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  11. Were there other characters based on people you and Jack knew? Did those people know they inspired these great books? How are the characters similar to the people who inspired them?

  Jack had an almost uncanny talent for writing unpleasant characters who turned out to be the living images of people he was about to meet [or his readers are about to meet]. He always said that his villains were modeled on himself. There were other characters that he drew from friends and acquaintances, but he was always very careful not to let it become obvious, so he would mix and match his characters’ personalities and appearances to avoid anyone ever being able to recognize them. He couldn’t fool Warnie, however; and sometimes Warnie would tell me that “so and so was modeled on an old fool at Merton” or wherever. But Jack never gave a character taken from someone he knew an appearance in any way similar to that person, nor even a similar profession. Jack protected his models.

  12. What made C. S. Lewis decide to write The Magician’s Nephew well after writing and publishing The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe ? Why was the series reordered to put The Magician’s Nephew first?

  Jack listened to his Muse and also to his audience. People were asking how it all came to be, why and how Narnia had come into existence in the first place. But also I think that he knew that he would not be allowed or able to end Narnia until he had first begun it. As for the “reordering” of Narnia, the putting of numbers on the spines of books was an American idea and one which I felt was superfluous, feeling that we should all be allowed to read the books in any order we like (and I do), but the first American publisher set the precedent. I asked Jack what order the books should be read in when The Magician’s Nephew had appeared and The Last Battle finally came out. He told me that his preference was for them to be read in order of Narnian chronology but that it didn’t really matter. I agreed completely, and many years later when HarperCollins took over the worldwide English language publication of the books, they decided to retain numbers on the spines and asked me what order they should be in. I told them to go with what Jack himself preferred. And they did!

  13. How do you think the perception of Narnia has changed since C. S. Lewis first wrote The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?

  Not a lot really, at least not among those very wise folk who read the books. Of course we have made movies of several of the books, and that has spread the knowledge of Narnia even farther than the worldwide publication of the books in many languages had already achieved. But Narnia is Narnia and appeals to young men and women, to children, and to white-bearded ancients alike, no matter where they live or what language they speak, and it always will.

  14. November 22, 2013, marks the fiftieth anniversary of C. S. Lewis’s passing. What do you remember about this event?

  Very little, actually. That whole time is a faded haze in my mind. I remember his funeral at which I stood as the leading mourner, and I remember the single candle that stood upon his coffin, first in the church and then under the tree at the graveside. There was a strange and perhaps holy stillness about the air that day, not a breath of wind stirred; and the candle flame stood straight and tall, never so much as even wavering, only to be extinguished as it was taken from the coffin (by whom I did not see) as it was lowered into the grave. We buried more than a man that day; we buried a light as well. Had Jack not written so much so well, the world would today be a much darker place for so many people. That was a hard, bitter time for me. There were many condolence letters, but I didn’t read them nor even open the envelopes. Loneliness is really the only thing I remember. Once again, all that I loved, all that I valued had been swept away, and I was alone.

  15. Do you recall how fans reacted to the news of C. S. Lewis’s death?

  Hardly at all; his death passed at first almost unnoticed, as President Kennedy was assassinated the same day.

  16. C. S. Lewis is being honored with a memorial stone in Westminster Abbey’s Poets’ Corner on the anniversary of his death. How do you feel about this? How do you think Jack would have responded to this tribute?

  I think he would have certainly found it gratifying and would smile.

  17. Why do you think so many people connect to The Chronicles of Narnia? What do readers take from it? Why do they keep returning to Narnia?

  Readers return to Narnia simply because mankind has been gifted with a sense of truth. It is stronger in some than in others, but we all have it to some degree or another. In Narnia, we sense the truth of what is written, no matter who we are or where we are from.

  Narnia, and all it stands for and represents, rings true.

  THE MAGICIAN’S NEPHEW

  Dedication

  To The Kilmer Family

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One: The Wrong Door

  Chapter Two: Digory and His Uncle

  Chapter Three: The Wood Between the Worlds

  Chapter Four: The Bell and the Hammer

  Chapter Five: The Deplorable Word

  Chapter Six: The Beginning of Uncle Andrew’s Troubles

  Chapter Seven: What Happened at the Front Door

  Chapter Eight: The Fight at the Lamp-post

  Chapter Nine: The Founding of Narnia

  Chapter Ten: The First Joke and Other Matters

  Chapter Eleven: Digory and His Uncle Are Both in Trouble

  Chapter Twelve: Strawberry’s Adventure

  Chapter Thirteen: An Unexpected Meeting

  Chapter Fourteen: The Planting of the Tree

  Chapter Fifteen: The End of This Story and the Beginning of All the Others

  Chapter One

  The Wrong Door

  THIS IS A STORY ABOUT SOMETHING THAT HAPPENED long ago when your grandfather was a child. It is a very important story because it shows how all the comings and goings between our own world and the land of Narnia first began.

  In those days Mr. Sherlock Holmes was still living in Baker Street and the Bastables were looking for treasure in the Lewisham Road. In those days, if you were a boy you had to wear a stiff Eton collar every day, and schools were usually nastier than now. But meals were nicer; and as for sweets, I won’t tell you how cheap and good they were, because it would only make your mouth water in vain. And in those days there lived in London a girl called Polly Plummer.

  She lived in one of a long row of houses which were all joined together. One morning she was out in the back garden when a boy scrambled up from the garden next door and put his face over the wall. Polly was very surprised because up till now there had never been any children in that house, but only Mr. Ketterley and Miss Ketterley, a brother and sister, old bachelor and old maid, living together. So she looked up, full of curiosity. The face of the strange boy was very grubby. It could hardly have been grubbier if he had first rubbed his hands in the earth, and then had a good cry, and then dried his face with his hands. As a matter of fact, this was very nearly what he had been doing.

  “Hullo,” said Polly.

  “Hullo,” said the boy. “What’s your name?”

  “Polly,” said Polly. “What’s yours?”

  “Digory,” said the boy.

  “I say, what a funny name!” said Polly.

  “It isn’t half so funny as Polly,” said Digory.

  “Yes it is,” said Polly.

  “No, it isn’t,” said Digory.

  “At any rate I do wash my face,” said Polly, “which is what you need to do; especially after—” and then she stopped. She had been going to say “After you’ve been blubbing,” but she thought that wouldn’t be polite.

  “All right, I have then,” said Digory in a much louder voice, like a boy who was so miserable that he didn’t care who knew he had been crying. “And so would you,” he went on, “if you’d lived all your life in the country and had a pony, and a river at the bottom of the garden, and then been brought to live in a beastly Hole like this.”

  “London isn’t a Hole,” said Polly indignantly. But the boy was too wound up to ta
ke any notice of her, and he went on—

  “And if your father was away in India—and you had to come and live with an Aunt and an Uncle who’s mad (who would like that?)—and if the reason was that they were looking after your Mother—and if your Mother was ill and was going to—going to—die.” Then his face went the wrong sort of shape as it does if you’re trying to keep back your tears.

  “I didn’t know. I’m sorry,” said Polly humbly. And then, because she hardly knew what to say, and also to turn Digory’s mind to cheerful subjects, she asked:

  “Is Mr. Ketterley really mad?”

  “Well either he’s mad,” said Digory, “or there’s some other mystery. He has a study on the top floor and Aunt Letty says I must never go up there. Well, that looks fishy to begin with. And then there’s another thing. Whenever he tries to say anything to me at meal times—he never even tries to talk to her—she always shuts him up. She says, ‘Don’t worry the boy, Andrew’ or ‘I’m sure Digory doesn’t want to hear about that,’ or else, ‘Now, Digory, wouldn’t you like to go out and play in the garden?’”

  “What sort of things does he try to say?”

  “I don’t know. He never gets far enough. But there’s more than that. One night—it was last night in fact—as I was going past the foot of the attic-stairs on my way to bed (and I don’t much care for going past them either) I’m sure I heard a yell.”

  “Perhaps he keeps a mad wife shut up there.”

  “Yes, I’ve thought of that.”

  “Or perhaps he’s a coiner.”

  “Or he might have been a pirate, like the man at the beginning of Treasure Island, and be always hiding from his old shipmates.”

  “How exciting!” said Polly. “I never knew your house was so interesting.”

  “You may think it interesting,” said Digory. “But you wouldn’t like it if you had to sleep there. How would you like to lie awake listening for Uncle Andrew’s step to come creeping along the passage to your room? And he has such awful eyes.”

  That was how Polly and Digory got to know one another: and as it was just the beginning of the summer holidays and neither of them was going to the sea that year, they met nearly every day.

  Their adventures began chiefly because it was one of the wettest and coldest summers there had been for years. That drove them to do indoor things: you might say, indoor exploration. It is wonderful how much exploring you can do with a stump of candle in a big house, or in a row of houses. Polly had discovered long ago that if you opened a certain little door in the box-room attic of her house you would find the cistern and a dark place behind it which you could get into by a little careful climbing. The dark place was like a long tunnel with brick wall on one side and sloping roof on the other. In the roof there were little chunks of light between the slates. There was no floor in this tunnel: you had to step from rafter to rafter, and between them there was only plaster. If you stepped on this you would find yourself falling through the ceiling of the room below. Polly had used the bit of the tunnel just beside the cistern as a smugglers’ cave. She had brought up bits of old packing cases and the seats of broken kitchen chairs, and things of that sort, and spread them across from rafter to rafter so as to make a bit of floor. Here she kept a cash-box containing various treasures, and a story she was writing and usually a few apples. She had often drunk a quiet bottle of ginger-beer in there: the old bottles made it look more like a smugglers’ cave.

  Digory quite liked the cave (she wouldn’t let him see the story) but he was more interested in exploring.

  “Look here,” he said. “How long does this tunnel go on for? I mean, does it stop where your house ends?”

  “No,” said Polly. “The walls don’t go out to the roof. It goes on. I don’t know how far.”

  “Then we could get the length of the whole row of houses.”

  “So we could,” said Polly. “And oh, I say!”

  “What?”

  “We could get into the other houses.”

  “Yes, and get taken up for burglars! No thanks.”

  “Don’t be so jolly clever. I was thinking of the house beyond yours.”

  “What about it?”

  “Why, it’s the empty one. Daddy says it’s always been empty ever since we came here.”

  “I suppose we ought to have a look at it then,” said Digory. He was a good deal more excited than you’d have thought from the way he spoke. For of course he was thinking, just as you would have been, of all the reasons why the house might have been empty so long. So was Polly. Neither of them said the word “haunted.” And both felt that once the thing had been suggested, it would be feeble not to do it.

  “Shall we go and try it now?” said Digory.

  “All right,” said Polly.

  “Don’t if you’d rather not,” said Digory.

  “I’m game if you are,” said she.

  “How are we to know when we’re in the next house but one?”

  They decided they would have to go out into the box-room and walk across it taking steps as long as the steps from one rafter to the next. That would give them an idea of how many rafters went to a room. Then they would allow about four more for the passage between the two attics in Polly’s house, and then the same number for the maid’s bedroom as for the box-room. That would give them the length of the house. When they had done that distance twice they would be at the end of Digory’s house; any door they came to after that would let them into an attic of the empty house.

  “But I don’t expect it’s really empty at all,” said Digory.

  “What do you expect?”

  “I expect someone lives there in secret, only coming in and out at night, with a dark lantern. We shall probably discover a gang of desperate criminals and get a reward. It’s all rot to say a house would be empty all those years unless there was some mystery.”

  “Daddy thought it must be the drains,” said Polly.

  “Pooh! Grown-ups are always thinking of uninteresting explanations,” said Digory. Now that they were talking by daylight in the attic instead of by candlelight in the Smugglers’ Cave it seemed much less likely that the empty house would be haunted.

  When they had measured the attic they had to get a pencil and do a sum. They both got different answers to it at first, and even when they agreed I am not sure they got it right. They were in a hurry to start on the exploration.

  “We mustn’t make a sound,” said Polly as they climbed in again behind the cistern. Because it was such an important occasion they took a candle each (Polly had a good store of these in her cave).

  It was very dark and dusty and drafty and they stepped from rafter to rafter without a word except when they whispered to one another, “We’re opposite your attic now” or “this must be halfway through our house.” And neither of them stumbled and the candles didn’t go out, and at last they came to where they could see a little door in the brick wall on their right. There was no bolt or handle on this side of it, of course, for the door had been made for getting in, not for getting out; but there was a catch (as there often is on the inside of a cupboard door) which they felt sure they would be able to turn.

  “Shall I?” said Digory.

  “I’m game if you are,” said Polly, just as she had said before. Both felt that it was becoming very serious, but neither would draw back. Digory pushed round the catch with some difficulty. The door swung open and the sudden daylight made them blink. Then, with a great shock, they saw that they were looking, not into a deserted attic, but into a furnished room. But it seemed empty enough. It was dead silent. Polly’s curiosity got the better of her. She blew out her candle and stepped out into the strange room, making no more noise than a mouse.

  It was shaped, of course, like an attic, but furnished as a sitting-room. Every bit of the walls was lined with shelves and every bit of the shelves was full of books. A fire was burning in the grate (you remember that it was a very cold wet summer that year) and in front of the fireplace wit
h its back toward them was a high-backed armchair. Between the chair and Polly, and filling most of the middle of the room, was a big table piled with all sorts of things—printed books, and books of the sort you write in, and ink bottles and pens and sealing-wax and a microscope. But what she noticed first was a bright red wooden tray with a number of rings on it. They were in pairs—a yellow one and a green one together, then a little space, and then another yellow one and another green one. They were no bigger than ordinary rings, and no one could help noticing them because they were so bright. They were the most beautiful shiny little things you can imagine. If Polly had been a very little younger she would have wanted to put one in her mouth.

  The room was so quiet that you noticed the ticking of the clock at once. And yet, as she now found, it was not absolutely quiet either. There was a faint—a very, very faint—humming sound. If vacuum cleaners had been invented in those days Polly would have thought it was the sound of a Hoover being worked a long way off—several rooms away and several floors below. But it was a nicer sound than that, a more musical tone: only so faint that you could hardly hear it.

  “It’s all right—there’s no one here,” said Polly over her shoulder to Digory. She was speaking above a whisper now. And Digory came out, blinking and looking extremely dirty—as indeed Polly was too.