by C. S. Lewis
I then started Anglo-Saxon once more and continued until dinner and after dinner till 10 o’clock. My father was reading Inge’s essays: he said ‘If you were living at home I believe I should start serious reading again: the thing’s infectious.’ After he was in bed I read Beauchamp’s Career for a while. I was a very long time getting to sleep.
Wednesday 3 January: After writing to D and making up my diary I went out for a walk. A fairly calm morning. I walked up the hills to the third glen and then turned off to my left, intending to come back by the Shepherd’s Hut: but I found the path, which I have used these ten years, blocked by a fence and so had to come back the way I went. I was meaning to go to Bernagh on the return journey, but I met Mrs Greeves at the bottom of the hill. She had no letter for me, as indeed I expected. She had not heard from Arthur. She arranged that I should go with her next Monday or Tuesday to see a Mr Osborne who has been at all the Universities of the world.
I then came back and lunched off chops, cabbage and mashed potatoes, all tepid. I was unable to open the bottle of beer wh. my father had left out for me. This uninspiring meal was enlivened by a welcome letter from Harwood, enclosing a poem which I do not think quite a success. Harwood is very depressed and is getting a job on the North Euston Railway. After lunch I did Anglo-Saxon grammar. After tea I read some more of Beauchamp’s Career and began Webster’s White Divel but did not make much of it. Very spiritless and stupid this afternoon.
After dinner I changed and walked to the McNeills: another beautiful evening of wind and moonlight. Janie explained to me that Gladys Leslie had failed her and that we should have to play cutthroat. The third was a Miss Ethel Rogers—a Scotch girl with a round nose. We got on quite nicely. Later on Florrie Greeves (who had not been asked) came in on her way home from a concert and made a fourth. The Rogers girl and I won. Janie and Florrie wrangled all the time, Janie boisterously and outrageously, Florrie in a resigned peevish manner. She is reputed to be very clever (Janie says she is a doctor of philosophy) but is intensely vulgar and prim in her voice and manner.
As I walked home I felt very strongly the difference between coming back to Little Lea and coming back to my real home of an evening. My father went to bed as soon as I came in. I sat up and tried to write a new poem on my old theme of ‘Alone in the House’. I soon found that I was creating rather too well in myself the creepy atmosphere wh. I was trying to create in the poem, and gave it up. I then read Meredith’s letters, to get rid of the atmosphere, and went to bed.
Thursday 4 January: After breakfast I tried go on with my poem without much success. I then wrote to D and made up my diary: then down to the study and worked at Anglo-Saxon grammar until just before lunch time when I went over to Bernagh to see if anything had come. Mrs Greeves was out: but as she had ordered letters to be given to me and nothing was given, I suppose nothing had come.
After lunch I began work again and continued till tea time. Over my tea I read Frazer’s Golden Bough in the new abridged edition. Afterwards I went out and walked as far as Sloan’s Seat and back the same way. A cloudy evening and no moon: as I was coming back the lights in the valley and especially at the docks were rather fine.
My father had just got in when I came back. After dinner I did the piece about Caedmon in Sweet’s Reader, which kept me busy until ten o’clock when my father went to bed. I then read a little more of Frazer and went to bed, rather pleased at having done a fair day’s work. A night of pouring rain: I was full of gloomy forebodings about the future—and nervy during the day.
Friday 5 January: Did my usual letter and diary writing after breakfast in the little end room. I then came down to the study and worked at Anglo-Saxon till lunch time. Immediately after lunch I went over to Bernagh. Mrs Greeves was out but the servant handed me a letter, which I came home and devoured eagerly, having first posted my own. Poor D has been having a terrible time with the tooth. I then shaved, not having done so this morning, had tea, and walked down to Strandtown to buy some cigarettes.
I changed before dinner and went off at 7.30 in a strange elongated taxi which (I couldn’t help thinking) looked exactly like a hearse. I was among the first to arrive at the Boyds, who have a very beautiful house. ‘The Boyds’ consisted on this occasion of Mrs B. and two daughters, Molly and Dot, neither of them pretty but both very nice. Mr Boyd was in England on business and the duties of host were performed by Colonel Yatman of the Somersets, a very cheery old boy. Except for the Heyns I didn’t know a soul: the men were mostly officers of the Somersets.
I enjoyed my evening very much from the mere sense of being among ordinary commonplace English people and in a clear atmosphere. During the stand up supper I foregathered with Maurice Heyn and felt strangely tempted to ask him if he knew my friend Commander Hawes. I decided however that it would be risky. Left at about eleven, after a very enjoyable evening: I think I behaved creditably over the Bridge, or at least did nothing outrageous.
My father went to bed as soon as I got in. He had announced that he wouldn’t go into town tomorrow. I sat up for a little and then went to bed, feeling not too cheerful.
Saturday 6 January: My father called me very late—just then preparing to go to the bathroom himself—and I spun out my dressing as long as I could, to shorten the long day. When I came down I was told by the servant that Mrs Greeves had already been trying to get me on the telephone. As I thought she might have something private to say and as our telephone stands in the hall so that a conversation on it can be heard all over the house, I went over to Bernagh as soon as we had had breakfast. I found that she had merely wanted to arrange for me to go with her on Wednesday to see a man called Osborne.
While I was sitting with her, Lily turned up with two dogs. She had been asked to the Boyds’ party but Gordon (who hates going out himself) had frightened her into refusing by drawing pictures of the good bridge players she would meet. I enlarged on the delights of the party, and her childish regrets were quite funny. I thought her very pretty today, and much nicer than she usually is. It was a splendid sunshiny morning. I walked with Mrs Greeves and Lily half way up the Glenfarlough Road and then very reluctantly and dutifully turned back: for tho’ they were neither of them real friends I could at any rate be easy with them and the morning was jolly.
Coming back, I found my father debating whether we should go out or not. I helped to make up his mind for him and we set out for our usual walk through the slum park. Even here the morning was not without something brisk. We talked a lot of solemn nonsense which I have forgotten. Back again, sherry, and Anglo-Saxon till 2.30 dinner of boiled mutton—a dish I loathe. I continued Anglo-Saxon for the rest of the day.
After tea my father began asking me if I wanted to go out again. I was ready to do anything to escape from the study. He stated roundly that he didn’t want to go, but nevertheless insisted on accompanying me, adding ‘Unless I’m forbidden’ in the jocular pathetic tone I so hate. Out we trudged again—like a prisoner and warder handcuffed together.
By a funny coincidence we met the McNeills just as we had done last week. Janie said she was bored. Mrs McNeill was just starting to explain to my father ‘what was wrong with Janie’ when Janie very properly shut her up. I think I quite understood Janie—mentally she can just see beyond Strandtown and of course there must be sexual despair as well. ‘Lord, send them somer sometime.’
We came back and had supper. Afterwards, being on the qui vive as usual, I heard the servant going to the front door. By great good fortune I was able to slip out in time and meet John who gave me a letter. Knowing that I was lost if he just went away and left me to explain to my father who had come, and why, and why he did not come in, I persuaded him in desperation to come in and have a chat. He stayed for a long time and we had a lot of silly conversation.
After my father had gone to bed I read and burned the letter. I was very glad to get it and thank goodness, the tooth seems to be better. The evening’s adventure however left me in terrible discomfort. I f
elt now, that however late in the evening it was, I could never be safe. I became shamefully ungrateful to poor Mrs Greeves and cursed myself for trusting to such a fool. I reflected that there might be a letter from D tomorrow and wondered how I could possibly warn Mrs Greeves not to send things over. I went to bed very late and lay awake for a long time.
Sunday 7 January: Woke up very tired with a headache and a sense of panic. Spent the whole time till we went to church watching for John or Mrs G. in the hope that as a last resource I might meet them on the avenue. Nobody, however, appeared. While I was in church my terror was that one of the fools would leave something for me at Little Lea while I was out. Barton preached a capital sermon.1
Came back and was relieved to find nothing. I then took my chance and said I would go over to Bernagh to see if Mrs Greeves had had any news from Arthur. My father made no comment beyond saying that in that case I had better not have my usual glass of sherry for fear Mrs Greeves might smell it. Even in my intense desire to be off and put things safe I had time to feel what an awful social atmosphere this revealed: all the worse because my father was probably quite right. I went over and saw Mrs G., impressing upon her the peculiar conditions of life at Little Lea and telling her never to send anything over. She read me a letter from Arthur, who is not coming home. I already knew this, as he had written to D. I came back from Bernagh greatly relieved, but feeling rather exhausted: there is nothing I hate worse than anxiety coupled with the knowledge that I must continue to talk and never for a moment appear to be anxious.
During the afternoon I read a good deal of The Faithful Shepherdess with much pleasure.2 I also finished Beauchamp’s Career—a fine book, tho’ there is a good deal I do not understand. Everard Romfrey, Cecilia, Rosamund Culling and Nevil himself are however characters whom I hope I shall remember for a long time. After tea I went out for a walk, and for once my father did not come with me. In the evening I began the Autobiography of Trollope. So, at last, to bed hoping that I shall not have another Little Lea weekend for many a long day.
Monday 8 January: As the weekend involved two dies non I had this morning to make up my diary since Thursday. After doing that and writing to D, there was just time to walk to the post and call at Bernagh before lunch. There was no letter for me. After lunch I returned to the little end room and worked very well at Sweet till tea time. After tea I went out for a short stroll round the back of Glenmachan: it was a clear and beautiful evening. I then came back, spoke to my father for a few minutes and changed. He told me that old Graham was dead, for which I was very sorry.
I then walked over to Schomberg.3 At the corner a lady passed me whom I thought to be Mrs Greeves: I was however going to pass her, as it was quite dark and I wasn’t sure. Mrs Greeves recognised me and gave me a letter. At Schomberg there was only one other guest, Miss Wharton, who is at present a student at a university settlement (whatever that may be) in Birmingham. She has been a matron at several schools in England, including one that was run on the principle of no compulsion. If a girl didn’t want to go into form one morning, she just didn’t. Miss W said it worked very well.
She is rather pretty: when I was left alone with Gordon after dinner he went out of his way to tell me that she was much older than she looked, forty three in fact. I wondered why. Afterwards she told us many amusing stories—one specially good one about her unsuccessful efforts to get rid of a packet of sandwiches which someone had pressed upon her for a journey.
Lily annoyed me by her blasé account of her travels to Italy and elsewhere: she hates them all, it seems, because trains are sometimes crowded, journeys sometimes tiring, and Italy was full of horrible Italians. She much preferred Donaghadee—because there she could have such a rest. To my knowledge she has never done a day’s work in her life. I left at about 10.30.
After my father had gone to bed I read D’s letter: a most unhappy one, what between toothache and the final loss of the house in Woodstock Rd. Before going to bed I finished Trollope’s Autobiography. He is a very self-satisfied, self-made man, quite unconscious of his strain of genius, hopelessly bad in criticism of his own work, proud of the moral tone of his books, and still prouder of his punctuality, industry and ability to get on. One forgives him for a certain disarming honesty. Late to bed.
Tuesday 9 January: I was rung up by Janie after breakfast and accepted yet another invitation to lunch. I then went up to the little end room, despatched my writing, and worked at Wulfstan’s address to the English till lunch time when I changed and walked to the McNeills. It was a very cold and blowing day and had snowed during the morning.
Today, I think for the first time on record, I had some real and serious conversation with Janie: she talked about her longing to get away from Strandtown and the impossibility of doing so, as she could neither leave nor transplant her mother. Her idea of going to Oxford or Cambridge had been knocked on the head years ago by her father’s death. She talked about the abominable vulgarity of the set in which Ruth Hamilton lives.4 There was one dreadful story of Ruth and her friends shutting up a drunk boy in the bedroom of Kelsie’s hut while Kelsie was out: such are the jokes of the gilded youth at Holywood!
She also told me some funny stories about Warnie and Mona Peacocke when they were both staying with Kelsie at the hut.5 Mona used to escape with W every day to the mainland to drink cocktails and W used to ‘do’ her hair every night. The evidence for these adventures is Mona herself. I thought Mrs McNeill particularly nice today and shrewd.
At about three o’clock I got up to go, hoping to get a letter from Bernagh and then settle to work. Janie however volunteered to come with me, refused to come in to tea, and made me instead go for a walk with her. On the way back she came into Little Lea to borrow a book. I foolishly gave her a cigarette and then, though I had told her I wanted to go and see Mrs Greeves before my father turned up, she sat on for an interminable time. She found out that I was sailing on Friday and expressed her regrets with a vehemence that I didn’t care much about.
When at last she rose to go I accompanied her, and we met my father on the avenue. I parted from her at the gate and hurried across to Bernagh, to find that Mrs Greeves had just gone out. She has given up the practice of leaving letters for the servants to hand to me, which I think is very wise, tho’ in this case it was annoying.
My father was very fidgety and depressed this evening. He read from the paper a proposal for further heavy reductions in the army and enquired ‘What on earth that fellow Warren would do if he were kicked out.’ I said it was unlikely as W was a fairly senior Captain and had been out from the beginning of the war and seemed to be now in a position of some importance. My father observed with a sort of desperate cheerfulness ‘Ah well, he’d just have to go to the Colonies,’ adding that ‘the thing had been ridiculous from the start’.
Later on he unexpectedly opened the question of my allowance. He asked me if it was sufficient. As I had already said so in my letters, I felt I had to reply that ‘I could manage,’ which indeed is true. To my remark that anyone would naturally like a little more if it was possible, he remarked that he was a poor man but that he could raise a little more if it was ‘necessary’. I could not say that it was.
The whole thing happened very suddenly and did not take the lines I was expecting: so that I really spoke first and reflected afterwards. My only regrets were on D’s account: but I reflected that the arrangement was nearly over now anyway and that I could hardly have said an increase was necessary: tho’ I am afraid that D will hardly take that view.
Worked hard till 11.30 and then to bed, feeling far from cheerful. A very stormy, magnificent night. Forgot to say that I had a long argument with Janie today, defending myself against the charge of inhumanity which she brought against me. By inhumanity she meant not unkindness, but I think, a kind of detachment, an untouched centre: the attitude of Puck’s ‘What fools these mortals be’, wh. she quoted. She attributed the same quality to herself and seemed to consider it a thing to be p
roud of. I was not flattered.
Wednesday 10 January: Immediately after breakfast I crossed over to Bernagh and excused myself from lunching there on the ground of work: I also got a letter—yesterday’s—from D, chiefly concerned with Dorothy’s latest delinquency. After answering this and making up my diary, I started on Anglo-Saxon and continued till lunch time. After lunch I wasted some time reading Arnold Bennett’s Human Machine till it was time to change and call for Mrs Greeves who was taking me to see Dr Osborne, a don from some Australian University.
She gave me a second letter which I had time to read before we started: D seemed a little better. On the walk over to Knock I could have believed that Mrs Greeves was parodying herself. She spent some twenty minutes telling me that she had sent two new hair brushes to Arthur and why and how. She went to endless trouble to point out to me the house of Mrs Purden in the distance: I had never heard of Mrs Purden, whose celebrity seems to rest on the fact that she has been recently killed by a motor lorry. Mrs Greeves had forgotten the name of Mrs Gilmore’s house at which we were to meet the great man, but we found it at last.
Here I was plunged into a stagnant pool of such vulgarity as I have seldom met. In England I am not a snob: I can talk with those who drop their h’s and like them: Belfast vulgarity I have not yet mastered. In a stifling room, small and with shut windows and a fire like a furnace, we met Mrs Gilmore and her ugly daughter and Dr Osborne, the latter a good looking man. In spite of a rather lecture like manner (he does not bear his learning as easily as our own dons) he seemed a good fellow. We were presently joined by a very small and very ugly woman who had been so upset by the execution of Mrs Thompson that she had passed a very bad night.6 We sat there a long time and I found it very dull.
On the return journey Mrs Greeves (decent soul) was inclined to be disappointed for my sake because the great man had not talked about the universities of the world. I assured her in the most convincing language of which I was capable that I had enjoyed myself immensely and been very interested in hearing about the rabbits in Australia, the supremacy of American poetry, the poisonous effects of tobacco and the true history of Buffalo Bill.