by C. S. Lewis
As to my decision, I think you will agree that it has already justified itself. I am now nearly a month over my time, and even if I were boarded tomorrow this would be so much to the good. Of course in the present need for men, being passed fit by a board would mean a pretty quick return to France. I am afraid there is not much possibility of the ‘job at home’ which you once thought might be the result of my wounds: although not quite well I am almost ‘fit’ now in the military sense of the word, and depend only on the forgetfulness of the authorities for my continued stay in hospital. Of course this has nothing to do with my leave.
I hope there is nothing wrong and that I shall soon hear from you again and see you here. I know there are difficulties in the way, but I suppose they are no more serious now than when Warnie was at home . . .
TO HIS FATHER: from Ashton Court
9 September 1918
I write in haste to give you a piece of news which I hope will please you not much less than it did me. You are aware that for some years now I have amused myself by writing verses, and a pocket book collection of these followed me through France. Since my return I have occupied myself in revising these, getting them typed with a few additions, and trying to publish them. After a refusal from Macmillans they have, somewhat to my surprise, been accepted by Heinemann. Wm. Heinemann thinks it would ‘be well to reconsider the inclusion of one or two pieces which are not perhaps on a level with my best work’. I have sent him some new ones as substitutes for these and things are going on well, although his absence from town on a fortnight’s holiday will cause a delay in coming to a definite arrangement about money. I don’t know when I may hope actually to see the book, but of course I will send you a copy at once. It is called Spirits in Prison: a cycle of lyrical poems by Clive Staples. The paper and printing will probably be detestable, as they always are now-a-days. This little success gives me a pleasure which is perhaps childish and yet akin to greater things . . .
TO HIS FATHER: from Ashton Court
14 September 1918
I am sorry that you should have been so troubled as you were when you last wrote to me, and sorrier still that I should have been to any extent the cause of it. At the same time it is only fair to add that I do not entirely acquiesce in the blame which you lay upon me. Above all, the joking reference to ‘Mrs Harris’ which you take au pied de la lettre was quite harmlessly meant. I do not choose my friends among people who jeer, nor has a tendency to promiscuous confidence ever been one of my characteristic faults. However, perhaps it was tactless, and there is no need to go into it further.
Many thanks for the ‘monies numbered’ and the parcel. Those Virginian cigarettes which you have sent me several times are a good brand. Are matches obtainable at home? We are very badly off for them here: hardly any tobacconist will give you a box, and grocers only give a small weekly allowance to their regular customers.
I was very much cheered by your telegram. Such things are the most valuable part of the successes which they accompany. I hope I have not led you to expect too much: the publisher is only the first fence in our steeplechase—the book may still be badly reviewed or not reviewed at all, may fail to sell, or your own taste and judgement may be disappointed in it. The news I need hardly say should be communicated with discretion to the ‘hoi polloi’ . . .
TO HIS FATHER: from Ashton Court
18 September 1918
It had quite escaped my notice that Hichens had written a novel called Spirits in Prison, but now that you mention it, I think that you are right—or perhaps it is A Spirit in Prison—the resemblance at any rate is close enough to hit that title on the head.41 I don’t know whether I shall be able to find another that expresses so aptly the general scheme of the book, but we must do our best. The subtitle ‘A cycle of lyrical poems’ was not given without a reason: the reason is that the book is not a collection of really independant pieces, but the working out, loosely of course and with digressions, of a general idea. If you can imagine In Memoriam42 with its various parts in different metres it will give you some idea of the form I have tried to adopt. Such merit as it has depends less on the individual than on the combined effect of the pieces. To call it a cycle is to prepare the reader for this plan and to induce him to follow the order of the poems as I have put them. Probably he will not, but we must do our best. At the same time I admit that the word ‘cycle’ is a very objectionable one. The only others which I know to express the same thing are ‘series’ and ‘sequence’ and of these the former is hardly definite enough and the latter in my opinion more affected and precieux than ‘cycle’ itself. Of course one could dispense with a sub-title altogether, but I rather approve of the old practice by which a book gives some account of itself—as Paradise Lost—a heroic poem in twelve books—The Pilgrim’s Progress—being an account of his journey from this world to the next. Perhaps you can suggest some simpler and more dignified way of saying that the book is a whole and not a collection.
My only reason for choosing a pseudonym at all was a natural feeling that I should not care to have this bit of my life known in the regiment. One doesn’t want either officers or men to talk about ‘our b****y lyrical poet again’ whenever I make a mistake . . .
Mrs Moore had received news at last of her son’s death: I suppose it is best to know, and fortunately she never cherished any hopes43 . . .
[For some time Warren had been asking his father if he had been to see Jack. In his letter to Warren of 19 September Mr Lewis praised Jack’s success in having his poems accepted by Heinemann. He went on to say: ‘I am sorry—I won’t say ashamed—to say that I have not been over to see him yet. Nor do I see a prospect of going soon. I have never been so awkwardly—or at least more awkwardly—placed in the office and Court than I am at the present time. I cannot be certain any morning that my managing man will turn up. If I left home and went on the spree, the result to my little livelihood would be disastrous. Indeed the worry and overwork is beginning to tell on me. The last holiday I had was my visit to Malvern and some water has flowed under the bridge since then. I have never felt as limp and depressed in my life I think, as I have for the last few weeks. I have no doubt that Jacks thinks me unkind and that I have neglected him. Of course that fear makes me miserable. One night about ten days ago I went to bed worrying about it, and I heard every hour strike from eleven to seven.’]
TO HIS FATHER: from Ashton Court
Postmark: 3 October 1918
I think ‘Spirits in Bondage’ would be a good substitute for the old title and would sound well: ‘Spirits in Bonds’ would not do so well, and suggests tiresome jokes about whiskey. I think it is only natural to describe it as a Cycle of poems, just to say ‘a cycle’ is rather unintelligible. After all I’m not claiming that they are good poems—you know the schoolboy’s definitions, ‘Prose is when the lines go on to the end of the page: poetry is when they don’t.’
The more I think of it the less I like anonymity. If it wasn’t for the army I’d let my own name take its chance. Don’t you think Clive is too famous a surname to take as a nom de plume (just as we thought Staples too notorious)? Of course we must always remember that the people who are most likely to talk to ‘our b****y poet’ are also the least likely to hear anything about it; they don’t haunt bookshops, nor do they read literary papers.
I read and posted the letter which you enclosed for Mrs Moore. It seemed to me up to the high standard of your usual letters on such occasions. I have heard lately that Somerville, whom I have mentioned to you, is gone too. With him the old set completely vanishes . . . 44
TO HIS FATHER: from Officers Mess, No. 3 Camp, Perham Down, Andover, Hampshire
18 October 1918
I have had a board at last, and been moved to this ‘Command Depot’ for an unspecified period. This is the usual step after leaving hospital, unless one is well enough to be passed for general service. Of course I am still far from this, but one doesn’t usually remain here very long. It is a sort of a glorif
ied hospital here, although we live in a mess and wear uniform: the best feature is that we have rooms to ourselves, which is a pleasant change after hospital wards.
I have just had a letter from Heinemann’s which has taken some time to come round through Ashton Court. He accepts some new pieces I had sent him and mentions a few he wants rejected. He also objects to a ‘too frequent use of certain words’ and points to one or two places that seem weak and which I might alter. ‘After that’ he suggests we might come to terms, a point on which I am quite ready to agree with him. I am hoping to get a day off some time next week and run up to town and see him . . .
Of course I remembered the text about ‘the spirits which are in prison’45 and it is that which seemed to give the old title its significance which ‘Spirits in bondage’ could never have. I think perhaps we should stick to ‘Prison’. I shall ask Heinemann whether that novel by Hichens really exists; he ought to know.
By the way, what about Clive Hamilton for a pseudonym? It will be a complete disguise to outsiders, transparent to ‘our ain folk’, and will be a name which we have the best of reasons to love and honour.
TO HIS FATHER: from Perham Down Camp
27 October 1918
I succeeded in getting my day off to see Heinemann yesterday, after being stopped last week through a very ridiculous incident of a kind that is common in the army. In order to get leave for a day you have to write down your name, the time of leaving, and your destination in the book which is then signed by the medical officer. Last week the book was lost: no objection was made to my going on either military or medical grounds, but—how could I go without the book? A suggestion that I might write the particulars on a slip of paper which could then afterwards be put in the book was treated as a sort of sacrilege. After a week however it occurred to the Adjutant (who must be a man of bold originality and signal generosity) that we might spend half a crown on a new book, and so I was able to go after all.
Heinemann was out when I reached the office and I was shown in to the Manager, a man called Evans, quite a young fellow and very agreeable.46 Afterwards Heinemann himself came in and I was with him for about three-quarters of an hour. He produced a typed agreement of which, with many ‘hereinafter’s and ‘aforesaid’s, the gist is that they are to publish the book ‘at their own expense, in such style and to be sold at such price as they deem best’ and that I am ‘to receive the following royality: 10% of the profits on the published price of 12 out of every thirteen copies sold’. It concludes with a stipulation that they should have the refusal of my next work, if any. Whether I am being well or ill treated I am of course too ignorant to say: but I suppose, poetry being such an unprofitable branch of publishing, I have no reason to be dissatisfied. He also told me that John Galsworthy (who publishes with them) had seen my MS and wanted to publish a certain poem in a new monthly called Revielle which he is bringing out in aid of disabled soldiers and sailors. I naturally consented, both because it is pleasant laudari a laudato viro and because it is an excellent advertisement. Before I left he said he would go on with the printing at once and might be able to have the proofs ready for me in three weeks. He is a fat little man with a bald head, apparently well read, and a trifle fussy—inclined to get his papers mixed up and repeat himself . . .
TO HIS FATHER: from Perham Down Camp
3 Sept. [November] 1918
You may make your mind easy on the question of the War Office’s ‘tricks’, as my removal to a command depot is quite in order. At the same time I am afraid I shall have to disappoint you on the two months leave as I am not likely to get nearly so long. The idea doubtless arose in your mind from the fact that officers discharged from hospital and still convalescent, were formerly sent home and told to report for a board again in two, three or even six months’ time. This however was
‘In the olden
Time long ago’
It was found that the average uniformed bounder had only two interests—alcohol and women—and that two months’ undisturbed indulgence in his natural tastes left him very much less fit than when he began. As well, men were continually being forgotten, and there were even cases of officer’s desertion: consequently tho’ Majors et hoc genus omne still get their sick leave, we unfortunates convalesce in hospitals and depots and get some leave as a sop after we are cured. As usual, the innocent suffer for the guilty, but this is too common an event to surprise either you or me. Any attempt to ‘work’ things is dangerous: we had a hopelessly unfit man at Ashton, who, on trying to be sent to a different hospital was boarded and sent to France. It’s a way they have in the army . . .
Yes—a year and six days is a long stretch enough: indeed my life is rapidly becoming divided into two periods, one including all the time before we got into the battle of Arras, the other ever since. Already last year seems a long, long way off. However, there appears to be some prospect of the whole beastly business coming to an end fairly soon . . .
TO HIS FATHER: from Perham Down Camp
10 November 1918
Although one does not wish to live in a fool’s paradise or be foolishly confident, yet I do think the present course of events is such as to render the question of trying to get a home job rather less important than it was a month ago. In twenty-four hours’ time it may have ceased to have any meaning at all. Of course even it we do get peace, I suppose I shall take some time in escaping from the army. But in no position should I stand a better chance of a speedy discharge, than in my present one of convalescent officer at a Command Depot. Our attitude therefore must simply be to ‘stand by’ . . .
Of course the question whether Heinemann is treating me well or no has often been in my mind, and I have come to the conclusion that such an agreement is all that we have a right to expect. We must remember that even when poetry has a succès fou it is still less profitable to the publisher than even fairly good fiction. As Evans said to me, ‘We don’t expect to make a commercial success out of poetry: we only publish it—well simply because its good.’ . . . Since you ask, such compliments as I was payed by Heinemann were of a somewhat peculiar nature—their object being to impress upon me the great honour that was being done me, and the majesty of the firm. ‘Of course Mr Lewis we never accept poetry unless it is really good’ and more in that strain—with mental reservations on my part as I remembered some specimens. He merely said that Galsworthy ‘admired’ the one he wanted for Reveille . . .
[The following day, Monday 11 November 1918, Albert Lewis wrote in his diary: ‘Armistice signed. War ended. Thanks be to God.’]
TO HIS FATHER: from Officers’ Command Depot, Eastbourne
[17? November 1918]
As you see, I have been moved again. That is to say I have in the literal sense covered several hundreds of miles of country, but in the military sense I have not moved at all. In other words, ‘Command Depot’ itself has moved: as a step towards demobilisation the officers who were scattered at various depots over the country have been collected into a special depot for officers here. As to the great news which is uppermost in our minds, I can only echo what you have already said. The man who can give way to mafficking at such a time is more than indecent—he is mad. I remember five of us at Keble, and I am the only survivor: I think of Mr Sutton, a widower with five sons, all of whom have gone. One cannot help wondering why. Let us be silent and thankful.
The question of how to get most quickly out of the army has of course occupied me too. I wrote to Macan explaining my position and asking whether Colleges propose to make any representations to the powers on behalf of the Sam-Browne’d freshmen who wanted to get back—for I had heard that something of that kind was being done. He replied in a kind and even cordial letter that I was not likely, so far as he knew, to be discharged for several months, and that the head of the U.T.C. [University Training Courses] was writing to me. The latter wrote to me saying that if I could get passed by a board as ‘unfit for at least three months’ I could go back to Oxford in khaki and on arm
y pay, for what they call ‘an intensive course of University training’ on the chance of not being disturbed again. This seems to me however rather a cat and mouse business . . .
We’re a nice pair! In the same letter you say—quite truly—that I have never told you to what extent I am likely to be disabled by the wound, and also that you are in Squeaky’s hands for trouble—unspecified.47 Well let’s make a bargain. Here is my health report, and in return I shall look for a full account of your own bother. The effects of the wound in general movement are practically nil. I can do everything except hold my left arm straight above my head, which I don’t want to do anyway. The effects on general health are very small: I have had one or two stoppages of breath which I am told are not unusual after a chest wound and which will soon disappear, and of course I still get tired easily and have a few headaches in the evenings. On the nerves there are two effects which will probably go with quiet and rest . . . The other is nightmares—or rather the same nightmare over and over again. Nearly everyone has it, and though very unpleasant, it is passing and will do no harm. So you see I am almost in status quo . . .
TO HIS FATHER: from Eastbourne
8 December 1918
As you have probably seen in the papers, we are all going to get 12 days’ ‘Christmas leave’. I use the inverted commas advisedly as mine seems likely to be in January. I suppose it would be unreasonable to expect them to let us all go at the same time, and you and I won’t quarrel with dates. It has been a long time coming and a time unpleasantly and wastefully spent, but thank God it is over at last. By the way although, as I understand, I am entitled to a vote, I have not yet received any of the ‘Election Communications’ which have fallen to the lot of most men I know. Perhaps you can advise the constituency that it is in danger of losing the support of an influential voter! I suppose we are all voting for the Coalition, though I must confess I distrust them most heartily and look for no liberty as long as they are in power. Most of us here would be ready to vote for Lucifer himself if he rose up in red velvet and sulpher whispering the word ‘Discharged’. But I see we are not to be ‘discharged’ but ‘demobilized’ and kept on a leash for the rest of our lives . . .