[This is the second part of a three-part blog post. The first part dealt with Lucy’s journey through the wardrobe, the second deals with Edmund’s, and the third will deal with the toings and froings of all four Pevensie children between our world and Narnia.]
The question of the reality of Lucy’s visit to Narnia – whether or not it ‘really’ happened – underpins the next interface with fantasy in Lewis’s narrative: Edmund’s visit. Partly as a result, this interface involves an exact reversal of Lucy’s experiences. Things happen back to front, as if in a mirror; and one reason for the reversal is that Edmund has already made up his mind before he enters the wardrobe that Lucy fabricated all her adventures. As a result, the world he finds on the other side is disturbing to him because it violates his sense of what is real, or perhaps of his own capacity to distinguish what is real from what is imagined. In addition, he feels as unable or unwilling to reverse his mental position in response to this disruption of his world view as Lucy earlier found it to pretend she was ‘playing at’ Narnia when she was not. Edmund necessarily sees Narnia through different eyes because the mind behind those eyes has different priorities, a different philosophy.
Another reason for Edmund’s different experience can be found in his mood when he enters the wardrobe: that is, in the kind of pleasure he is seeking as he passes through the mirrored door. Where Lucy was driven by Alice-like curiosity and a sensuous delight in the feel of fur, Edmund is driven by the desire to mock his sister for her inventions: ‘he wanted to go on teasing her about her imaginary country’. For him, this is a continuation of the power game he has been playing since Lucy first made her claims about entering Narnia; not a collaborative game, played by an agreed set of rules for a certain time, but a competition for supremacy in which there can only be one winner, whose victory isn’t temporary but permanent, establishing the victor once and for all as wholly superior to the defeated players. So it’s not surprising that Edmund is deeply disturbed by the loss of control he feels when he leaves his comfort zone. The discovery that the wardrobe does not in fact contain Lucy, that it is larger than he expected, that it sounds and feels unlike the interior of a piece of furniture, makes Edmund shiver – and, one presumes, not just with cold. There are two possible reasons for the fear suggested by his shivering. One is that he has been ‘unpleasant’ to Lucy about the things she seemed to have invented – so that she would have every right (according to his understanding as a player of power games) to be equally ‘unpleasant’ in response. The other, related reason is that the country he finds himself in is definitely not his. Lucy found it first, which makes it effectively hers from a colonialist perspective – from the perspective, that is, of a person who likes to stamp his authority on other people. It represents, in effect, a contest between them which she has won in emphatic fashion, thanks to his having been forced into the position of primary witness to her truthfulness. For both these reasons, Narnia can be taken as inimical to him. His state of mind is neatly summed up in the following sentence: ‘though he did not like to admit that he had been wrong, he also did not much like being alone in this strange, cold, quiet place’. The place is ‘strange’ because it once seemed impossible, and because its existence proves that he was mistaken in his assumptions about what was possible, which means he should logically rearrange his perceptions of the laws that govern the universe (as Todorov points out in his book on the fantastic). Both these things contribute to make Edmund ‘not much like’ the woods, and he seeks his sister’s company not so much to apologize as to make himself feel safer by getting together with someone who knows the ‘strange […] place’ better than he does.
It’s perhaps as a result of these selfish motives, in a kind of fairy tale logic of moral rather than scientific cause and effect, that when Edmund calls out for his sister what he gets instead is the self-styled Queen of Narnia, the White Witch. The Witch is the polar opposite (no pun intended) of Lucy’s Faun, and hence, to some extent at least, of Lucy herself. She is powerful, tall and arrogant, and she reacts to her meeting with a human stranger not with friendliness but sudden violence (‘she rose from her seat and looked Edmund full in the face, her eyes flaming; at the same moment she raised her wand’). Ironically, her physical appearance also ticks a number of boxes in the iconography of goodness. She arrives on a sledge with bells on it, drawn by reindeers, which invokes Christmas as inevitably as Tumnus’s packages. She is associated with whiteness, the colour of ‘good’ in conventional Western narratives: her reindeers and furs are white, and so is her face, which is ‘not merely pale, but white like snow or paper or icing-sugar, except for her very red mouth’ (and here the rapid shift from snow to paper to icing-sugar has a wonderfully disconcerting effect, making her sound like an artificial confection, a spun-sugar sculpture or a table decoration for a high-class banquet). Tumnus, by contrast, was shaped and coloured like a conventional devil (red, with hooves, horns and a very un-goat-like tail); so that if we accept Lucy’s reading of the Faun as accurate (and her now evident ‘truthfulness’ invites us to do so) then the Witch’s reverse iconography should mean she must stand for something devilish.
The trajectory of Edmund’s meeting with the Witch, too, reverses that of Lucy’s meeting with Tumnus. As with the Faun, her mood undergoes a sudden change, but this time from rage to cunning, from violence to seduction, from command to conversation. She offers the boy food and drink after her change in mood – not before it, as Tumnus did – and the provisions she offers are yet further removed than those of Tumnus from the dreariness of wartime rationing: a hot drink magically made from snow; a box of that unobtainable sweetmeat, Turkish Delight. With food comes talk, as it did with Tumnus and Lucy; but the communication between Edmund and the Witch is all one way (‘she got him to tell her’ all about himself, and he never thinks to inquire about her habits and adventures – when she describes her house to him it is solely as a place he would take pleasure in). The Witch may promise to adopt Edmund as her son, and hence eventually as her equal, but the imbalance of their relationship is obvious from their verbal exchanges.
The most intriguing aspect of their conversation is the way it ends. The White Witch finishes not with a discussion of the speakers’ ‘real’ identity (Tumnus ended his talk with Lucy by revealing his status as the Witch’s spy) but a return to the world of children’s games – that is, of transient fictions – which has by this time been rendered problematic by the fact that Narnia was not a game or fiction, as well as by Edmund’s preference for power games or competitions over consensual playfulness. The Witch suggests that ‘it would be fun’ for Edmund to pretend he has never met her, and that he should save the information he has about the Witch’s house ‘as a surprise’ for his siblings when he brings them back to Narnia. The reason for this ‘game’, however, is a serious one; if Edmund mentions the Queen alarm bells might be rung in Lucy’s mind, because she will have heard ‘strange stories’ from Tumnus about her. Strange stories here are implied to be fictions, and unpleasant ones at that; but Edmund’s experience with the strange story of Narnia should suggest to him there is substance behind them. He might also have noticed that what the Witch is suggesting to him is not a bit of transient ‘fun’, a ‘surprise’ which is pleasurable for its own sake, but a functional lie, a verbal trap; if he does not play this particular game his siblings are unlikely to approach the Witch’s domicile. Edmund’s mind, however, is too preoccupied with another kind of pleasure (also a trap) – the enchanted Turkish Delight he craves to have more of – for him to notice the inconsistency between her claims that what he will be promulgating is a harmless fiction and the suggestion that this fiction is being devised to suppress another ‘fiction’, the possibly well-founded rumours that the Queen is harmful.
Edmund’s encounter with the Witch, then, raises questions not just about the borders between fiction and reality but about the function of games. A game that is not participated in by all its players with a similar purpose – to spend a set period of time in consensual, rule-bound activity – is not a game; Lucy’s experience showed this, as did Edmund’s teasing, which was a game for him but perceived as bullying by his sister. Gradually, in fact, Lewis is building up a sophisticated dialogue between terms that are often carelessly used, especially in the context of children’s activities. The notion that there is a clear dividing line between fiction and fact, the game world and the ‘serious’ world, is itself a convenient fiction; after all, games must of necessity make use of otherwise functional spaces and materials (including time), just as fictions must make use of words and concepts which are in other contexts ‘factual’. And Lewis is suggesting that the relationship goes further than this; that the conventions that govern games (everyone who plays them agrees to abide by the rules) and the conventions that govern fictions (the recipients of any story agree to take it to some degree as ‘fact’ for as long as it lasts) are directly connected to, and serve as serious preparation for, certain essential life skills. Edmund is not an accomplished player of consensual games, as his treatment of Lucy shows, so he is ill equipped to see when he is being played with against his consent; that is, when he is being manipulated. He isn’t clearly aware of the distinction between stories and lies – his teasing assumes that Lucy is lying rather than telling a story (though in fact she is telling the truth) – and so agrees to tell the Witch’s lies as if they were a story. Further: since he has been discomfited and (in his eyes) diminished by the revelation that Lucy’s story or ‘lie’ was in fact the truth, he chooses to adopt lies as his personal mode of discourse, instead of gaining a new alertness to the possibility of truths underlying apparent fictions (such as the strange stories about the Queen). The success of a story, as of a game, depends on a collective act of imaginative complicity between the teller and the listener; a lie depends instead on the consciousness of the liar that she or he possesses information unknown to his or her audience. The imbalance of power between the Witch and Edmund reflects Edmund’s preference for power imbalance in the world beyond the wardrobe, and the exchange between them is designed in all its details to perpetuate and intensify this imbalance of power.
Shortly after Edmund’s encounter with the Witch he meets Lucy on her way back from a second tea with Tumnus, and his sister at once anticipates the pleasure of shared storytelling as they tell their elder siblings about their visit to Narnia. ‘What fun it will be!’ she exclaims, and concludes that from now on ‘we’re all in it together’. True to his nature, however, Edmund at once sees an imbalance in the collective pleasure she anticipates. He ‘secretly thought it would not be as good fun for him as for her’, partly because he will have to admit he was wrong and thus publicly acknowledge his ‘loss’ of the earlier competition between himself and Lucy, and partly because he assumes the others will be on a different ‘side’ in the politics of Narnia than the one he has taken – that is, they will be against the Witch, making it more urgent and possibly harder for him to keep the secret of having met her. Games, then, have turned into something different for both children; a real-life companionate ‘adventure’ for Lucy (the word still has a smack of storytelling about it), and a competition for unprecedentedly high stakes for her brother.
When they re-emerge from the wardrobe, Edmund and Lucy find that the ‘game of hide-and-seek’ they had been playing before entering Narnia is still in full swing. But their attitude to the game has changed entirely, since they now know that there is something genuinely strange hidden in the wardrobe which was one of the hiding places in the game. The real is secreted in the playful, just as forms of truth are secreted in fiction; on this, at least, both the younger siblings should be able to agree, whatever their contradictory readings of the place they’ve just returned from. This makes it all the more shocking when Edmund decides that his best tactic both for preserving his self-esteem and hurting his sister is to pretend that he and Lucy have been playing a different game instead of experiencing a different reality: a game-within-a-game, so to speak, rather than an unsuspected truth-within-a-fiction. ‘Oh yes,’ he tells Peter and Susan, ‘Lucy and I have been playing – pretending that all her story about a country in the wardrobe is true. Just for fun, of course. There’s nothing there really’. The cruelty here is compounded by his redeployment of Lucy’s word ‘fun’, which for her involved collective pleasure in an astonishing discovery (‘What fun it will be!’). Peter improves things a little by coming to Lucy’s defence: he suggests that Edmund’s ‘game’ with Lucy is merely a continuation of his bullying, a malpractice rendered more serious by Peter’s increasing suspicion that his younger sister is ‘queer in the head’. Lucy, meanwhile, remains true to her insistence that her ‘story’ is real: she ‘stuck to her story’, as Lewis puts it, and it’s this development of the concept of story beyond the invented or imaginary – this seeming conviction of hers that stories can be true – that induces Peter and Susan to consult Professor Kirk on the matter.
The Professor’s response to their question (has Lucy gone bad or mad? Is she suffering from mental illness?) is to apply a kind of logic to it which Lewis particularly associates with the Scottish enlightenment tradition (think of the Scottish sceptic MacPhee in his unfinished novel The Dark Tower, who becomes an equally sceptical Irishman in That Hideous Strength; Professor Kirk’s name, like that of Mrs MacReady, helps to link him with Scotland). ‘There are only three possibilities,’ he tells them. ‘Either your sister is telling lies, or she is mad, or she is telling the truth. You know she doesn’t tell lies and it is obvious she is not mad. For the moment then and unless any further evidence turns up, we must assume that she is telling the truth.’ The ‘logical’ position he takes here is unusual, in that it assumes that a known truth-teller should be believed even when the scenario she describes would seem to be ‘impossible’ by any conventional standards of assessment. In other words, the Professor is more concerned with the psychology of human beings than with the empirical evidence of the senses. For him, the question of Lucy’s personality – her attested tendency to tell the truth – is vastly more important than questions of precedent (such as: have countries ever been found in items of furniture in the past? Do fauns exist? etc.). From this point of view Narnia would seem to be a country of the mind, whose capacities, like those of the house he inhabits, are vastly more spacious – and vastly more interesting – than conventional empiricism or logic would tend to assume.
Lewis associates logic with Scottish culture, but Scotland also produced the visionary writer whose work Lewis most admired, George MacDonald. MacDonald’s books are full of no-nonsense characters – most of them old women – who treat encounters with the fantastic with the same intellectual rigour as any other aspect of human experience. Edmund’s attitude to games and fictions when he first enters Narnia indicates, among other things, his muddled thinking – his lack of the sort of intellectual and moral rigour cultivated by Professor Kirk and George MacDonald’s formidable grandmothers. By the end of the novel, by contrast, Edmund has become an exemplary thinker, someone who judges the evidence of the mind and senses with such rigour that he comes to be known as ‘Edmund the Just’. Edmund, then, is a complex, changeable character in a way that Lucy is not; and his name confirms his potential for opposite ways of thinking, and for undergoing opposite destinies or endings, just as Lucy’s confirms her singularity as a custodian of the singular light of truth.
There was a real, historical Edmund the Just, a tenth-century King of England who obviously suggested the sobriquet to Lewis (among other things, this Edmund I made peace with the Scots: quite an achievement for an English king in the tenth century). But the other Edmund invoked by the name of Lewis’s child-traitor is the antagonist in King Lear, the illegitimate son of the Duke of Gloucester who betrays his brother in a fit of murderous playfulness, a betrayal that leads to the deaths of his father, his king, the king’s three daughters, and Edmund himself. Where Lucy’s name suggests a singular truth – a light shining in darkness – Edmund’s has several competing associations, and can be read in different lights depending on the situation he finds himself in. There could hardly be a better way of signaling Lewis’s conviction, everywhere apparent in the Narnian chronicles, of the urgent need for his readers to cultivate the skill of reading well.