he saw something glimmering in the wood. It was a mere glimmer that he saw, but he took it for a glimmer of rainbow, and went towards it.—And now I will go back to the borders of the forest.

Not far from the house where the boy had lived, there was another house, the owner of which was a merchant, who was much away from home. He had lost his wife some years before, and had only one child, a little girl, whom he left to the charge of two servants, who were very idle and careless. So she was neglected and left untidy, and was sometimes ill-used besides.

Now it is well known that the little creatures commonly known as fairies, though there are many different kinds of fairies in Fairyland, have an exceeding dislike to untidiness. Indeed, they are quite spiteful to slovenly people. Being used to all the lovely ways of the trees and flowers, and to the neatness of the birds and all woodland creatures, it makes them feel miserable, even in their deep woods and on their grassy carpets, to think that within the same moonlight lies a dirty, uncomfortable, slovenly house. And this makes them angry with the people that live in it, and they would gladly drive them out of the world if they could. They want the whole earth nice and clean. So they pinch the maids black and blue and play them all manner of uncomfortable tricks.

But this house was quite a shame, and the fairies in the forest could not endure it. They tried everything on the maids without effect, and at last resolved upon making a clean riddance, beginning with the child. They ought to have known that it was not her fault, but they have little principle and much mischief in them, and they thought that if they got rid of her the maids would be sure to be turned away.

T then the air fish came from behind her and swam up on front glittering and sparkling all lovely colors. he poor little girl began running and passed under a tree with drooping branches. It dropped its branches to the ground all about her, and caught her as in a trap. She struggled to get out, but the branches pressed her closer and closer to the trunk. She was in great terror and distress, when the air-fish, swimming into the thicket of branches, began tearing them with its beak. They loosened their hold at once, and the creature went on attacking them, till at length they let the child go. Then the air-fish came from behind her, and swam on in front, glittering and sparkling all lovely colours; and she followed.

It led her gently along till all at once it swam in at a cottage door. The child followed still. There was a bright fire in the middle of the floor, upon which stood a pot without a lid, full of water that boiled and bubbled furiously. The air-fish swam straight to the pot and into the boiling water, where it lay quiet. A beautiful woman rose from the opposite side of the fire and came to meet the girl. She took her up in her arms, and said,—

"Ah, you are come at last! I have been looking for you a long time."

She sat down with her on her lap, and there the girl sat staring at her. She had never seen anything so beautiful. She was tall and strong, with white arms and neck, and a delicate flush on her face. The child could not tell what was the colour of her hair, but could not help thinking it had a tinge of dark green. She had not one ornament upon her, but she looked as if she had just put off quantities of diamonds and emeralds. Yet here she was in the simplest, poorest little cottage, where she was evidently at home-a place where she would live happily ever after.

Mr. Bartley, "You see why I called George MacDonald my master. He did not teach me what to think. He taught me how to imagine."

And thank you for listening to Hall of imagination. This has been George Bartley.