All My Road Before Me

by C. S. Lewis

  I think it was this evening that the latter began kicking the footstool away from D under the table—also urging his chair up against that of Smudge who sits next him and making the strangest grimaces at her. Whether he is trying to conduct a very primitive kind of flirtation or whether he is mad I don’t know. On the whole he was a little quieter this evening.

  On Saturday morning W and I escaped for a book hunt and drink in Oxford, on condition of meeting the Blackguard at Longwall corner at 11.45 and bathing with him. We were a few minutes late at our rendezvous and apologised to the Blackguard, asking, in the usual way, if he had been waiting long. He replied emphatically that he had, adding as a rider that English people were always late. We went on to Parson’s Pleasure. Maurice of course wore a bathing suit, and apropos of the rest’s nudity, remarked to W that ‘in France no man could undress himself in that way’. This of course is merely a difference of custom and no one could blame him for it. The water was rather cold. The Blackguard complained that it was very shallow and that he had touched the bottom when he dived.

  On the way home he told us about his school days in Paris: they used to drink champagne and play poker all night: when he smoked in form he was told to do so on the other side of the room so that it would be invisible from the street. These schools are all run and inspected by the state . . .

  Lewis did not keep a diary during 7 August–7 September.

  Saturday 8 September: Last night D expostulated with me for having let so many weeks pass without my diary, specially as the record of Maurice’s insolence and vulgarity would some day make good reading. He is still with us and goes, thank God, next Monday.

  Most of this time we have suffered intolerable slavery. He rowed every morning as long as we had the boat and every morning I had to go and steer for him: sometimes I had some pleasure from the sunshine and the wind on the water, but everything was spoiled by his hideous face in front of me. I honestly believe that I am not carried away by my hatred and contempt when I say that it is one of the most unredeemed animal and vicious faces I ever saw . . .

  Yet sometimes I feel I could endure his grossness and filthiness if only he were not, in addition, such a fool. Though he loves to pose as a man of the world he has the intellect of a child. When, on one or two dreadful occasions I have walked with him, he has told me the make and merits of every car that passed—a thing I have never had to endure since I left Cherbourg.

  He is forever telling me pointless stories about himself, designed to show either how much money his father has or what a fine, dashing, reckless young fellow he is himself. Conversation he has none in the proper sense of the word.

  The joke of the thing is that I half believe he thinks I like him. I ply him with irony and veiled insult but he is such a fool that I lose my pains. Lately he has taken to playing croquet. When he was still learning and I of course could still beat him, I discovered that I could not with comfort allow myself to get too much ahead as he at once began to get ill tempered: and once or twice he really sounded as if he were going to burst into tears.

  Now he can beat me two times out of three: but he still asks seriously, nay pathetically, for sympathy whenever he misses a shot and attributes all his failures to the unevenness of the ground or to the fact that the balls are not spheres. The other day I was stung into pointing out that if his bad shots were accidents resulting from the imperfection of the balls, then, by a parity of reasoning, his good shots must be similar accidents. This however was too subtle for the little Blackg. and I daresay he was quite honest in his failure to follow me . . .

  Early during this period a postcard came to D from the Beast70 asking for the name of Maureen’s school which he wanted for an income tax return. This had been forwarded from Bristol, but next day another came addressed direct to Hillsboro. This was naturally worrying. D and I had a conversation on the various troubles that have pursued us: losses for the past, fears for the future, and for the present, all the humiliations, the hardships, and the waste of time that come from poverty.

  Poor D feels keenly (what is always on my mind) how the creative years are slipping past me without a chance to get to my real work, so that I was sorry I had ever mentioned this to her. I told her not to take too seriously what might be after all only the excuses I make to myself. What is far more serious is the continual overwork and worry to which she is exposed. Everyone, friends and enemies alike, seem to conspire against her. This was a bad time.

  I began again to think of the pleasures of death, as I used to: not melodramatically, as of suicide, but with the longing for the state of an old, successful man of genius, sitting with all his work behind him, waiting to drop off.

  This of course was nonsense, as D with her usual sanity told me: we had so little life and plenty of the other thing anyway. So far, thank God, (and touch wood) the Beast’s card has been followed by no evil results.

  We have also been very lucky in getting another girl to replace Dorothy: an enormous girl of fifteen, called Ada, who never speaks but beams all over her large face and works very well and intelligently.

  Since we stopped having the boat I have had a good many mornings to myself: and, as if to refute my fears, have had a burst of good form which has carried me through two very difficult cantos of ‘Dymer’—the sixth and seventh. I have written about twenty stanzas (good I hope) for the eighth and am now stopped by structural difficulties—how to work my ‘peripety’: so I am afraid the push is over . . .

  Sunday 9 September: . . . My head was very full of my old idea of a poem on my own version of the Cupid and Psyche story in which Psyche’s sister would not be jealous, but unable to see anything but moors when Psyche showed her the Palace. I have tried it twice before, once in couplet and once in ballad form.71

  Monday 10 September: A very beautiful morning with thick dew and a grey sky with the sun breaking through—it might, at eight o’clock, have been mistaken for five on a midsummer morning. We had breakfast a little early to let the Blackguard catch the char-a-banc to London. He parted with D very civilly. I carried one of his bags to the bus stopping place, bade him a very short goodbye, and went down to the fields beyond Mrs Seymour’s to look for mushrooms . . .

  It was delightful to be by ourselves and to feel free. The spare room was thoroughly done out this morning and has been left with doors and windows wide open ever since, but it still has an atmosphere—moral and material—hanging about it. After tea I read two more tales in Crabbe with much enjoyment and started the second volume of Richard Feverel.

  At about six o’clock D and I walked down to the fields to look for mushrooms. On the way we passed several children returning with loaded baskets, and naturally we found no mushrooms. It was dusk when we reached home and Ada had been nervous. I remarked how common this seemed to be among people of the servant class. D at once gave what is the obvious and true explanation, tho’ I had never thought of it before: namely that in their ordinary life in small houses with large families, they are never alone either by day or by night . . .

  Wednesday 12 September: I had a most horrible dream. By a certain poetic justice it turned on the idea which Jenkin and I were going to use in our shocker play: namely that of a scientist discovering how to keep consciousness and some motor nerves alive in a corpse, at the same time arresting decay, so that you really had an immortal dead man. I dreamed that the horrible thing was sent to us—in a coffin of course—to take care of.

  D and Maureen both came into the dream and it was perfectly ordinary and as vivid as life. Finally the thing escaped and I fancy ran amuck. It pursued me into a lift in the Tube in London. I got away all right but the liftman had seen it and was terribly frightened and, when I saw how he was behaving, I said to myself, ‘There’s going to be an accident in this lift.’ Just at that moment I noticed the window by my bed and found myself awake.

  I had a moment of intense relief but found myself hopelessly rattled and as nervous as a child. I found I had no matches. Groped my way t
o those on the landing, lit my candle, went downstairs and returned with a pipe and a book. My head was very bad. I got restored to sanity pretty soon and slept, tho’ with several breaks before morning. I thought at first that this was a good example of the falsity of the rule given by L. P. Jacks that authors never dream about their own inventions: but on second thoughts I am not sure that the idea of the play did not originate in another dream I had some years ago—unless the whole thing comes from Edgar Allan Poe . . .

  Thursday 13 September: Thank goodness I had a dreamless sleep all night through . . . I decided to go for a walk in the hope that this was the best cure for my recent feebleness. I went through Mesopotamia and then to Marston where I had some beer and a packet of cigarettes—an extravagance of which I have not been guilty this many a day . . .

  Coming home, I found D hanging up washing—much to my annoyance as I had hoped (it is these hopes that are the pest) she would do very little now the Blackguard is gone . . . I found that D had been making jam and had not yet sat down though when I left she promised me she would be done in a minute or two. Even the kindly fruits of the earth become one more enemy in this hopeless business of trying to save D from overwork.

  After tea I went on with Fairfax’s Tasso.72 As a story it beats all the other poems of this sort. It manages somehow to combine the important and serious unity of a real epic with the mazey charm of a romance. It is always just not losing itself in the episodic adventures and one is never allowed to forget the central thread. His whole heroic world is firmly imagined—not a mere kaleidescope like Spenser . . . I am delighted with everything. It is very interesting to see how Tasso was before Milton with the epic management of Christian mythology . . .

  D and I went out for our usual little stroll before supper. Afterwards I read some more Repington aloud. No headache this evening, tho’ I had it earlier in the day. I was slightly threatened with the bogey mood this evening, but I think I now have the situation in hand.

  Friday 14 September: A pouring wet morning. Mr Allchin came to see D shortly after ten and later on I was called into the conclave. He asked me if I agreed with D that it would be a good thing for Maureen to drop the Oxford Local if she could do so without damaging her musical career. I asked whether, apart from the possibility of her earning her living at music, she was good enough to find it a sufficient intellectual resource—whether, in short, after giving up a general education, she might find herself a fifth rate musician with no interest in life. He thought she could be ‘first rate’ as a teacher—which I suppose he regarded as an answer by implication to my question: whether she could be a pianist was always impossible to predict.

  With regard to the question of earning a living the difficulty was that registration was now demanded in all music teachers. Of course one could not say how long this would last: but he was afraid the tendency would increase rather than diminish. This year there are still other paths to registration than the Oxford Local—such as a Teacher’s Course for adults. He promised to ask Sir Hugh Allen if there were any such alternatives offered for the future.73 We all agreed that Maureen should drop the Oxford Local if there were any loophole.

  After this the conversation drifted on to more general subjects—chiefly the modern practice of teaching ‘musical appreciation’ to those who don’t do music. I asked if he thought it a good thing. He said it depended entirely on the individual—and mentioned Peppin of Rugby (formerly of Clifton) as a very successful teacher in this kind. I said that one was always afraid ‘teaching appreciation’ would end in sentimentalism. He agreed that this was a danger, that is he said so, but I had the impression that he did not really agree or else was not interested and wanted to change the subject . . . I feel that Mr Allchin is inclined to talk down to one and at the same time to be a little subservient in expressions of opinion: at the same time (which is funny) I like him . . .

  Monday 17 September: Great excitement today over the arrival of the puppy who is to be called Pat. He is quite ready to be friendly to the cats who maintain an armed neutrality.

  In the morning I began re-reading Bergson’s L’Évolution Créatrice more thoroughly than I had done yet. I spent most of the afternoon gardening. Before supper we all went for a stroll through Old Headington and Barton End. This evening we had a fire and sat in the drawing room for the first time. D in rather poor form. My coming journey to Ireland cast its familiar shadow over us both.

  Lewis did not keep a diary during 19 September–10 October. On 22 September he arrived at ‘Little Lea’ for a visit with his father, and he remained in Belfast until 10 October. In his own diary Mr Lewis recorded on 11 October: ‘While Jacks was at home I repeated my promise to provide for him at Oxford if I possibly could, for a maximum of three years from this summer. I again pointed out to him the difficulty of getting anything to do at 28 if he had ultimately to leave Oxford.’

  Thursday 11 October: I crossed last night from Ireland after nearly three weeks at Little Lea. In two respects my compulsory holiday was a great improvement on most that I have had, for I got on very well with my father and held the usual mental inertia at arm’s length by working steadily at my Italian.

  Before I left I had just time to finish Tasso’s Gerusalemme, reading the twentieth canto on my last day. This was in the edition which I bought at Charing Cross in 1917. On the whole I was pleased with Tasso. As a narrative poet he stands high, the Jerusalem being really a very good historical novel. He quite fails to reach sublimity or even grandeur but there is a fine noble simple spirit. He believes in chivalry with a boyish faith which I don’t find in Spenser. His third great merit is that he knows something about fighting: his single combats read like the real thing, not like what I find in Spenser and Malory. He loves a good scientific swordsman.

  This is the good side of my story in Ireland: in revenge, I was never really well, suffering from headaches and indigestion. In the loneliness of that house I became hypochondriacal and for a time imagined that I was getting appendicitis or something worse. This worried me terribly, not only chiefly for its own sake but because I didn’t see how I could manage to get back here in time. I had one or two dreadful nights of panic.

  I did many long walks hoping to make myself sleep. I was twice up the Cave Hill where I intend to go often in future. The view down the chasm between Napoleon’s Head and the main body of the cliffs is almost the best I have seen. I had one other delightful walk over the Castlereigh hills where I got the real joy—the only time for many years that I have had it in Ireland.

  This morning I was called at 7. I had a single berth room on the boat deck. It had been so rough that, tho’ I am never sea sick, I was woken up by the rolling and kept awake most of the night. I had breakfast on board and crossed by ferry to catch the 9.35 from Woodside, an excellent train which brought me without change to Oxford at 2.18. I had lunch on the train. I travelled most of the way with a very pleasant boy who was coming up to Queen’s, having left Shrewsbury last term.

  On getting out at Oxford I found myself in a crisp wintry air and as I bussed up to Headington I felt the horrors of the last week or so going off like a dream. At home I found Maureen with her leg in splints, having broken a cartilage at hockey. D and she had had very little sleep last night. Poor old Tibbie [the cat] after a long illness, had had to be chloroformed. We shall miss her. Miss Pearce came to tea. Afterwards D and I went out for a stroll with Pat: then after an early supper we bussed into town to see Allchin about putting off Maureen’s lessons. He was out. The evening was very mild now and we both took a childish delight in our little outing. On the way back we met Jenkin, whom I was glad to see. So home, full of happiness, and early to bed, both being very tired and sleepy.

  Friday 12 October: . . . D and I went into town before lunch . . . she going to Allchin and I to College. There I met Curtis and Allen, the don from whom I heard that Salveson had been elected to a Fellowship at New College. I had no sooner come out of the Porch than I ran into ‘Doctor’ Ewing who is
up for this term. Even the pouring rain did not induce him to hurry past me and I was walking brisky along, followed as briskly by him, when I saw Carritt. The latter stopped to speak to us and when the group thus formed had broken up, from it I shot away up the High hoping I had left Ewing behind. He followed me, however, pestering me to go for a walk with him. When I had finally escaped I went to Parkers and ordered Boiardo in two volumes . . .

  I went into town again and visited Poynton in the Bursary . . . He then led me into his rooms beyond the bridge and told me he was writing to two women to see if they cd. get me any pupils. I asked him if the ‘stinks party’ were winning the day over the Fellowship. He said nothing further had been done. He said he was not without hopes for me and if they decided to elect a member of their own body they would prefer no one to me. On the other hand they might find that they had to elect by examination for a non-teaching fellowship. He said I had many friends in college. On the whole his remarks were fairly encouraging . . .

  Saturday 13 October: This morning came a note from Stevenson offering to mention me to the new Master in the hope that the latter might get me some journalistic work for the time being. After breakfast I went in to College and returned some books to the library. I called at Stevenson’s rooms but he was out.

  I then walked to Manor Place to see Wilson and waited downstairs so long that I had time to read several chapters of a translation of Candide with which I was rather disappointed.

  Wilson welcomed me very kindly. I gave him back Archibald Marshall’s The Eldest Son wh. he had lent me with strong recommendations. I explained that I had thought it very bad and we both laughed over this impasse. He thought my idea of ‘Translation of the VIIIth Century’ as a subject for a B.Litt. very promising. After a little chat I came away, did some shopping, looking again for Stevenson and bussed home.