Letters of C. S. Lewis

by C. S. Lewis

  TO HIS FATHER: from University College

  31 August 1921

  As you say, the change from society for which ‘lively’ would at times have been too mild an epithet, and from the constant variety of our moving seats to the routine of ordinary work, is one that we are rather acutely conscious of at first.

  I still feel that the value of such a holiday is still to come—in the images and ideas which we have put down to mature in the cellarage of our brains, thence to come up with a continually improving bouquet. Already the hills are getting higher, the grass greener, and the sea bluer than they really were: and, thanks to the deceptive working of happy memory, our poorest stopping places will become haunts of impossible pleasure and Epicurean repast.

  As to myself, I do not propose, as you may be sure, to spend the whole vac. here. I will do what I can: but I must ‘sit to my book’ for a little while yet. The fault of our course here is that we get so little guidance and can never be sure that our efforts are directed exactly to the right points and in the right proportions. I suppose that is part of the education—part at any rate of the game.

  I expect you have heard from Warnie before this. I had a letter since my return, the first for a considerable time. I am sorry to hear that he has had a bad attack of boils, followed by prickly heat: but he seems better now and is in excellent spirits and reading Dante. The revolutions which Africa has produced in his literary policy are really amazing.

  I am still working whenever I have half an hour to spare, at my account for him of our journey. It would be amusing and will no doubt be amusing for him to compare the two versions. We shall differ in selection and (so confused does one get) even on matters of fact, where a map will often show both authorities equally wrong. Uncle Hamilton on the other hand would be able to give exact information about every stage and distance—but totally incapable of describing anything at all . . . 92

  TO HIS FATHER: from the Oxford Union Society

  Postmark: 30 November 1921

  I am afraid that my weakness in yielding to the Colonel’s request for a copy of ‘Optimism’ had reduced the poor man to permanent silence. I must try to get some sort of letter off to him before Christmas.93 . . .

  A dread portent has arisen above our horizon here—an immortalist, nihilist, determinist, fatalist. What are you to do with a man who denies absolutely everything? The joke is that he’s an army officer on a course. He talks you blind and deaf. The more I see of him the clearer does my mental picture become of his brother officers en masse imploring him to take advantage of a two years course at Oxford—or Cathay or the Moon . . .

  FROM HIS DIARY: while still living at 28 Warneford Road

  1 April 1922

  I walked to Iffley in the morning and called in at the Askins [Dr and Mrs John Hawkins Askins]. The doc. has foolishly knocked himself up by walking too far and cd not come to Headington in the afternoon. He talked about Atlantis, on which there is apparently a plentiful philosophical literature: nobody seems to realize that a Platonic myth is fiction, not legend, and therefore no base for speculation . . .

  2 April 1922

  A beautiful spring day. D.94 busy cutting oranges for marmalade. I sat in my own bedroom by an open window in bright sunshine and started a poem on Dymer in rhyme royal . . .

  5 April 1922

  I . . . got the two poems (typed v. accurately for 1/-) and saw Stead in order to get the address of the London Mercury. He told me with a solemn face and admirable naïvety how he had got his accepted. Two or three were sent back by return post, whereupon he went up to London and called on the Editor, saying, ‘Look here Mr Squire, you haven’t taken these poems of mine and I want to know what’s wrong with them!!’ If the story ended there, it would be merely a side light on Stead, but the joke is that Squire said, ‘I’m glad you’ve come to talk it over: that’s just what I want people to do’ and actually accepted what he’d formerly refused. Truly the ways of editors are past finding out! . . .

  7 April 1922

  I wish life and death were not the only alternatives, for I don’t like either: one could imagine a via media . . .

  15 April 1922

  Tried to work at Dymer and covered some paper: but I am very dispirited about my work at present—especially as I find it impossible to invent a new opening for the Wild Hunt. The old one is full of clichés and will never do. I have learned much too much on the idea of being able to write poetry and if this is a frost I shall be rather stranded . . . A dissatisfying day, but, praise God, no more headaches . . .

  18 April 1922

  In the afternoon I walked into Oxford and looked up Civil Service examination papers in the Union. ‘Greats’ is child’s play compared with them . . . Before supper I called and saw Arthur Stevenson and his mother, hoping to hear something of the Civil Service. He tells me there is no vacancy this year in the Home Civil, and that probably there will be none next . . . Thus ends the dream of a Civil Service career as suddenly as it began: I feel at once that I have been in alien territory—not mine, and deep down, impossible . . .

  21 April 1922

  Got up shortly before seven, cleaned the grate, lit the fire, made tea, ‘did’ the drawing room, made toast, bathed, shaved, breakfasted, washed up, put the new piece of ham on to boil, and was out by half past ten . . . Washed up after lunch. Worked at Gk History notes until tea when Miss Baker came. Had got settled to work when D called me down ‘for five minutes’ to talk about Maureen’s programme for next term. This would not have mattered, but before I could make my escape, Miss Baker began to be ‘just going’ and continued so. When she finally got away it was time to get supper and to clear the tea things which Maureen had kindly left in statu quo. A good hour thus wasted altogether . . .

  3 May 1922

  Went into town after lunch, and after looking in vain for Jenkin in Merton St., met him in the High. It had now cleared and we walked down St Aldate’s and over the waterworks to Hincksey. I talked of staying up for another year and lamented that all my friends would be down: he said he had not got to know any new people who had any interest in literature and who were not, at the same time, dam’d affected dilettanti talking l’art pour l’art etc., etc., was almost impossible—in fact he put Baker, Barfield95 and me as the only exceptions in his own circle: and even the ‘hearty’ men were preferable to the usual literary sort . . .

  TO HIS FATHER: from University College

  18 May 1922

  And now I want to talk about my plans. You will remember a talk we had when I was last at home. On that occasion I repeated to you a conversation which had taken place some time before between one of my tutors and myself. I had asked him for a testimonial, preparatory to giving my name to the employment agency. Instead of giving me one he advised me very earnestly not to take any job in a hurry: he said that if there was nothing for me in Oxford immediately after Greats, he was sure that there would be something later: that College would almost certainly continue my scholarship for another year if I chose to stay up and take another school, and that ‘if I could possibly afford it’ this was the course which he would like me to take. He ended with some complimentary remarks.

  I was not particularly keen at the time about doing so: partly on your account, partly because I did not care to survive most of my contemporaries. At this time there seemed to be one or two things in view—a vacant fellowship at Lincoln, another at Magdalen. Soon however it ‘transpired’ (I know you love the word) that one of these was to lapse and the other be filled from its own college without open election. I thought of the Civil Service: but as my tutor says, ‘There is no Civil Service now’. Thanks to the Geddes axe there are no vacancies in the Home Civil this year, and there probably will be none next.

  The advice of my first tutor was repeated by my other one: and with new points. The actual subjects of my own Greats school are a doubtful quantity at the moment: for no one quite knows what place classics and philosophy will hold in the educational world in a year
s time. On the other hand the prestige of the Greats School is still enormous: so that what is wanted everywhere is a man who combines the general qualification which Greats is supposed to give, with the special qualifications of any other subjects. And English Literature is a ‘rising’ subject. Thus if I cd take a First or even a Second in Greats, and a First next year in English Literature, I should be in a very strong position indeed: and during the extra year I might reasonably hope to strengthen it further by adding some other University prize to my ‘Optimism’.

  ‘While I yet pondered’ came the news of a substantial alteration in the English Schools. That course had formerly included a great deal of philology and linguistic history and theory: these are now being thrown over and formed into a separate school, while what remains is simply literature in the ordinary sense—with the exception of learning to read a very few selected passages of Anglo-Saxon, which anyone can do in a month. In such a course, I should start knowing more of the subject than some do at the end: it ought to be a very easy proposition compared with Greats. All these considerations have tended to confirm what my tutor advised in the first place.

  You may probably feel that a subject of this sort ought to be left for discussion by word of mouth: but, while I do not want to hurry you, my decision must be taken in the near future, as, if I stay up, I must apply to College for permission to do so and for the continuation of my scholarship; if not, I must beat up the agency at once. And after all, I do not know what discussion can do beyond repeating the same points over again. The facts—I hope my account is intelligible—naturally suggest all the pros and cons. I ought, in fairness, to say that I am pretty certain I can get a job of some sort as I am: but if it comes to schoolmastering, my inability to play games will count against me. Above all, I hope it is clear that in no case will Greats be wasted.

  The point on which I naturally like to lean is that the pundits at Univ. apparently don’t want me to leave Oxford. That is rather a loathsome remark for any man to make about himself—but no one overhears us, and it really is relevant. Now if, on all this, you feel that the scheme is rather a tall order and that my education has already taken long enough, you must frankly tell me so, and I shall quite appreciate your position. If you think that the chance thus offered can and ought to be taken, I shall be grateful if you will let me know as soon as may be . . .

  FROM HIS DIARY: at 28 Warneford Road

  19 May 1922

  After tea I bussed back to College and called on the Mugger. He had just had a letter from ‘Mr Wyllie’ asking him to recommend some one for a studentship tenable for one year in Cornell University [New York State]. He said I was the only person he would care to offer: but as the money, tho’ adequate for the year out there, did not include the travelling expenses, it was hardly to be considered. We then talked of my plans. He said the days were past when one could walk out of the schools into a Fellowship: even in minor universities there was a demand for men who had done something . . . He advised me however to take the extra year. He said that College was very hard up, but that he thought that they could manage to continue my scholarship. I asked him whether if I ‘came a cropper in Greats’ he would still advise the extra year, and he said he would . . . A dear old man, but the inexhaustible loquacity of educated age drove me to the City and University to recoup on a Guinness . . .

  [On 22 May Jack received a wire from Mr Lewis saying: ‘Letter of 18 just received. Stay on. Father.’]

  FROM HIS DIARY: at 28 Warneford Road

  24 May 1922

  Bussed into Oxford, meeting Barfield outside the Old Oak. After finding a table we decided to go to the Good Luck instead. An excellent lunch . . . From there we walked to Wadham gardens and sat under the trees. We began with Christina dreams: I condemned them—the love dream made a man incapable of real love, the hero dream made him a coward. He took the opposite view and a stubborn argument followed. We then turned to Dymer which he had brought back: to my surprise, his verdict was even more favourable than Baker’s. He said it was ‘by streets’ the best thing I had done, and ‘Could I keep it up?’ He did not feel the weakness of the lighter stanzas. He said Harwood had ‘danced with joy’ over it and had advised me to drop everything else and go on with it.96 From such a severe critic as Barfield the result was very encouraging. We then drifted into a long talk about ultimates. Like me, he has no belief in immortality etc., and always feels the materialistic pessimism at his elbow . . .

  27 May 1922

  I called on [G. H.] Stevenson and asked him to let me know of any tutorial work for the vac., which he might hear of. I then called on [A. B.] Poynton and made the same request of him. He also promised to give my name to the Manchester Guardian for some reviewing. In the course of the morning I met Blunt who said he was sure he could get me a school boy to coach from Lynhams’s97 . . . I also visited Williams, who is the local agent for Trueman & Knightley: he gave me a form and said that by narrowing the field to Oxford I reduced my chances, but that if there was anything my qualifications would get it. He advised me also to put an advertisement in the Oxford Times . . .

  [Jack took his examination for Greats 8–14 June.]

  TO HIS FATHER: from University College

  [21 June 1922]

  I have waited for some days to try and get a birds eye view from a distance before telling you anything—only to find how difficult it is to form or keep any opinion of what I’ve done. With the history papers where I can look up facts and see how near or far I was, it is easier: and on these I think I have done pretty fairly—in one case, very much better than I expected. But my long suit is the philosophy and here it is like trying to criticise an essay you wrote a week ago and have never seen again, nor ever read over. Sometimes I feel I have done badly, sometimes that I have done brilliantly. Last night however, I got a little light from my tutor who repeated the following conversation he had had with one of the examiners. ‘One of your young men seems to think that Plato is always wrong’—‘Oh! Is it Simpson?’ ‘No.’ ‘Blunt? Hastings?’ ‘No, a man called Lewis: seems an able fellow anyway.’

  On the whole I may sum up: I don’t at all know whether I have got a first or not, but at least I know that there was nothing in the nature of a débacle. Of course the viva is still ahead, and there the family ability to bluff on paper will be no use . . . Luckily we had a spell of cool weather for the exam, which for six hours writing a day for six days is a great blessing . . .

  FROM HIS DIARY: at 28 Warneford Road (after being interviewed for a Classical Lectureship at University College in Reading)

  24 June 1922

  Breakfasted before 8 and cycled to the station to catch the 9.10 to Reading: I read the Antigone during the journey. Arriving at Reading I found my way to University College and left my bike at the Lodge. I saw a great many undergraduates of both sexes walking about: a nice looking lot. I then strolled until 11 o’clock when I was taken to the Principal’s rooms. Childs, de Burgh and Dodds were present.98 All were very nice to me, but Childs very firmly ruled out my idea of living anywhere else than at Reading . . . [Dodds] then showed me round the college which is pleasant and unpretentious, and left me in the Senior Common room, to wait for lunch . . .

  I left the College at 2 and cycled to Bradfield [to see Sophocles’ ‘Antigone’ performed in Greek at Bradfield College] . . . [The theatre] is perfectly Greek—simple stone steps to sit on and incense burning on the altar of Dionysus in the orchestra. Unfortunately the weather was perfectly English . . . most of the actors were inaudible and as the rain increased (beating on the trees) it completely drowned them . . . The audience were spectacle enough: rows of unhappy people listening to inaudible words in an unknown language and sitting bunched up on stone steps under a steady downpour . . . I then noticed that Jenkin was standing on the last tier where the amphitheatre merged into the hillside—a steep bank of ivy overhanging the stone work. Crept up to join him—‘Oh, think of a cup of steaming hot tea’ said he. We exchanged a pregnant gl
ance: then I led the way and in a trice we had plunged into the bushes, plugged our way on all fours up the ivy bank, and dropped into a lane beyond. Never shall I forget J. shaking streams off his hat and repeating over and over again, ‘Oh, it was a tragedy’. We then repaired to a marquee and had tea . . .

  30 June 1922

  After lunch I packed up my things for the night and biked into Oxford: failing to see Poynton in College I went on to Beckley through wind and rain. I was warmly welcomed by Barfield and Harwood . . . We got into conversation on fancy and imagination: Barfield cd not be made to allow any essential difference between Christina dreams and the material of art. In the end we had to come to the conclusion that there is nothing in common between different people’s ways of working, and, as Kipling says, ‘every single one of them is right’.

  At supper I drank Cowslip Wine for the first time in my life. It is a real wine, green in colour, bittersweet, as warming as good sherry, but heavy in its results and a trifle rough on the throat—not a bad drink however.

  After supper we went out for a walk, into the woods on the edge of Otmoor. Their black and white cat, Pierrot, accompanied us like a dog all the way. Barfield danced round it in a field—with sublime lack of self-consciousness and wonderful vigour—for our amusement and that of three horses. There was a chilling wind but it was quite warm in the wood. To wander here as it got dark, to watch the cat poising after imaginary rabbits and to hear the wind in the trees—in such company—had a strange de la Mare-ish effect. On the way back we started a burlesque poem in terza rima composing a line each in turn: we continued it later, with paper, by candle light. It was very good nonsense. We entitled it the ‘Button Moulder’s story’ and went to bed.

  2 July 1922

  In the evening D and I discussed our plans. It was hard to decide yes or no about the Reading job and D was so anxious not to influence me that I cd not be quite sure what her wishes were—I am equally in the dark as to what my own real wishes are . . .