by C. S. Lewis
Saturday 26 August: . . . W. and I did most of our packing before breakfast. We were delayed for a few minutes to have a photo taken by Maureen, and then departed, carrying his tin trunk between us. His visit here has been a great pleasure to me—a great advance too towards connecting up my real life with all that is pleasantest in my Irish life. Fortunately everyone liked him and I think he liked them. We found that we were running it very close for my 10.50 so I had to jump for the station bus and leave him to manipulate his box alone.
I arrived just as the train was ready to go and got put in a 1st Class compt. alone in which I travelled to London in great comfort. Baker met me at Paddington and took me (via tube to Baker St.) to lunch at Karraways where, he said, ‘The Baker millions are made’. Here we met another of his aunts: the one I met at Aclands has conjunctivitis. Baker was pale and not very well, but I was delighted to see him.
From here we went to the Haymarket to see A. A. Milne’s The Dover Road. Tho’ it collapses in the third act, this is one of the most amusing things I have ever seen. Henry Ainley (as Latimer) was not very good, except in his brief authoritative speeches. In the long ones he adopted a strange parsonical monotone which (Baker said) must be ‘for a purpose’ but was very bad. John Deverill (as ‘Nicholas’) pleased me best.
Back to Karraway’s for tea and thence out to 9 Staverton Rd. Here we met Baker’s third Aunt, the most interesting of the three, tho’ all are kindly and sensible women. After supper they sang old English carols—a new kind of music to me, and very unlike what is usually called a carol. At the time I thought I would give all the great composers for a budget like these. A most enjoyable day. Early to bed after some chat with Baker in his room.
Sunday 27 August: I walked with Baker in the morning through suburban avenues and parks, finally through mean streets. As I remarked ‘London is very like Belfast’, he replied ‘Of course it is.’ As we went on I told him about Maisie Hawes. I said something must be done quickly as the Commander was coming next week and then it appeared they would try to rush her into a nursing home. On the other hand everything hinged on the legal position. If her ‘parents’ really had power to bring her back, it would be no good finding her a job . . .
Back for lunch. Afterwards he and I were left alone with his sensible aunt and the question of Maisie was raised again. She was positive that at 19 a girl could not be forced to live with her parents if she could support herself. I then retired to my own room to write up arrears of diary.
After tea they sang carols again, to my great delight: in the evening he gave us what he called an ‘orgy’ on his gramophone. I heard the Kreutzer Sonata for the first time: also the death scene from Mussorgsky’s Boris Godunov sung by Chaliapin. I am beginning to get a solid impression of this household. The aunt whom we saw at Oxford is an unbearable woman. It is she who usually manages Karraway’s: during her illness this is being done by Aunt No. 2—a plain, sensible, but dull creature. Both are religious. The third is very different: more common in face and voice than her sisters, she has humour and humanity. She runs a club for young girls on the stage and works on the medical board of a district. She alone approves of Baker’s going on the stage.
Baker—the mightly Baker—is lamb-like in his own house and bears the nagging of his eldest Aunt with a patience which I cannot too much admire. He even goes to church with her, tho’ he has now quite passed the religious phase. Yet he tells me he had an altar in his bedroom two years ago!
I laughingly reminded him of the part he had played in our arguments in 1919 and of his prophecy that my chimney stack would turn into a spire . . .
Monday 28 August: A muggy, thunderous day. Shortly after breakfast I went with Baker to the Old Vic where he begins his job today. When we emerged from Waterloo I remembered for the first time that I had been to hear Carmen (very bad) at the Old Vic years before on my way to Bookham. He was naturally rather rattled: as he said ‘In any profession the first day is hell.’ Saw him disappear through the door and walked back over Waterloo Bridge . . .
I took the desperate resolve of entering the National Gallery, where I finally came to the conclusion that I have no taste for painting. I could make nothing of the Titians. The only things (besides portraits) that I cared for much were Botticelli’s Mars and Venus with satyrs, and Veronese’s (?) ‘Unfaithfulness’ in which I liked the design, tho’ I confess the actual figures always seem dull to me. However, the Italian rooms are nothing like so boring as the English.
From Trafalgar Square I tubed to Waterloo and waited for Baker at the stage door of the Old Vic. He came out at half past four after I had spent half an hour admiring Waterloo Rd. and been scowled at by a very villainous stage carpenter. We tubed to Karraways and he talked about his day. He seems to have been well treated, all things considered. He is to play Westmorland in Henry IV and to be a basket bearer in the Merry Wives. They went all through Henry IV today—over and over some parts again—in a small room with a shut window. We then went to Paddington where I caught the 6.5.
I have enjoyed my stay with these people very well, except of course the eldest aunt. After a very pleasant journey I arrived at Hillsboro about 8.30. D was in poor form after a very hard day, interrupted by many visitors, including Cranny, who really seems to be going off his head. Earlyish to bed.
Tuesday 29 August: Dreamed that Andrée made a series of attempts to stab me. I behaved like the prig hero of an adventure story, each time gently forcing the dagger away and appealing to her better nature. Finally I gave her a long and paternal lecture and kissed her hand: she gave it up in despair and departed—presumably to a convent!
In the morning I worked on my dissertation. Maisie came before lunch and we held a consultation over her. She has had another offer of a job and the Bitch won’t allow her to go to London for an interview. And the Commander is returning on Saturday. We decided we must get clear about the legalities. After lunch I therefore bussed into town and made an appointment for 3 o’clock tomorrow with Walsh, the solicitor. Back again and helped D with the plum jam which she has to make for Mrs Raymond. Andrée and Maisie went to the theatre in the evening.
Mr Raymond turned up . . . Lord, I never knew he was such a bore! A little dapper man with a grey moustache, his conversation consists in a steady outpour of absolutely trivial information about everything he has done for the last week. If you start any other subject he just waits till you’ve done and then begins again. He occupies my room and I am sleeping at Mrs Wards.
Wednesday 30 August: Since the arrival of Father Raymond our life has run on Leeborough lines: we look forward with joy to the end of breakfast and dread the approach of evening. This morning he mooted the proposal that D should bottle his plums for him. Of course we couldn’t directly refuse, as we are under an obligation to him for the house, and for this, as for most ‘kindnesses’, he apparently proposes to get his return in one way or another. Fortunately it was a wet day, so further picking and jam making were impossible.
However, it was range day and joint day so D was pretty busy and I spent most of the morning helping. Dorothy’s sister Ivy is now with us—a very pleasant girl. After lunch Maisie appeared and went into town with D.
I tried to get on with my dissertation, having finished my attack on Hedonism and arrived at Kant. I was dissatisfied with my former argument, but could not get on without a text, so I fell, idly enough, to turning over the pages of Ian Hay’s A Man’s Man. Technically he knows how to string a novel together, but his ideas and ideals are fourth rate Kipling and water and his crude wish-fulfilments only fit for the Christinas of a school girl. The only redeeming feature is the humour . . .
As soon as I could get D alone I heard the result of her visit to the solicitor. The interview had been rather funny at first, because he took D for Maisie’s mother, and when she asked what power a parent or a guardian had over a daughter of 19, replied severely ‘None whatever, Madam, none whatever!’ This was eminently satisfactory. Walsh was very kind and prom
ised free advice to Maisie if she needed it again. He advised her to take out a summons against the Commander or his wife if they struck her again. He said that they had no power at all, except to turn her adrift.
We were all jubilant. I wrote at once to Baker asking if his aunt cd. meet Maisie in town and take her to her interview some day soon: also a ‘board and lodging letter’ to the other aunt . . .
Smudge . . . got into a terrible state of nerves before going to bed: I had to go upstairs and show her that there was really nothing in any of the cupboards and also kill two spiders . . . Maureen is sleeping at Lady Gonner’s and Smudge is in D’s room.
Thursday 31 August: Harris the plumber arrived before breakfast to see to the waste pipe in the scullery sink which was blocked. He put it right very promptly for 2/-and we were hoping to keep a discreet silence about the affair: but it had not escaped old Raymond who observed at breakfast ‘I saw Harris going away Mrs Moore. Anything wrong?’ So we told him and he replied ‘Hmh’ after his fashion . . . After lunch we all picked plums and Andrée (who is becoming highly domesticated) very kindly offered to stone them for D while I went to my dissertation.
I found I was utterly useless and could think of no new arguments: then an infernal Salvation Army band established itself in Windmill Rd. and began singing hymns punctuated with five minute sermons. Religion proved more than a match for philosophy and I had to give it up . . . and then went to help D with the jam.
Old Raymond returned and went out to mess with his new ferns in the garden. We went on hard with the jam. Every now and then he came in out of the rain and fidgeted about and talked about the jam: never a word of thanks or any reference to the trouble we were having. Of course he is quite right: he lent the house and we’ve got to do his jam. Once he observed pleasantly ‘You look very busy.’ . . .
Friday 1 September: All morning I sat in the dining room and worked on my dissertation, trying to prove that no pleasure could be considered bad, considered in itself. I found it necessary to descend into pathology and rather doubt if I have done wisely . . .
Poor D had been making jam again, but I think it is done with now: may it be as molten lead in their mouths and as dragonets in their stomachs! She tells me that old Raymond is in very good form over it. Like most egotistical bores, he is just a child after all, easily pleased and easily put out.
After supper I took Maureen to the Gonners. On the way we met Smudge who had been home, and I had to walk back with her. She told me she had passed her exam, but made me promise not to tell the others till tomorrow as ‘she couldn’t stand any remarks tonight’.
She asked if there was anything she could do in return for my coaching. I said I’d tell her if there ever was, and laughingly suggested that I might ask her to murder someone. She replied gravely ‘I would if you told me.’ Then she remarked how ‘utterly miserable she was tonight’. Altogether an infernally uncomfortable tête-à-tête.
Then, of course when we got back there was a spider in the drawing room and she rushed out into the garden. After a lot of calling, Andrée and I found her lying on the lawn under the apple tree: as usual, not a real faint . . .
Saturday 2 September: . . . I spent the morning at my work in the dining room, writing about the concept of desert with great interest and enjoyment.
Mr R. was in for lunch: Maisie also turned up just as we were finishing. We are all glad to hear that The Bitch has a painful attack of lumbago. She had been grousing in bed and Maisie said ‘For goodness sake put a better face on things.’ The little woman growled at her ‘Ach-h—if I could get up I’d take a stick to ye.’ ‘No you wouldn’t,’ said Maisie. ‘You wouldn’t dare. If you ever try that again I’ll take out a summons against you.’ The Bitch simply gaped at her and said nothing.
I had a letter from Baker which I gave Maisie to read. His aunt has found out about Iris de Villiers of New Bond St. with whom Maisie was to have an interview. She appears to be rather a fraud: her plan is to see the candidate dance, say that she needs a little more training and offer to give it at a nominal price, pending a final engagement. The whole thing is just a dodge for getting pupils . . .
Sunday 3 September: . . . The Commander returned yesterday. The Bitch told [Maisie] she might go out today as it would be the last time she would ever go out anywhere. She also made a variety of complaints about her to the Commander, mostly untrue. The Commander said Maisie didn’t work, and therefore he wouldn’t start her in a dancing career: they both settled down to write long letters—presumably making some arrangements about her.
During the afternoon Smudge’s brother came out: he is a very quiet youth whom I think I rather like. We play croquet, Andrée and I against Maisie and Mr Wiblin.
After tea I went out to do some message or other—I forget what: as I came back into Western Road I passed one of the Hawes children leaving ‘Hillsboro’ on a bike. ‘That means trouble,’ thought I. I cut her, more through preoccupation than anything else. As soon as I got back I found that the child had been sent with a peremptory message for Maisie’s return. Maisie had sent back asking for a few moments’ grace as she was in the middle of a game, and the child had come again with the message ‘Maisie is to come home at once.’ She was now preparing to obey: she was quite unnerved for once, and everyone felt that there was going to be an outburst.
At her request I accompanied her home, after D and I had both advised her to escape to us if things became unbearable. She led me round to the back of her house where we found the whole family ‘joined in synod unbenign’. I said we had promised all our guests that Maisie shd. dance for them and I hoped very much that it would be possible for her to stay to supper. Whereupon a figure that sat with its back to me, turned half round and said that we could promise what we liked but ‘She cannot, she CAN NOT: and that’s why I sent for her, for I’m not going to have her going out and leavin’ the place like a pig stye, so there, and she can understand that.’ (All this seemed to be delivered in a strong Belfast accent, tho’ I suppose it must really be Scotch.)
The Bitch at this point showed a desire to keep up the fiction of friendliness and interrupted ‘My dear, this is Mr Lewis.’ The figure—a very fat blue figure with a red face—then turned fully round and extended a right hand from which two or three fingers were missing. I took it—it seemed better so. He then poured out a good deal more of the same sort with a lot of abuse of Maisie. Finally I said ‘Good bye,’ glancing in her direction, and came away.
Came home in a sort of drunk state of agitation and had supper: old Raymond was fortunately out. Afterwards I helped to wash up and then read two tales of Tolstoi, Where God Is, There Is Love and The Godson: the latter is the better, but neither impressed me much.
Old Raymond came in and began talking about Peru. Then, at about 11.30 came a tap at the door: I went, and there was Maisie saying ‘I’ve come.’ She had crept out after all the devils were in bed and carried all her clothes away with her.
As soon as Raymond went to bed, D, Andrée, Smudge and I met in conclave in the drawing room. As soon as I had left, the Bitch and her husband had started a row with Maisie. The pretext was the untidiness of her room . . . The Bitch supplied an obbligato to this row by throwing knives and forks about. The Commander was going to strike her but she cowed him by the mere mention of a summons. They said he would take her back to Belfast when he went there and make her a nurse. As a parting shot the Commander told her to ‘do out’ the whole ground floor of the house before she went to bed. The others (including the kids) then retired to have some champagne in the parent’s bedroom, and so to bed. Maisie also went to bed (in her clothes): then got up again and came to us.
We now thought out our plans—arguing a good deal in circles: Andrée showed very clear insight. Our chief object was to guard against the possibility of a visit from the Commander on the morrow, as we could not have a scene in Mr R’s house while Mr W. was there. It was decided that Maisie should sleep the night at Mrs Wards and go up to London
in the morning to see Miss de Villiers: not that we doubted Baker’s advice about that lady, but so that we could truthfully declare that she was not in Oxford. She then wrote a note to the Commander explaining that she was gone, and gone to London, and adding that further communications should be addressed to Walsh the solicitor.
It was arranged that I should take this note. Maisie then went to Mrs W’s to sleep in the room which I have been using: I wrapped D’s scarf round me (my coat being at Mrs W’s) and set off with my note: it obviously had to be delivered at once (if the red herring was to work) and delivered without waking anyone. I felt as if I were on a veritable patrol. A cold cloudy morning with diffused moonlight.
At the end of the Hawes road I met a bike: crept down to the Hawes: found lights still on in the house opposite. I went to the hall door with considerable caution and managed to get the note through the letter box without making much row. This done, I came down to Warneford Rd. and let myself in: very much of an empty house with all the windows bolted and a disused smell. I looked through some 14 stout bottles left by the Pasleys but found never a drop. The bed was still made in my own room and I retired at 1.35 to sleep in my shirt and be wakened by the crying child next door.
Monday 4 September: . . . As we were all in momentary expectation of a visit from the Commander we could not prevent a rather windy and comfortless atmosphere from pervading the group mind. Maisie had gone off to town by the earliest train with letters to introduce herself to Baker’s aunt. We breakfasted. As soon as old Raymond was out of the house, Andrée, following a pleasant idea of her own, biked to the Hawes’: during her absence I shaved in D’s room. Andrée then came back and told us her adventure.