C. S. Lewis – A Life Page 12

  Yet friendships began to emerge, to complement (though never displace) his long-standing relationship with Arthur Greeves. Two are of especial importance. Lewis originally met Owen Barfield (1898–1997) in 1919. Barfield was then studying English at Wadham College. Lewis quickly recognised him as someone who was both intelligent and well read, even though he disagreed with him on virtually everything. “Barfield has probably forgotten more than I ever knew,” he ruefully confided to his diary.230

  Lewis dubbed Barfield the “wisest and best of my unofficial teachers,”231 and was willing to be corrected by him. As an example of this, Lewis notes his early error of referring to philosophy as “a subject.” “It wasn’t a subject to Plato,” retorted Barfield, “it was a way.”232 Barfield’s interest in Rudolf Steiner’s philosophy of “anthroposophy,” which aimed to extend the scientific method to human spiritual experiences, began to develop after he heard Steiner lecture in 1924, and became a particular matter of contention with Lewis, then an atheist. Lewis jokingly referred to the “Great War” that developed between them on this and other matters. “Everything that I had labored so hard to expel from my own life seemed to have flared up and met me in my best friends.”233 Lewis began to feel embattled and threatened by questions that Barfield was posing, which he seemed unable to answer entirely to his own satisfaction.234

  Yet despite his differences with Barfield, Lewis credits him with bringing about two fundamental changes in his own thinking. The first of these was the demolition of Lewis’s “chronological snobbery,” which Lewis defined as “the uncritical acceptance of the intellectual climate common to our own age and the assumption that whatever has gone out of date is on that account discredited.”235

  The second change related to Lewis’s way of thinking about reality. Lewis, like most of that age, tended to assume that “the universe revealed by the senses” constituted “rock-bottom reality.” For Lewis, this was the most economical and commonsense way of thinking about things, which he took to be thoroughly scientific. “I wanted Nature to be quite independent of our observation; something other, indifferent, self-existing.”236 But what of human moral judgements? Or feelings of joy? Or the experience of beauty? How did such subjective ways of thinking and experiencing fit into this?

  It was no idle thought. As an undergraduate at Oxford, Lewis had been influenced by what he styled the “New Look,” a rationalist way of thinking which led him to believe that he must abandon any notion that his fleeting experiences of “Joy” were clues to the deeper meaning of life.237 Lewis went with the flow, immersing himself in this then-fashionable way of thinking. He came to believe that his boyhood desires, longings, and experience had been exposed as meaningless. Lewis decided that he was “done with all that.” He had “‘seen through’ them.” He was “never going to be taken in again.”238

  Yet Barfield persuaded Lewis that these lines of argument were inconsistent. Lewis was relying on precisely the same inner patterns of thought that he had dismissed in order to secure his knowledge of an allegedly “objective” world. The consistent outcome of believing only in “the universe revealed by the senses” was to adopt “a Behaviouristic theory of logic, ethics, and aesthetics.” Yet Lewis regarded such a theory as unbelievable. There was an alternative, which gave full weight to the importance of human moral and aesthetic intuitions and did not discount or dismiss them. For Lewis, this led to only one conclusion: “Our logic was participation in a cosmic Logos.”239 And where might that line of thought take him?

  This theme is explored in a short story titled “The Man Born Blind,”240 which has particular significance since it is thought to be the earliest piece of prose fiction that survives from the adult Lewis. It is not well written, and has little sign of Lewis’s mature style or powerful imaginative vision. It is a parable, told in less than two thousand words, from before his conversion to Christianity. Its basic theme is that of a man born blind who regains his sight. He expects to see light, but he fails to appreciate that light is not something seen, but something that makes seeing possible. It is not something we see, but something by which we see.

  For Lewis, human thought depends upon a “cosmic Logos,” which is not itself seen or understood, or even capable of being seen or understood, but is nevertheless the condition necessary for human sight and understanding. This idea can be interpreted in a Platonic way. However, early Christian writers steeped in the Platonic tradition—such as Augustine of Hippo (354–430)—were able to show that this was easily adapted to a Christian way of thinking, which understood God as the one who illuminates reality and enables humanity to discern its features.

  Lewis’s second friendship to develop during his study of English literature was with Nevill Coghill (1899–1980), an Irish student who had served in the Great War. After taking a first degree in history at Exeter College, Coghill had chosen to study English. Like Lewis, he was attempting to manage the course in a single year. They first met at a discussion presided over by Professor George Gordon, and rapidly came to appreciate each other’s insights into the texts they were engaging. This reading of texts, Coghill recalled, was “a continuous intoxication of discovery,”241 leading into discussion and debate which extended over long walks in the Oxfordshire countryside. Coghill would play an important role in shaping Lewis’s later ideas.

  The long year of intense study came to an end in June 1923, when Lewis sat for the final examinations. His diary entries for these days reveal his frustration; he had not performed as well as he had hoped. He calmed himself down by mowing the lawn. The viva voce examinations were set for 10 July. Lewis duly dressed himself in sub fusc—a black gown, dark suit, and white bow tie—and presented himself with the other candidates. The examiners dismissed all but six of them, whom they wished to press further on some of their answers. Lewis was among those who had to stay behind for the potential ordeal of an oral examination.

  More than two hours later, Lewis finally faced his examiners. They raised some concerns about his examination papers. He had used the word little-est in an answer to one question. How could he possibly justify using such a strange word? Without batting an eyelid, Lewis gave his reply. It could be found in the correspondence between Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Thomas Poole.242 And surely he had been too severe on Dryden? Lewis thought not, and told them why. After less than three minutes, Lewis was dismissed. The viva was over. Lewis left the Examination Schools and returned home. He had other things to worry about—such as earning some money. For the remainder of that summer, he had agreed to act as an examiner for the Higher School Certificate, marking hundreds of generally dull schoolboy essays, while Mrs. Moore took in paying guests to help cover the bills.

  On 16 July, the examination results were published. Only six of the ninety students entered for the examinations had gained First Class Honours, including

  Coghill, N. J. A. (Exeter); and

  Lewis, C. S. (University).

  Lewis had now secured a “Triple First,” a rare distinction at Oxford. Yet Lewis still had no job prospects. He was highly qualified and highly learned, but he was, as he later told his father, “adrift and unemployed”243—at a time when economic recession was stalking much of the Western world. Things looked bleak. Lewis scrabbled around, desperately looking for students he could coach or articles he could write for newspapers or journals. He needed the money.

  So why did University College itself not establish a tutorial fellowship in English at this time? After all, the college had appointed Ernest de Sélincourt as a lecturer in English in 1896, the first such college appointment in the university.244 Yet Sélincourt was never appointed as a tutorial fellow of the college, and eventually moved to the University of Birmingham in 1908 to take up its newly established Chair of English. After the end of the Great War, more and more students wished to study the subject. Perhaps more important, the college had, in Lewis, an outstanding talent who would be more than capable of doing the job.

  The answer lies in
a bequest given to the college by one of its former members, Robert Mynors (1817–1895).245 Mynors, a successful barrister, left the college funds to endow a college fellowship “for the study and teaching of the Social Sciences.” The funds were finally released to the college in 1920, and a decision was made in 1924 to create a Fellowship in Economics and Politics. This modest expansion of its fellowship was all that the college felt able to cope with. There would be no Fellowship in English until Peter Bayley was appointed to such a position in 1949.

  Lewis’s hopes of securing a job anywhere else in Oxford regularly rose, and just as regularly fell. St. John’s College wanted a tutor in philosophy. Lewis was hopeful, but it came to nothing. By May 1924, Lewis was still unemployed, living on piecemeal, part-time earnings. His letters to his father spoke of cutting back to the bare essentials. He had hopes of securing a fellowship at Trinity College. But that might well crumble, like all his hopes to date.

  Then fate stepped in. Reginald Macan had resigned as master of University College in April 1923, and was succeeded by Sir Michael Sadler.246 Sadler had read Lewis’s work with approval in the summer of 1923, and had recommended him to various literary colleagues as a potential reviewer. On 11 May 1924, Lewis wrote to his father in some excitement. Edgar Carritt, his old philosophy tutor at University College, was going to teach in Ann Arbor, Michigan, for a year. The college needed a temporary replacement. Sadler had offered him the job for a salary of £200. It wasn’t much, he conceded, but it was better than nothing. He would have to work under the supervision of his old tutor Farquharson. But it might lead to better things in due course. And if he got the fellowship at Trinity, he would be allowed to withdraw his acceptance of the position at University.247

  Trinity liked Lewis. The fellows had invited him to dinner—a traditional Oxford way of allowing serious potential candidates to be evaluated by all the fellows. But they decided they didn’t like him as much as another candidate. Lewis had lost out again. This time, however, he had something to fall back on.

  Lewis now had a job, even if it failed to satisfy his deepest longings. Lewis was obliged to teach philosophy, when he really wanted to be a poet. Dymer was the passion of his life, and the basis of his potential reputation. As things had worked out, Lewis was a frustrated poet who was obliged to teach philosophy to earn a living. He was not the only poet in such a situation. T. S. Eliot (1888–1965), whose poetry Lewis detested, had written his poetry while working in the Colonial and Foreign Department of Lloyds Bank in London.

  Lewis’s dislike of Eliot led to his later attempting to perpetrate a hoax on the older poet, who edited the New Criterion. In June 1926, Lewis hit on the idea of sending a series of spoof poems, mimicking Eliot’s style, to the journal, hoping that the parody would be accepted for publication. Henry Yorke, one of Lewis’s coconspirators, came up with a superb opening line: “My soul is a windowless façade.”248 Unfortunately, the only line Lewis could construct to follow it made a revealing mention of the Marquis de Sade. In the end, nothing came of the hoax.

  Writing poetry eased Lewis’s tensions, even if it did little to further his employment prospects. Lewis’s poem Dymer, published in 1926, was a poetic rendering of an earlier prose work. It achieved neither significant commercial success nor critical acclaim. Indeed, it seems fair to suggest that its failure marked the end of Lewis’s dreams to be a recognised poet, whether English or Irish. There was always a possibility that Lewis might come to represent an Irish voice in poetry. Yet his early Oxford experience led him to realise that the appeal of Irish poetry was not universal. Why, he wondered, was W. B. Yeats not more admired in Oxford literary circles? “Perhaps,” Lewis remarked, “his appeal is purely Irish.”249 Yet Lewis also came to understand that his own voice would not count as “Irish.” He was an atheist—more accurately, an Ulster Protestant atheist. This did not fit in with the strongly Catholic associations of being “Irish.” And he had in any case left Ireland for England as a young boy, selling his birthright (so his critics would say) for an English education. And finally, Lewis did not write on specifically Irish themes. Lewis’s inclination was clearly towards classical and universal themes, not those traditionally embraced by confessedly Irish poets. Lewis’s authorial voice might have been shaped by his Irish homeland; it did not, however, speak explicitly of those roots.

  On reading Dymer, I found myself from time to time delighted by the verbal elegance and philosophical acumen of some of its individual phrases or lines. Yet those moments of pleasure are rare and infrequent. The whole is somehow not equal to its parts. Its few shards of brilliance are not sustained and are overwhelmed by expanses of lacklustre and flat lines. Dymer, considered as a poem, simply does not work. As one of Owen Barfield’s friends remarked, “The metrical level is good, the vocabulary is large: but Poetry—not a line.”250

  It is not clear when Lewis finally accepted that he would never achieve recognition as a poet. He would continue to write poems for his private enjoyment, as a way of clearing his mind. Yet the failure of Dymer on its appearance in 1926 does not seem to have precipitated any crisis of identity or loss of confidence. Lewis simply reinvented himself as a writer of prose. Paradoxically, Dymer points to the reason why Lewis has achieved such recognition and fame—his ability to write prose tinged with a poetic vision, its carefully crafted phrases lingering in the memory because they have captivated the imagination. The qualities we associate with good poetry—such as an appreciation of the sound of words, rich and suggestive analogies and images, vivid description, and lyrical sense—are found in Lewis’s prose.

  The Fellowship at Magdalen College

  Lewis spent the academic year 1924–1925 teaching University College’s undergraduate students philosophy, while giving lectures on philosophical themes. He was overwhelmed with work. His diary contains no entries between 3 August 1924 and 5 February 1925. He gave sixteen undergraduate lectures on “The Good, its position among the values.” His maiden lecture, given on Tuesday, 14 October at University College, was attended by a mere four people. (He faced stiff competition from H. A. Pritchard, and the university lecture list mistakenly informed its trusting readers that Lewis’s lecture would take place at a totally different location—Pembroke College).251

  Alongside this, Lewis tutored college students in philosophy, and took on additional work to supplement his income—mostly correcting school examination papers. Yet Lewis’s busyness could not shield him from his own looming unemployment. His post was temporary and would expire at the end of the academic year. He would have no job beginning in the summer of 1925. Then Lewis heard the news that would prove to be a turning point in his life.

  In April 1925, Magdalen College announced that it wished to elect a tutorial fellow in English. The announcement of the “Official Fellowship and Tutorship in English” specified that the successful candidate would be required to

  act as Tutor, and give instruction, to all the undergraduate members of the College reading for the Honour School of English Language and Literature, to give Inter-Collegiate Lectures as the College representative for the Honour School of English, and also to supervise the work of any undergraduates who may read for the Pass School of English Literature.252

  Lewis was already known to Magdalen, and was clearly seen by them as meeting the intellectual standards they required of their fellows. He lost no time in applying. However, as he informed his father in a somewhat dejected frame of mind, he had few hopes.253 His own English tutor—Frank Wilson—was rumoured to be one of the candidates, reflecting the fact that Magdalen was far better endowed than most Oxford colleges. Lewis would not stand a chance against Wilson’s superior experience. However, Lewis could see a faint silver lining to this cloud: if Wilson got the job, he would have to give up teaching his students from University and Exeter Colleges. Someone would have to teach these students—and why should it not be Lewis?

  Then his hopes were raised by an unexpected development. Wilson would not be a candidate!
Encouraged and emboldened, Lewis wrote to Wilson and George Gordon, Professor of English Literature, asking if they would write in his support for the Magdalen fellowship. Both declined. They had already agreed to lend their support to Nevill Coghill. Neither of them, they informed him, had been aware that Lewis was interested in English literature, and had assumed that he was looking for positions in philosophy. They were both very apologetic, but they were now committed to supporting Coghill.

  Lewis was devastated. Wilson’s and Gordon’s support was of vital importance in getting Magdalen to take him seriously. Without that backing, he would not stand a chance. It was “enough to make anyone despair,” he told his father. Then, in a second unexpected development, Nevill Coghill was offered a fellowship by his own college, Exeter. Coghill withdrew immediately from the Magdalen competition, allowing both Wilson and Gordon to pledge their full support to Lewis. Gordon, as Professor of English Literature, was consulted by Magdalen about the list of candidates, and made it clear that he regarded Lewis as the best.

  Following a long tradition, Magdalen invited the preferred candidates to dinner in order that the fellowship as a whole could assess them. Lewis asked his colleague Farquharson about the dress code at Magdalen. Farquharson confidently and erroneously assured him that Magdalen was severely formal on this occasion. Lewis should wear a white tie and coat tails.

  4.5 The tower of Magdalen College, Oxford, in the snow during the winter of 1910.