All My Road Before Me

by C. S. Lewis

  D was better than yesterday but depressed by the day. At tea time the Doc turned up. He seemed in good form and was very full of Dr Brown’s last lecture. I had meant to go out but stayed talking after tea. We discussed Tennyson: the Doc was enthusiastic about Ulysses: we also joined in the innocent amusement of raving our common praises of our favourite parts of Keats and Shelley . . . At about 6.30 he left and I walked back with him, talking of everything in and out of earth in such voices that the passers by may have taken us for politicians. We went beyond his lodgings to the end of Iffley village to look at the church and the trees in the starlight. I don’t know how, but we fell to talking of death—on the material side—and all the other horrors hanging over one. The Doc said that if you stopped to think, you couldn’t endure this world for an hour. I left him and walked home.

  Flashes and bangs from Oxford where they were celebrating Armistice night . . .

  Sunday 12 November: . . . After an early lunch Maureen and I cycled to the Sheldonian to hear the Bach Choir. We got seats on a window sill just under the painted roof. There was a great press of people. I noticed Curtis, Fasnacht, Emmett, Robson-Scott, Mort and Cyril Bailey:113 the latter was in the Choir and got apple red and wagged his head over the Dies Irae in a way to warm your heart—a good old boy. From the windows opposite I looked out on the roof of the Clarendon Building and other gables beyond, with a wintry sky, so that it was a good way to hear music.

  The chief item was Verdi’s Requiem Mass, a very enjoyable work, tho’ not so fine as the composer meant it to be. The contralto was good. We also had Elgar’s Funeral March from Grania, Parry’s Jerusalem and Vaughan Williams’ setting of ‘For All the Saints’. The march I liked: the other two were spoiled by the bad, sentimental practice of making the audience join in. V. Williams’ tune seemed just as dull as any ordinary hymn. Maureen enjoyed the Mass enormously.

  We bicycled home and had tea, after which I finished my O.E. for Miss Wardale. In the evening I started a new fair copy of ‘Foster’ and made some corrections which pleased me exceedingly. I then read Mrs Asquith’s instalment to D. Afterwards we fell into a gloomy conversation on death and chance and permanent danger . . .

  Monday 13 November: . . . At breakfast D had an answer to her answer to an advertisement of a house she had seen in the Oxford Times. We decided that no time was to be lost, and I set off on my bike. Directed by the G.P.O., I rode down St Aldate’s and beyond the river, turning before the railway bridge to my left into a very squalid alleyway. I followed this, thinking I had come to a poor place: but after several cottages, it brought me over a number of wooden bridges and among fields and willow trees to the house itself beside the weir.

  The squalor was quite out of sight: to the back of the house lay a complicated arrangement of pools, ratchets, waterfalls and bridges overhung with pollards: and in front of it level fields with two haystacks in view. Just by the railing of the garden was a man with a bicycle who turned out to be a rival tenant. We had both been told in our letters that ‘Mr Tombs’ would be there to show us over it before 10 or after four. No Mr Tombs however appeared: my rival told me that Mr T. lived at No. 7 and so departed.

  The sun was coming out nicely now, and the whole place looked enchanted. I had some difficulty in climbing the railing. Once in, I surveyed everything as well as I could without a key. It is an odd cottage with big bow windows of later date put into it. The principal rooms were back to back and windows at opposite ends of the house: they were low but large rooms and very jolly. It appeared however to have outdoor sanitation and of course no gas or bathroom. The large garden was surrounded by a fence and a ditch and inhabited by hens. The sound of the weir was over everything. I went to No. 7 but no Mr Tombs was there . . .

  I biked home through Iffley and reported to D. I felt like doing nothing but expiating on the beauty of the place, but pointed out all the practical drawbacks. I promised to try again at 4 and then went to my work.

  After lunch I went to the English library, returned two books and read Ascham’s Schoolmaster, also referring to a Beowulf crib for some hard passages. I left the library and walked via Folly Bridge and the tow-path to the Weir House . . .

  Reaching the house I found another man climbing out over the railings. I crossed the bridges and knocked at No. 7. No answer. I waited for a long time, watching many ducks in the lane, two rabbits scratching each other in a hutch and a fine red sunset over Bagley Woods. I tried to get into talk with my new rival but he would not. Presently Mr Tombs—appropriately a very dark man—turned up. The rival at once engaged him in a whispered conversation. When at last he was free, I asked to see over the house. ‘It’s all settled,’ replied Tombs and I walked home thro’ Iffley with this news.

  D and I were very wise now and decided for excellent reasons that the place would never have done . . .

  Tuesday 14 November: Many degrees of frost this morning and a thick fog, which, as D read in the paper, is all over England and Europe. I set off after breakfast to the Cad’s lecture: Southfield Road with its iced cobwebs was very jolly. I was already on top of the bus when Maureen joined me on her way to Dr Allchin.

  I was late at the Schools, but this did not matter, as the Cad was late. He lectured for about half an hour, devoting most of his time to an attack on Bridges and to boasting of his victory in discussion over one unnamed who had lectured somewhere on the pronunciation of English. ‘I had him in the hollow of my hand,’ said the Cad. To do him justice, if his own account was fair, his adversary seemed to have been absolutely wrong, and even silly . . .

  I bussed to Miss Wardale’s where I had an interesting hour. She tells me that the theory of an Asiastic origin for the Aryans has been abandoned and their cradle now placed on the shore of the Baltic . . .

  Wednesday 15 November: The fog was still here in the morning but not so heavy. D had a letter from Moppie by the first post. In this she told us that she had written to the Bitch from Swansea for a skirt she wanted, which the Bitch had sent her. Since then the Bitch had written her several letters asking where she is etc., to which Moppie has not replied: and she has now got one asking her about the bicycle. Moppie ended by urging us not to come into contact with her ‘for fear of her terrible tongue’.

  This letter worried us both. We were surprised that Moppie should have so little prudence and so little pride as to write any request to the woman: we also thought it unfair of her to do so without telling us, the more so that it had apparently happened long ago and we should never have heard of it but for the trouble about the bike.

  It had also been arranged that Moppie should send D what money she cd. manage from week to week in payment of the considerable amount we had to pay for her escape etc. None of this has ever arrived, nor has Moppie ever mentioned the subject. D, who hates a lie of all things, was very disturbed: and indeed has never quite trusted Moppie since the Baker affair. Of course it is natural that the girl shd. be deceitful after such an upbringing, but the thing is a worry . . .

  Friday 17 November: After breakfast I worked at Beowulf in the dining room until 11.30 when I walked to the Schools to hear a lecture by Gordon, Raleigh’s successor . . . Gordon was very good and I am sorry to have missed his earlier lectures.114

  I walked home and had lunch, at which Smudge turned up. She said she couldn’t go to Samson and Delilah and it was arranged that I should take Maureen.

  Almost immediately after the meal Cranny turned up. I persuaded D to stay alone in the dining room while I went to the drawing room and sustained conversation, which I found very tedious. Cranny, apropos of a boy who had been brought up for the church and found himself thinking too far to believe, said that his own parents had taken it for granted that he wd. be a parson: he had got to the stage of reading Renan before he was confirmed but he hadn’t known what else to do—and there he is . . .

  I . . . bussed with Maureen to the theatre. It was the Carl Rosa company, but at their worst with none of the best singers and—worst of all—
a miserable orchestra: it sounded like two second hand violins and a penny whistle. They were all slack, especially the conductor, and did not even make the best of their wretched resources. Under these conditions we had a poor show: but I think the opera was rubbish, apart from the rendering. It has not simple melody like Sullivan nor pure musical development like Beethoven, nor (of course) passion and pictures like Wagner. It just drivels along, sentimental, bombastic, ‘operatic’ in the worst sense of the word. I was very disappointed as I had always thought St Saëns was a good man from the bits I knew. The audience in our immediate neighbourhood behaved abominably.

  Came home with a headache and found D still pretty wretched. She had had some talk with Cranny after I left. He was in deep depression: ‘Life is one tragedy. I haven’t had any big troubles like you, but all my life has been a disappointment. And now my boy is—a policeman!’ He had said, poor man, that he hoped his son would be like me—a modest request. Then came the tragi-comic remark: ‘Violet (see 19 October) of course gets on with everybody!’

  Lateish to bed. Today was Paddy’s birthday: D reminded me that this day five years ago I sailed from Southampton. (Dreamed the night before last that I was with my father and he complained of my letters. His complaint appears in waking memory as if he said ‘they are just one word after another’, but I understood it well enough in the dream.)

  Sunday 19 November: I went out for a walk after breakfast, taking The Cenci with me. I went up Shotover—a misty morning and cool . . . I was reading The Cenci industriously and I find that one really sees more of the country with a book than without: for you are always forced to look up every now and then and the scene into which you have blundered without knowing it comes upon you like something in a dream. I went all through the thickest part of this valley with great enjoyment. The mist improved it: the autumn colours, tho’ not as splendid as some years, were very pleasant and there was a good smell . . .

  Monday 20 November: After breakfast went to the Schools to the Cad’s lecture. He distinguished himself this morning by doing what I’ve never seen nor heard of a lecturer doing. He suddenly turned upon a man sitting in the front row and exclaimed ‘Do you understand that? Could you give an explanation of that?’ The man very naturally made no answer. ‘H’ngh!’ grunted the Cad, ‘You weren’t listening, were you? I should advise you to listen if I were you.’ It is really ridiculous how angry this little incident made me for the rest of the day . . . At 12 I returned to the Schools to hear Gordon on Shakespeare’s language—a capital lecture.

  Walked home and had lunch and spent the afternoon on my Old English. At tea came Jenkin who worked with Maureen. I had to go to town again to return two books to the Union and walked both ways. Afterwards I walked a little of the way back with Jenkin. I told him of the Cad’s action this morning. He said this sort of thing was quite common. He had once turned upon a girl in the front row who was turning over the pages of her note book and bellowed ‘Haven’t you found the place yet, there? I am not going to lecture in this Sunday School way.’ I begin to understand why the Greats School was called Literae Humaniores.

  After supper I finished my paper for Miss Wardale. I am becoming reconciled to this phonetic stuff which gives me new lights all the time—and her Grammar is very good: a great advance upon Sweet. D seemed very much better this evening: we talked about Moppie more cheerfully than before. Started Love’s Labour Lost just before going to bed.

  Tuesday 21 November: Finished the first act of Love’s Labour Lost over my morning tea. It is deliciously musical. Maureen had been suffering from pains near the heart yesterday, and as they were still there this morning, D decided that she must see the Doc. D said she would be quite fit to go with her: and as I wanted to make up a lot of my tutorial with Miss Wardale I very foolishly believed that this would be so. They two accordingly set off and I worked at Beowulf till 11.30 when I bicycled to St Margaret’s Road. I had a good and interesting hour and came home.

  Here I found the Doc and was met with the bad news that D, who had walked instead of bussing via the Plain, had had a collapse on the road and nearly fainted—luckily meeting the Doc, just at that moment. He had got her into a neighbouring house where she had been given whiskey and rested, after which he brought her back. I blamed myself very much for having let her go, and her for having walked. The whole thing was a sickening surprise and frightened me . . .

  After lunch I biked to Jenkin’s rooms: I found him also in poor form, having been depressed and worried by a conversation held last night with a religious person. We discussed where we should go. As it was a gloomy and fogged day I suggested that we should seek out ‘fountain heads and pathless groves’ or any melancholy place which would underline the mood of the day to grandeur. He voted for Binsey and off we went. He led me onto the tow path between pollards which goes to the Trout Inn: then over bridges and a common, along a muddy lane and onto an avenue of trees with gates.

  Finally we came to a sad church by a woodside. This is the church of St Fritheswide.115 The door way has a Norman arch so low that I almost touched it with my head and, inside, the church was very dark. We struck matches to try and read the names on the brasses. Coming out, we investigated the well which sprang up in answer to the prayers of St Frithswide. The water has miraculous powers and used to be sold at a guinea a quart. Here Jenkin found a silver plated pencil. We then shuffled through a lot of dead leaves among the graves to where the churchyard is divided from the wood by an almost quite black stream.

  A felled tree, tho’ half rotten, made a bridge which took us safely across. It was a good but dreary wood: and very dark. When we had got into a thicket we were driven back by the smell of something dead and had a little difficulty in finding our original track among the marshy places.

  I said I had lately been suffering from timor mortis conturbat me:116 Jenkin was in the same state—the suffocating feeling. He also said his great trouble was to know which is the real ideal. Was one to crush the physical desires altogether—to be pagan or puritan? He added however that he had a fear of knowing the real ideal for certain—it might be a startler. I was much interested in this. We crossed back into the graveyard and rode home.

  He said this religious person had worried him by laying an exaggerated weight on things which Jenkin considered trivial—such as dancing at the Masonic and kissing grisettes. Jenkin hadn’t the least doubt really, he said, but such a conversation stuck in his mind. He confessed to a feeling that possibly even trivial things might be all the while preventing you from getting something else out of life, which, perhaps, people like his friend had.

  We had tea in Jenkin’s room, consuming much bread and butter. He asked whether one ought to think about Death or put it out of one’s mind: since we could never find out what it meant. I said one wanted to go on thinking about it till one reached a point of view from which it didn’t matter whether you were immortal or not. One wanted to find a value wh. was quite full in one moment and independent of time. We agreed that there must be such a thing because, as a fact, human beings had found it. I remarked that this was obviously what Christ had been talking about: but either he or his reporters had utterly failed to explain what it was or how you got it. Jenkin said he did not think that there was any question of ‘Getting it’: it had to come ‘from without’ . . .

  Thursday 23 November: . . . After lunch I went out for a walk up Shotover, thinking how to make a masque or play of Psyche and Caspian. I went to the end of the ridge and then by the footpath to the heath part overlooking the Horsepath lane. It was a very grey day with one bit of break high up in the sky. I went down by the side of the fence on my right, straight down where I have never been before and got into a thick woody part. Beyond the fence was a deep glen—just like the Irish ones—with very big trees and all rich brown. I got a very good touch of the right feeling. There was a great scurry of birds. Some pheasants flew out and gave me rather a start. I went as far down as I could, then to my left, and up again . . .<
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  I don’t know if I was in a particularly receptive mood or whether it was the day, but this afternoon the trees and the sky and everything had quite an extraordinary effect on me.

  I was struck by the idea that the feeling some chatterboxes get in solitude and wh. they would call ‘the pip’ may be exactly the same as what I had, only I like and they don’t.

  Found D busy on work for Lady Gonner with the Varmint on her knee. As soon as I had been to Robertsons for some tobacco we had tea, after which I read Henry IV part I till supper time. I think this is one of the best things I have ever read—especially Hotspur . . .

  Friday 24 November: Another very cold morning. After breakfast I worked in the dining room on my notes for Wilson until 11.30 when I walked to the Schools to hear Gordon’s lecture. There I met Robson-Scott who asked me if I would go to Cambridge with the Martlets next week, which of course I refused. He asked me if seven would be too many to send, to which I replied with a very strong affirmative. Jenkin came and sat by us. I asked R-S what was to be done about Wyld: he was not greatly interested and went on to say that Gordon’s lectures were ‘too chatty’, which I thought silly. Probably he said it for cleverness. Just then Gordon came in and gave a very charming lecture. Afterwards Jenkin walked with me as far as the bridge end. We talked about Hotspur.

  I then came home and had lunch alone with D. Afterwards I finished my notes and read Henry IV till time for an early tea, after which I bussed to Carfax . . . and walked to Manor Place. Here I was just preparing to read my notes when I discovered that I had brought the wrong note book—an old one full of philosophical essays and bits of poems. Luckily I remembered what I had written pretty well and so had a profitable hour. My opinion of Wilson improves: but he needs to be pricked, he sleeps too much and sits by the fire . . .

  Saturday 25 November: . . . I reached Aunt Lily’s cottage at about 2.38. She was still getting lunch ready and asked me to have a second meal, which I refused, and talked to her while she ate. We threshed out her mysterious letter. My first complex apparently is the common or garden wall complex which, she said, shows itself in the IVth Canto of ‘Dymer’.