by C. S. Lewis
All these days D has been in good form whenever I have had a moment with her, and everything goes well. Smudge is much better. Andrée in great form, W seems to get on well . . .
Tuesday 15 August: A fine day. W went into town in the morning and I settled to work on my dissertation, continuing till lunch time and making fair head way . . .
During the afternoon I went to D’s room to find a box of matches and ran into her sitting with Maisie Hawes who was in tears. D told me the whole story afterwards and it is just what one would have expected from that foul hag Mrs Hawes. Maisie had always been badly treated—usual Cinderella story—did all the work—cursed and struck in the face—taken away from school—forbidden dancing at which she has real talent and told she must take up nursing which she loathes. Last year they told her she was not their child, but the illegitimate child of her sister. Characteristically they told the other children too. Since then things have become worse. Even the children throw their boots at her, she is constantly hit and is not allowed a single penny of her own. What she dreads most of all is the return next month of Commander Hawes, that gallant officer: when he is at home she is literally imprisoned in the house.
The thing is so bad that other people have noticed it and occasionally ticked the children off for their behaviour to Maisie. On these occasions the little dears go to their mother and say that Maisie has been ‘making mischief’: then she gets hell from the old woman and physical violence. She also said that both Mrs H. and the Commander ‘gushed over’ her in public. A sickening story.
D and I racked our brains to think of anything we could do. Unfortunately it seems not quite bad enough for effective police interference and anything short of that only makes matters worse. As the Hawes know nobody there is no possibility of influencing them by public opinion, and the wretched Maisie has sworn us to secrecy . . .
Wednesday 16 August: In the morning I accompanied W into town in order to return some books to the Union, walking in through Mesopotamia. We spent a pleasant morning, chancing on an unusual number of celebrated curiosities in the bookshop windows and finishing up with beer in the courtyard of the Mitre.
Home to a very late lunch. While we were still at the table the Pasleys appeared and delayed us for some time before the whole lot set out to tennis. W and I of course remained, and played pingpong till tea time . . . Thence to the nameless pub in Old Headington to drink beer in the back room.
On returning we found the others ministering to Smudge, who had collapsed during tennis. She proved a most intractable patient and insisted on walking upstairs: D thinks it was no real faint, but hysteria and I am afraid the analytic explanation is sufficiently obvious.
At supper D told the story of Frank and our brush with the Ludgershall doctor in 1918, which amused W hugely. I went with him after supper to buy rum and D made Smudge an egg flip. It now became necessary for someone to take her home, and W very decently offered to bear me company. We accordingly bussed to Summertown, a pleasant enough drive through the twilight. We had to run to catch the return bus after seeing Smudge to her house and thus avoided a terrible route march home . . .
I forgot to say that Maisie was here to tea, escaped under pretence of going somewhere else. Plain of face, she has an admirable figure: seems honest, cheerful, intelligent and has so small a touch of vulgar accent that one wonders how that witches cave of a home has not affected her more. We all liked her: she played tennis with the others after tea. As soon as I can have a talk with her I am to write to Barfield about any opening in dancing, as she has been trained by some famous woman whose name I cannot catch.
Thursday 17 August: . . . As soon as our late lunch was over I took the bus, having been asked to tea with the Carritts. A beautiful afternoon. Bussed to Carfax and thence to Abingdon Turn, arriving at Heath Barrows at 4.15. Tennis was in progress. I was introduced to Basil Murray of New College, who seems a clever fellow. Carritt promised to criticise my dissertation if I sent it to him. Murray teased him with questions about symbolic logic and the relations of mathematics and philosophy. Carritt frankly had no opinion of their supposed connection. He mentioned a lecture which he had heard in which the point was that because you had no really accurate measuring rod, therefore things equal to the same thing were not equal to one another, which was childish. After tea tennis set in again, so I departed, making W my excuse and walked to Carfax through S. Hinksey with great enjoyment.
Arrived home to find the others fresh from bridge with Mrs Stevenson. Andrée, Maureen, W and I played croquet till supper time: afterwards Andrée and I had very poor luck at bridge against D and W. Earlyish to bed. D in good form—my own neuralgia nearly gone.
Friday 18 August: W and I bussed into Oxford after a late breakfast and he went to have his hair cut. After our usual beer drinking at the Mitre we went to All Souls. Beckett was not in his rooms—or rather in those of Sir John Simon, which he uses—but by good luck we met a porter who led us to the Codrington Library. We were both much impressed with the room, where we’d never been before. Beckett was dug out of one of the smaller rooms. I introduced him to W and he promised to come out to lunch.
After a drink at the Roebuck we two came home and Beckett arrived shortly afterwards. Everyone seemed favourably impressed by him. I found to my surprise that he is twenty six years old. During lunch we talked of the legal status of men and women: Beckett said there were actually more injustices in the woman’s favour than in the man’s. I find that that cheery old boy I met on the 12th of August was Zulueta, the Professor of Roman Law and the son of the ex-Spanish Ambassador.81 D remarked afterwards that a close friendship between Baker and Beckett was not what one would have expected.
After lunch I worked on my dissertation and started recopying it. I find that the second draft will be very different from the first and I am not sure that I have even broken the back of the job.
Both the Pasleys were here for tea. They, Smudge and I (afterwards joined by W) played pingpong and I was badly beaten by everyone. After supper D, Andrée, W and I played bridge—in which I was equally unsuccessful. Smudge started home on her bicycle at about 10, but returned in a few minutes, very much rattled as she had been followed by a Headington rough. W and I accordingly turned out (it was now raining) and walked with her to the White Horse . . .
Forgot to mention our argument during supper in which D and W maintained that education was a cause of unhappiness and that the labourers of the early 19th century, with all their miseries, were happier than those of the present day. I of course took the opposite view.
Saturday 19 August: A fine morning. Into town with W through Mesopotamia, as has become customary, after breakfast. Found an extraordinary cheap pipe for 2/6d which I got—it seems to be a success.
As we were returning by bus, we fell to talk of our father. W said that in spite of the old rows, despotisms and absurdities of our childhood, P could have made a friend of him in the last five years if he had had any serious will to do so, and had not consistently sneered at his profession. I thought the same was true of me: quite recently it was still possible for a slight effort on P’s part to remove the barriers, but that effort had not been made and the cleavage—moral, intellectual and of habit—is permanently fixed . . .
Supper late: everyone in great spirits. Afterwards Maisie danced to us. In so small a room one cannot get a picture of the whole body, and of course the effort is much too visible. She seemed good to me but I know nothing of dancing.
It was now a lovely pitchblack night, and I suggested hide and seek in the garden: this looked like developing into a good rag, but Smudge had to go and she was in such a state of nerves that I accompanied her to the top of Headington Hill. She was in poor form—shell shock I call it. Her father died heavily in debt and as the others were too young, she has had everything to do for six years. I am afraid something is going to snap if the strain goes on much longer.
I came back to find that W had seen Maisie home and he had returned in sem
i-comic dudgeon after having blundered over all the ditches of Highfield in the dark . . .
Sunday 20 August: I spent the morning at work on my dissertation and made some progress. Shortly before lunch I walked out with W. to our usual pub, where we sat in an unusual room—same where I sat with Pasley discussing marriage two years ago—and drank cider. W said it had not the tang of the Worcester cider, and I think he was right. After lunch I played croquet with him—absolutely off my game, could hit nothing.
I then changed and cycled to Warneford Rd. Mrs P told me that Pasley had just left and I overtook him (on foot) this side of college. We then went together to call on the Mugger. We found his wife in the garden and were soon joined by himself. We talked of Hutchinson’s novels. The Mugger said the style suggested an effort to out-herod Carlyle.
The maid then appeared from the house, trying to keep ahead of a couple of visitors: the woman however outstripped (her) and arrived a short head in time to announce herself. ‘I’m Dr Meade and this is my husband.’ They were Americans. Pasley says the man had gold links in his right cuff and silver in his left, but I did not notice it myself. He opened the conversation by saying ‘Our town is just the other side of Connecticut’ and described it at some length. He then asked the Mugger ‘Can you tell me what are the functions of a Master of a College in this University?’ The Mugger replied ‘Hm—hm—rather hard to explain—hm—hm—looks after the administration and the—er—administration of finance—tho’ to be sure the Bursar looks after that—hm.’ He also told the Mugger that many of the MS in the Bodleian were irreplaceable! Dr Meade enquired of Pasley and me ‘What are you two young men doing here at this time of year?’
When we left, the Mugger affectionately armed me to the door and asked me about my plans. He said they wd. be very pleased to see me again if I wanted to stay up another year. Pasley accompanied me along the Iffley Rd. talking about his chances of an All Souls Fellowship.
We met Andrée, Smudge, and W outside Cowley St John: Pasley departed and the rest of us went in. Quite an interesting show: plainsong seemed to me curious rather than beautiful, but in parts it had a faint charm.
From here I went to Warneford Rd. to have supper with the Pasleys. In spite of all prepossessions in her favour, I have not succeeded in liking ‘Johnnie’. She seems empty, plain, and a little bit common: but it is true that I found my evening less unpleasant than I had feared.
Pasley seems still happy and that is the great thing. He talked about history—also about immortality—usual negatively hopeful attitude that you couldn’t disprove. He told me the idea of a play he hoped to write, turning on the progress of toleration which was reaching such a point that since every opinion ‘had much to be said for it’ no single opinion could be held at all. I said he was the extreme example himself: for his play would preach toleration of intolerance . . .
Monday 21 August: Despite all my efforts we have slipped into late hours again and, finding the Headington air sleepy on its own account, come always to breakfast in a kind of coma . . .
Andrée, W. and I went into town after breakfast, only to find the library already shut and no order about return of books . . . We then went to [University College] chapel where I showed them the Dutch windows and held a crowd at bay while W took a photo. We then went to Merton and saw the library and chapel where I have never been before: afterwards to the House to see the pictures. We went to the courtyard of the Mitre where W and I drank beer while Andrée put away a cocktail in the manner born.
. . . Supper in fairly good time after which Andrée and W went to the Stevensons to play bridge. Left alone, we fell to talking of W. D said he was nice and ‘just missed being very nice indeed’ but one couldn’t tell how. I said probably because you felt that he had no need for you. She admired his slow, whimsical way of talking, which was attractive and which one found oneself unconsciously imitating . . . Later in the evening I had a conversation with D, memorable both for its exceedingly tortuous course, and for its content which certainly was an eye opener.
Tuesday 22 August: When I woke up I felt that the events of the previous night had happened in a dream. Smudge was here at breakfast time: we were all relieved to hear that she had an invitation to spend a few days at Brill. I eagerly advised her to accept this . . .
After lunch I worked on my dissertation till tea time, having first washed up whatever of the lunch things were left by Dorothy and Ivy, and laid as much of the tea things as I could.
After tea Maureen, W and I bussed in to the station to meet Daisy Perrott—silly woman—and to look for the cake which is supposed to be on its way from Little Lea. After Daisy’s arrival W and I dawdled behind, looked for the cake in both stations, and finally came on to the Mitre. W asked me about Daisy: I restrained a desire to pour out the vials of my dislike and described her merely as a dud. ‘The Dud’ she has accordingly become in our conversation.82
Home and to supper, after which Maisie danced to us. This poor girl wins golden opinions on all sides. Tomorrow there is talk of her being taken to London by the bitch she calls mother, I don’t know with what devil’s purpose of forcing her into nursing or worse, against her will. Perhaps we shall not see her again.
Smudge behaved very strangely. W and I played bridge against Andrée and D. Daisy’s meaningless face overhung the game and D had to keep up an intermittent conversation with her wh. led to a mistake and lost them the rubber. I had a few minutes alone with D. She thinks I have gone to the other extreme today and been almost rude to Smudge. She is doubtless right, but I hardly know whether I am on my head or my heels and heartily wish Smudge out of the house, tho’ to be sure I am still heartily sorry for her.
Wednesday 23 August: . . . After tea, as Andrée looked restive, I suggested a walk. She and Smudge accompanied me up the fieldpath through what used to be ‘The Red Land’. Rather a rum conversation on Paramnesia (Andrée, who introduced the subject, calls it ‘fausse reminiscence’), were-wolves, damnation and decapitation.
I had just gone up to my room after our return when Smudge knocked at the door. She had come to apologise for going for a walk: she had thought we were all coming and wouldn’t have come if she had known it was Andrée and me—we could have had a much better walk without her—etc., etc. Little ass! On the spur of the moment I said ‘Oh rot!—it’s so much easier to keep up a conversation between three people than between two’: realised afterwards what an admirable and pregnant reply I had made . . .
Thursday 24 August: A tolerable morning. Daisy and Andrée decided to go into town and W. and I went also, but independently . . .
On coming home we found Smudge starting an early lunch in order to be ready for her departure for Brill. It was at this juncture that an adventure happened: D—the only witness—described its first reel. She saw a figure at the door whom she took for an unusually ugly errand boy. Just as she was going to ask him his business, Andrée appeared at the head of the stairs, paused a minute, then rushed forwards crying ‘A-A-Aah! Gerges. C’est tu!’
It was her cousin—Georges Sée—and D asked him to lunch . . . A more repulsive looking dago I have never set eyes on. He and Andrée left us immediately after lunch and Maisie appeared. The plot now began to unfold. Andrée it appeared had spoken to D about ‘rooms’ and later, by imperceptible change, about ‘a room’ for the . . . boy, and it had gradually become apparent that she was proposing to feed her curio at our table. Of payment, there had of course been no suggestion. I can hardly describe the state of horror into which this threw every single member of the household: but as the thing had been assumed by Andrée and not requested, as the monster had been slipped into our midst with admirable coolness—we had no notion how to proceed. . . .
We were then joined by D and W and another feverish council of war took place. D was for sticking it till Monday when Mrs Raymond’s return would make a natural excuse to eject him. The rest of us were agreed in urging early and forcible action, but no one could decide on a feasible plan .
. .
We now concluded that D must speak plainly to Andrée when she returned. W. and I then went to our pub to drink large whiskies. W had a headache. We came back and continued our croquet until Maureen rushed out to tell me that Andrée was come.
Going in, I found her with D in the kitchen. D asked her if she had found rooms for her cousin. Andrée said she had heard of something in Windmill Rd. ‘But can they do for him there?’ ‘Do for him? What do you mean?’ ‘I mean can they feed him?’ ‘Aah! But can you not do that?’ D explained as politely as possible that this was out of the question. Andrée gave way at once. Her face was rather an odd colour and rather an odd shape. To be frank, she did not strike me as one who had made an embarrassing blunder by accident. I thought she knew—and knew that we knew—and that we knew that she knew—that she had attempted a monstrous imposition and failed . . .
Pasley had returned ‘Dymer’ with some interesting criticisms. He likes Canto II the best: disapproves of ‘C.C. S.’ as ‘inexcusable modernism’: objects to ‘the intrusion of allegory’ in III (what is the allegory?) and concludes ‘Go on and prosper but use the knife freely.’ In bed about 12.
Friday 25 August: . . . W and I then went into town to make our arrangements about tomorrow’s travelling, paid a farewell visit to the Mitre and returned home. Andrée returned soon afterwards without Mr Sée, which relieved us from any fear her morning’s conversation had caused. Maisie Hawes came after lunch. She and I played croquet against W and Andrée, leading for the first half of the game: then my aim went to pieces and we were beaten. D and Maureen went out after tea . . .
Both the Pasleys came to supper. He showed me a cartoon which he had drawn to represent the adventure of yesterday. The drawing may not be academic, but it is an amusing relic. After supper we had a great rag playing ‘French and English’ on the lawn: the clothes line was used to divide the grounds. D tells me we could be heard all over Headington. W and I had not taken such violent exercise since Lord-knows-when.