by C. S. Lewis
After supper I read Heitland, going to my own room when Mary and the Doc appeared. When it was dark I went out and talked with him alone in the garden. Starting from sexual cannibalism in insects (which he compared with Sadism) and thence passing to perversion in general, we ended up on ‘blinds’ and anecdotes and the general philosophy of getting drunk . . .
Friday 2 June: Cooler in the morning. I put in good work on Gk. History and started revising Roman—which I seem to retain well—from breakfast to lunch. D busy making cakes: Maureen out for lunch.
I changed and went in to Baker’s tea fight at about 3.45.52
Had some talk before his guests arrived. He was very pleased with the new canto on the whole, but said that ‘feeding on vain fancy’ was inexcusable, and that the two stanzas before the last were ‘simply awful’ . . .
Saturday 3 June: . . . I read, in the Union, the preface and some of the poems in Hardy’s new book: the preface written in such strained involved sentences that I could hardly understand it—one or two of the poems magnificent.
I also looked into a copy of Freud’s Introductory Lectures which lay among the new books: got quite a new point of view about perversion, wh. has stuck in my head: i.e. that it is always the substitution of some minor detail for the act itself. Query—from the comparatively naturalistic point of view, is all human love, as opposed to mere appetite, one huge perversion? . . . Took Havelock Ellis’s World of Dreams from the Union and returned home.
In the garden after lunch I read Spenser—the beautiful canto about Phaedria. Sheila Gonner came to tea: Jenkin arrived rather late. We had all sat down to tea and were, as Bozzy says, in extraordinary spirits when Miss Wiblin arrived—a fat, plain, shy, giggling woman.53 A most insane meal—what the stranger thought of us I cannot imagine.
When things quieted down Jenkin asked me to come on the river: so walked to Magdalen Bridge and thence up the Cher in his canoe. River pretty empty and delightfully cool with a soft evening light. He quoted with approval the remarks of Mr Scrogan in Huxley’s Chrome Yellow on modern ‘serious’ sexuality. We spoke of Don Juan: he was ecstatic in praise of the Haidée cantos—said it was bound to collapse after them. He said that no one had lived who hadn’t been on Haidée’s island. I said in the same way no one had lived who hadn’t done a thousand other things and one had to omit some. He is strongly obsessed by the modern—and ancient—ideal of having every experience. We also spoke of the horrors of marriage. He was also concerned to uphold the difficulties of the English school against the exaggerated prestige of Greats . . .
Sunday 4 June: . . . I read Havelock Ellis’s dream book. He works it out chiefly as physiological events symbolised in image—or rather the physical causes the emotion, which then invents a symbol and the higher centre procedes to ‘logicalise’ these symbols into a world, and so the dream is made. He is by no means a Freudian. (Memo reference to a footnote to Ellis’s Studies in Psychology of Sex vol. III, Chapter on ‘Love and Pain’.)
Maureen very much depressed today. After supper sat for a long time outside talking over old 1917 days: of Somerville, and why he was a strict Anglo-Catholic and yet joined in scoffing at religion—of Brand in the room below Paddy and me, and his loathsome friend—of Sutton etc.54 . . .
Monday 5 June: . . . I . . . walked into the Cornmarket . . . and ran into Mrs McNeill and Janie, who are staying at Oxenford Hotel. I promised to go to them on Wednesday afternoon.55 . . .
Lady Gonner came to tea. Some interesting talk about parents and children: she and D agreed that when things went wrong it was nearly always the parent’s fault. Lady Gonner said that her daughters had always treated her not as ‘an elder sister’ as the sentimentalists would have it, but as a younger sister. We also discused Strachey: she thinks Eminent Victorians better than Queen Victoria. One cannot describe Lady G. better than by saying that tho’ she is very deaf, we do not easily get tired of talking to her . . .
Tuesday 6 June: . . . Jenkin returned ‘Dymer’ which I had lent him on Saturday: he was much less pleased with it than either Baker or Barfield. He says he cannot quite stomach the slang etc., and he has a constitutional inability to like psychological soliloquy. He found the Byronic element very pronounced—but praised one or two passages.
Watling returned, having been round to College: brought me a note from Carritt saying that Wadham wanted a Greats man to act as junior dean and would ‘press’ him to read law and become a law tutor. Would this suit me?
We all repaired to Magdalen Bridge and took Jenkin’s canoe: we went up the Thames, past Folly Bridge and the gas works, into a narrow side stream, and finally to Ferry Hinksey. Here we had a good tea (1/2d a head) in the garden of the pub, which runs down to the water . . . nothing said all afternoon that’s worth recording, but a very pleasant and cheery time. Cool on the water and the river full of beauty—natural and human . . .
Wednesday 7 June: . . . To College to see Carritt about the proposed job at Wadham. He was away for the day . . . I then called on Baker in Wadham and asked his advice about the Wadham job. He described the duties of the junior dean. Could I descend among a crowd of junior blues and say ‘Put out the bonfire!’ in a voice that would command obedience from tight men? We both laughed at the picture, tho’ I was rather depressed with the realisation of what I lack . . . Had a talk with D who quite agrees with Baker’s view of my inability ever to be a junior dean . . .
I worked in the garden till about 3.45 and then went to the McNeills at Oxenford Hall Hotel, and took Janie to the Good Luck. Tolerable tea for two, with ices, for 3/-. I found her desperately boring—tho’ in Ireland I have often regarded her as a bit of the larger world. She went over ancient stories and explained W[arnie]’s psychology to me with a lavish display of ignorance. She is stagnating like the rest, and falling back on matter which has been used over and over again—I am really very sorry for her. She tells me that Aunt Lily goes about saying that I have been promised a Fellowship . . .
Thursday 8 June: Began Greats today: D reminds me that this day five years ago was my first in the army. No sun, and cool out of doors whenever the wind blew, but very oppressive under cover.
Left home early and went to College: saw old George and recovered my mortar board, left there ever since I lived on his staircase. Tried to see Carritt, but he was out.
Repaired to the Schools at 9.30 with Blunt and Montagu. We did Roman History questions until 12.30: not a very nice paper, but my general impression is negative—nothing very hard or very easy and in me, no brilliance, no débâcle. Noticed an amusing affectation on the part of Joan Biggs who brought in—and used—an enormous and perfectly scarlet quill pen.
We all went to see Stevenson afterwards: he was unable to answer most of the gobbets, which were indeed a poor selection. Wyllie has unfortunately got some kind of internal chill, but is carrying on. Lunched in Hall with P. O. Simpson, Blunt, Montagu, Mackenzie, Currie and others, and lay on the grass in the quad afterwards.56
Returned to the Schools for Unseens at two o’clock. The Greek—a passage about dreams from Philostratus—was extraordinarily easy: the Latin (from the De Natura Deorum) rather harder. Finished at about 3.45 and came home feeling very tired and with a headache . . .
Friday 9 June: . . . Schools from 9.30 till 12.30, paper on philosophical books. I was quite pleased with my work. It became surprisingly cold during the morning and whether from that or some other reason, I found myself positively staggering when I came out. Lunch in Hall with Montagu, P. O. Simpson, Blunt etc.
Translation of Roman History texts from 2 till 4—quite satisfactory so far as I can judge.
Coming home I found Miss Featherstone and D in the garden. D tells me that Miss F. has been undergoing horrible tortures with her ear of which the drum is now altogether gone. She is wonderfully cheerful. I was much less tired this afternoon than yesterday.
After reading a little Plato I returned to town. I met Wyllie in the High . . . [He] said that girls were not allowed to ta
ke Juvenal or Catullus for Schools, which I never knew before . . .
Found Mr Taylor—a nice old boy—with D on my return: some homespun but very sensible conversation. Letter from P. in the afternoon: also a notice from Truslove, drawing my attention to a philosophical lectureship at Bangor, N. Wales, with £300 a year.
Saturday 10 June: In the Schools at 9.30 as usual for Gk. History (questions) paper. This was my bête noir and I was very gratefully surprised to find gobbets—which I dreaded more than anything—excellently suited to me. The rest of the paper was very tolerable and I think I have managed it much better than I have any right to hope.
I came out shortly before time and went with Baker to Wadham: he has been overworking and is going out to Bee Cottage to recoup before his Schools. He showed me one of the finest modern poems I have seen, by an unknown American, in the London Mercury.57 We lunched together at the Old Oak (plaice with sauce, bread, an ice and coffee, 2/7d). Harwood came over from another table and spoke to us. A very jolly meal, tho’ I remember nothing that was said.
The town was full of people in strange costumes collecting money and selling programmes for the Rag Regatta. No one attacked me—perhaps they thought that a man in a white tie had troubles enough.
Back to the Schools at two o’clock for a paper on translation from Plato and Aristotle which suited me down to the ground and could hardly have been better . . .
After supper I read through the two Cantos of ‘Dymer’: felt fairly satisfied—I don’t think the end of Canto II is half so bad as I imagined. It also occurred to me that a sensual stanza of the kind I have been trying to write would really be rather an anti-climax.
D and I then fell into conversation about ways and means—the summer vac. being always a problem, as my two allowances come so far apart . . . A notice from Truslove today about a Classical Lectureship at Durham, £300 a year.
Sunday 11 June: Rather late getting up; a very beautiful morning. I cycled into Oxford, leaving my bike in College: from there I walked through Christ Church down into Luke St., over the waterworks and up the fold in the hill from Hinksey to the top. Sat down in the patch of wood—all ferns and pines and the very driest sand and the landscape towards Wytham of an almost polished brightness. Got a whiff of the real joy, but only momentary.
I strolled back into the wood and home again: called at the Union to wash my hands which I had torn badly on a wire and to take out Wm. James’s Varieties of Religious Experience. I have been reading this most of the afternoon, a capital book: particularly was I pleased to find for the first time Carlyle’s remark about the lady who said she accepted the universe—‘Gad! she’d better’, and also to find an account of the rise and scope of Bostonese. The more I read the more I see that the sayings of the Doc and his like are simply taken from a tradition which is as much a ready made orthodoxy to them as the Bible and Prayer Book are to old fashioned people.
D very busy—much too busy in my opinion—on her dress making. Have been looking over some of my old philosophy essays as a refresher for tomorrow. Maureen out to tea at the Gonners.
Monday 12 June: . . . In College I found Poynton . . . in tremendous spirits and [he] began in his aged and tremulous falsetto to expound a theory of punishment which no one could understand. The main jist of it was that murderers ought to be let loose and shot by the local farmers because, tho’ Poynton ‘had a vague belief in a future life’ he thought it was a mistake to shut people up and let parsons on them as a preparation: and that they should rather be ‘sent off, shoo!’ (here a magnificent gesture).
Stevenson kept up a gurgling titter and was suppressed by Poynton whenever he tried to speak. Before I came in Poynton had told them that if a man got A Plus on the Logic paper, he had to have a First: this was one of the Arcana Imperii.
We then repaired to the Schools for our Logic paper: I was greatly disappointed in it, and tho’ I certainly did not do a bad one, I have often done very much better ones for Carritt . . .
Went back to Schools at two o’clock and did a pretty easy translation paper. Came home to tea. D (according to the superstition) said she had been afraid I’d get a bad paper this morning because I had been so looking forward to it . . .
I then went to Carritt and talked about the job at Wadham. He said everyone felt shy of being a dean at first, but that there was really very little unpleasantness to face. I said I was no good at ticking people off: he said mysteriously that he thought I was. He said I should see Allen to find out what Law was like.58 He also told me that Ewing will probably come back from Switzerland to compete for the Magdalen Fellowship, which is unpleasing news . . .
Tuesday 13 June: Went into College and thence to Schools at 9.30 where I found an agreeable General Ancient History paper. I wrote steadily all through the time and I believe did good work.
Heavy rain began to fall during the morning. At 12.30 I rushed through it up to Queen’s Lane to Wadham and called for Baker . . . We talked of Pasley and of the gulf which separates the married from the unmarried: on the same subject in the evening D said she thought it was the one who remained unmarried who unconsciously created the gulf.
Back to Schools at two o’clock for Latin Prose: not a bad piece—a criticism by J. R. Lowell on Carlyle. I came out at about 4.45: it was now so cold that I found myself shivering . . .
Wednesday 14 June: It continued very cold. In to Schools at 9.30 and did a pretty decent paper on Moral and Political philosophy . . .
Lunched in Hall with Montagu, Fasnacht, Currie and others. Greek prose in the afternoon—very few turned up and many stayed only half an hour.
I then came home and had tea: read a little of Wm. James and talked with D on a number of subjects.
Went in again at 7.45 to dine in Senior Common Room with Carritt and Stevenson . . . A very pleasant evening. Stevenson told us that a Univ. man—Zumagrinoff (?) I think his name was—had been the murderer of Rasputin. He was fabulously rich and had brought Carritt an essay on socialism in which he said, ‘A man may haf one motor car or two or three, but ten—No!’ . . .
Carritt described someone’s—Smith perhaps—going for a walk with Bradley the philosopher.59 Bradley kept rushing off to scold little boys who were throwing papers about or were ‘just going to write their names on walls’. After these painful episodes he would ask ‘Do you like children?’ in a voice which led you, if you were wise, to reply ‘Not very much.’ Then in a tender and encouraging voice, ‘Do you like dogs?’
Carritt, Haig and I then got into a long and interesting conversation on the subconscious which Carritt utterly denies, taking an extreme view and holding that the self literally ceases to exist during sleep. He allowed some force in my argument that a changeling subject might conceivably slip into your particular content next morning. Haig was on the ‘extreme left’ and talked of Coué and Badouin . . .
Thursday 15 June: A free day, at last. I went out walking at 10 o’clock. It was the most delightful, cool, grey skied summer day. I went up Shotover and down the other side to Wheatley, thence to my right over the railway bridge and up past the old windmill where I once went with Jenkin on bicycles. I was in capital form, getting ‘thrills’ from everything, full of unspecified memories and, for some time, almost free from thought.
Got home about quarter to one. Lunch very late. Wrote five stanzas for the third canto of ‘Dymer’ in the afternoon. Miss Wiblin came to give Maureen a lesson and stopped to tea. Desperately plain but quite sensible—except that she remembered herself and had to giggle now and then . . .
Read Wm. James in the afternoon and evening: got as far as the chapter on Mysticism which is the most interesting so far. D in very good form but frightfully busy with her work. We are sitting in the drawing room tonight with a fire. My two poems back from the English Review.
Friday 16 June: . . . A note from Carritt was left for me in the lodge enclosing a ticket for the annual Greek play at Bradfield tomorrow week: went to the bus bureau but they had no details abou
t a bus to Bradfield and I am thinking of biking . . .
Saturday 17 June: A notice from Truslove came by the early post about a classical lectureship for a year at Reading, £300, ‘apply E. R. Dodds, head of their Classical department’. I wondered if this might not be Eric Dodds, the drunken Sinn Féiner and friend of Theobald Butler’s who had been at Univ.60 Going into town I met Carritt in the library and found that this was so—as he had met Dodds yesterday and my name had been mentioned. He also told me that it was quite possible to bike to Bradfield . . .
I then called on Poynton. He said he thought it very unlikely that my failure to do verse would stick me for the Reading job. I asked for a testimonial whereupon he threw up his hands in horror and exclaimed ‘Oh, my dear boy!’ but promised to write one if Dodds asked for it. I also called on Stevenson who promised me another. He thought a job at Reading for a year would help me to one at Oxford and approved of my idea of taking a season ticket and continuing to live at Oxford if I got it.
I went into the J.C.R. and wrote two letters to Dodds, one a formal application, the other in a jovial strain reminding him of myself and when we had met . . .
Came home. Maureen had been on the river all day with the Rowells . . . Poor D terribly busy finishing a bit of work . . . Supper at 10 o’clock: we then discussed ways and means. It appears that we shall be put to the pin of the collar to get through this long vac . . .
Sunday 18 June: I woke up late this morning in such a state of misery and depression as I never remember to have had. There was no apparent reason. Really rather ridiculous—found myself in tears; for the first time for many a long day, while dressing. I concealed this as well as I could and it passed off after breakfast. I suppose it is some sort of pathological reaction by which I pay for not having had conscious wind up or exhaustion during schools.
Wrote a few stanzas for ‘Dymer’ in the morning and then read Hume’s Of Morals. This contains nearly all my own fallacies in ethics—which look more fallacious in another person’s language.