All My Road Before Me

by C. S. Lewis

  My operator was Joseph.76 He was very civil and made every effort to be agreeable. He asked what I meant by the contradiction of the pleonexia, why I applied the word ‘disgusting’ to my quotation from Pater, how I wd. distinguish a schoolmaster’s from a state’s right to punish, and if I cd. suggest any way of making ‘poor old Plato’ less ridiculous than he appeared in my account, of ‘the lie in the Soul’. I showed some forgetfulness of the text in answering this, but I don’t think it was serious. The whole show took about 5 minutes. From the phrase ‘poor old Plato’ I fancy Joseph must have been Carritt’s informant (v. June 21st) . . .

  Saturday 29 July: . . . Baker came again after lunch and I sat with him in the garden. We talked of reincarnation. He now thinks that most of his youthful ‘reincarnation experiences’ and visions were fancy, with three exceptions which he still regards as objective. He thought his faculty of seeing the aura had been merely a hallucination accompanying (by way of bluff) a real intuition of character. I remarked that his sketches of character tended to caricature, that he had a faculty for getting the worst out of people. He admitted that he had a tendency to exaggerate. We came indoors and had tea. Conversation turned to international politics, and this meant a rather perilous argument between D and Baker—dogmatisms on both sides and no hope of an issue.

  . . . D being far from well, already overworked, and a move hanging over us, it has seemed to her a suitable moment to make gooseberry jam. Maureen and I picked all the ripe ones. After that I sat on the steps with D and read Hamilton’s book. It was swelteringly hot. Supper very late.

  Sunday 30 July: Up rather late to find D already dressed, breakfasted, and at work. After my own breakfast I repaired to the drawing room and started re-writing Canto IV of ‘Dymer’, with which I am finding great difficulties.

  Presently came Baker in a state of great indignation at having an extra performance put on tomorrow evening. I walked with him up Shotover—a fine cool morning. We sat on a stile above the descent to Quarry, talking about the probable symbolism of Maureen in a dream of his, about ‘anima’ in general, and later about ‘Dymer’.

  Came home to lunch here. Baker and Maureen played duets afterwards. He stayed till about quarter to four and I must confess I was glad when he went. There are of friends, very few, whose visits if daily repeated, do not pall in a week. It is quite different if even the same friends are stopping in the house: there a sort of modus vivendi is established: they are digested and assimilated . . .

  D was a good deal better today, tho’ still far from well. In discussing Baker and boredom we decided that the great trouble was his lack of ‘chat’. Humour of the best kind, uproarious farce, he has: serious discussion he has: but mere chat you can’t get from him.

  We are all surprised at hearing no news from Mlle Cahen and begin to wonder if she has taken fright.

  Monday 31 July: . . . At 2.30 Miss Wiblin came: Maureen and I had decided to bike despite the weather, as if we bussed Miss W. would leave her bike here: if she left it, she would call for it afterwards: if she did that, she would stay till midnight.

  Luckily it cleared up and was a glorious blue and white sky when the three of us reached Christ Church. We waited at the steps outside hall till Baker appeared, dressed but not made up, and led us through Dr Locke’s door into the Priory gardens where the show was to be. A long wait was worth the free seats we thus obtained, and pleasant too for the extreme beauty of the garden. Baker had warned me that Glorious England was bad: he had not overstated it. The dialogue was contemptible, the fable childish, and all continually interrupted by interminable bad dances, ill danced to wretched music. The high wind often carried away the voices of the actors: in fact this and the Antigone have convinced me that outdoor theatricals in this country are a mistake. Some of the performers were professionals, but they were all bad. Baker was in a different sphere. His part was the crudest melodrama. (Ha! The mann must die-ie etc.!) But it was surprising how well he carried it off. The part of Saracen villain had a certain grotesque suitability.

  As soon as we had got out we hastened to College where our bikes were left. I then found the History lists up and returned, as arranged, to tell Baker his fate . . . As he had expected to be ploughed he was delighted to hear that he had taken a third. I was introduced to Mlle de Bergerac—she looked a fit authoress for such tripe as Glorious England . . .

  Lewis and Mrs Moore were offered the chance to live free of charge in ‘Hillsboro’, 14 Holyoake Road, Headington, during the period 1 August–4 September. The property was owned by Mr Raymond, who planned to be away part of this time. They sub-let 28 Warneford Road to Mr and Mrs Rodney Pasley during part of August, and Lewis and Mrs Moore economised further by taking in a Paying Guest—Mlle Andrée Cahen, from Paris.

  Tuesday 1 August: . . . Up betimes and to our packing. Hard at it all morning and afternoon, everyone busy, but all in good form. A letter from [Mlle] Cahen by second post: she is to arrive on Thursday and we shall know her by her ‘brown costume and brown hat with coloured ribbon round it’ . . .

  We were in great confusion through not knowing when the Pasleys would turn up until a wire came fixing their arrival for 6 . . . I went to buy some things in Cowley Rd. Coming back I found Pasley and his wife already here and talking to D in the kitchen while they unloaded their kitten from a basket. Pasley was plump and in good form. D and I remarked afterwards how old the girl looks, though she is really his junior. I think she is a decent sort.

  It began to rain just as our taxi arrived. Maureen and I biked as D and the luggage completely filled the car. Tibbie in her basket was forgotten and this delayed D so that we arrived here as soon as she did. A busy evening settling in. A well earned supper at 8.30 after which Miss Wiblin and I washed up—Dorothy, who is to sleep in while we are here, having a headache and being dead beat. All of us pretty tired but I think D is none the worse. I am very favourably impressed with the house and the nice little garden: but the gas is poor and there are no good books.

  Wednesday 2 August: I was wakened at 2 o’c by noises and getting up found that D’s bed and herself had been soaked, as I seem—for the first time in my life—not to have screwed up her hot water bottle securely. I only hope that there will be no ill results. Later I dreamed that I had got a 2nd.

  Immediately after breakfast I bussed into College and called on Farquharson. Apparently I am not too late to take my B.A. on Saturday. He kept me a long time, talking about the edition of Cooke Wilson’s various writings which he is bringing out. He also discussed exams and kept saying that everyone knew my abilities and would not change their opinions if I happened to get a second. From a don, such talk has its uncomfortable side—I hope there is nothing behind it more than his general desire of flattery.

  I then returned and took my share of getting things straight. Miss Wiblin came and helped. This house is full of unnecessary ornaments in the sitting rooms: beyond them, in the kitchen etc., we found a state of indescribable filth: bottles of cheap champagne in the cellar. Trash for the drawing room, dirt for the kitchen, second rate luxury for the table—an epitome of a ‘decent English household’.

  After lunch a note came from Mrs Stevenson asking us to entertain her French boy for the afternoon as all her people were going out. This is impertinence: if she is taking money for him, why can she not play fair? Answer, because she is a spiritualist, an idealist, an enthusiast, a new thought-ist, not of the common clay.

  The boy was quite nice. I went with him to watch Miss W. (‘Smudge’ as we have christened her), Mary, Maureen, and Helen Rowell playing tennis on the school court. He knows very little English.

  All back for tea here. Afterwards the others returned to their tennis while D and I had a little peace—dog tired by now. Supper at about 8.15. We are greatly afraid that Dorothy may be getting ill as she has a bad headache and dissolved into tears on misunderstanding a most innocent remark of mine. Heaven help us if she does.

  We were just preparing to go to bed whe
n three figures and one suitcase appeared at the hall door. We held our breath. It turned out to be the Pasleys and Mlle Cahen who had arrived a day before we expected her and gone to Warneford Rd. She had eaten nothing since 1 o’c., so it was all hands on deck again to feed her. When we cast our net we little thought that we should catch such odd fish. She is a Jewess, very striking in appearance, speaking the best English I have ever heard from a foreigner. She is going to ‘translate for the lawcourts’ as soon as she has got her degree. One of her sisters is a Doctor, the other an engineer. She may be 18 as she says: has the self assurance of 50. D and I agree that we should be sorry to pit our wits against this young woman. Altogether a formidable and stimulating if somewhat unlovable character . . .

  Thursday 3 August: Up betimes and a fair morning. At her request I went with Andrée into town and showed her the sights. I liked her better than on the previous evening. We talked of various things, largely of books. She told me—as I had always suspected—that French people could get no music out of Latin verse. We returned for a late-ish lunch.

  The Pasleys came shortly afterward. I had a good deal of talk with Johnnie. It was tiring to shout, but she seemed alright—an oldish face and lined, though she is supposed to be younger than Pasley.

  After tea I hastened into town and met Warnie at the Roebuck; dined with him at Buols with a bottle of Heidsieck. He has certainly grown enormously fat. He was in excellent form. I mooted the proposal of his coming out here: he did not seem inclined to take it up. I left my diary to read to put him en rapport with the life.

  Friday 4 August: Bussed into town with Andrée and left her at Carfax. I then met W and we strolled to the Schools to see if my lists would be out in the evening. It gave me rather a shock to find them already up. I had a first: Wyllie a second: everyone else from College a third. The whole thing was rather too sudden to be as pleasant as it sounds on paper. I wired at once to P and went to lunch with W at Buols.

  During the meal I thought I had arranged for him to come and meet the family at tea: but quite suddenly while sitting in the garden of the Union he changed his mind and refused pertinaciously either to come to tea or to consider staying with us. I therefore came back to tea alone. The Pasleys were here and Smudge. An amusing game of croquet followed after which I returned to W, and dined. He was now totally changed. He introduced the idea of coming to stay off his own bat and promised to come out tomorrow. Late home and straight to bed.

  Saturday 5 August: Went to College after breakfast and saw Poynton about money matters. Found to my surprise and delight that after paying all fees I had a balance in my favour—but I shall not see it until September . . .

  I then bussed out to Headington, changed rapidly into white tie and subfusc suit, and returned to lunch with W at Buols. At 2 o’clock I assembled with the others at Univ. porch to be taken under Farquharson’s wing for degrees. A long and very ridiculous ceremony making us B.A.s—as Watling said, we felt no different beyond being ‘hot and bothered’.

  I met W again at the Roebuck and came up here. Everyone present for tea and got on well. Maureen formulated her first impressions of W. epigramatically by saying ‘he looks as if he were a good swimmer’. Back to town for dinner.

  Sunday 6 August: We had arranged to go on the river today but it rained. W came out with his luggage. Bridge in the afternoon. A wet night.

  Tuesday 8 August: Owing to rush of events and having lent my diary to W., regular entry has become all but impossible. Yesterday was chiefly remarkable for the behavior of Smudge, whose condition is a cause of uneasiness to both D and me. It is strange that such a thing should have happened to me—of all people least desirous, least able to cope with such a situation. But I hope it is chiefly nerves. I also had tea with the Stevensons.

  Today, despite a morning that opened with teeming rain, W and I proceeded to carry out a long treasured project of visiting Watford.77 We started by bus and it was fine before we reached the station. Caught the 11.30 for Bletchley . . .

  Reaching Bletchley we found that the 1.30, by which we had hoped to go on, was not running. We had an excellent lunch at the station and caught the 2.40, arriving pretty late at Watford. With curious sensations, oppressive but by contrast delicious, we went up to Wynyard. it is now called Northfield and is a girls’ school. An absurd woman showed us round—pointing out improvements and telling us that the house looked ‘prettier in the front’!!

  Vindictive memories and Christina dreams of hate were brought before my mind. We both remarked how absolutely right the school boy is in his envy of ‘grown ups’. It was a hot day. Same old flinty roads, same old dusty town. We had tea in the garden of a hotel near the station and caught the 6.9 back.

  Changed at Bletchley where we had a sandwich and a whiskey and soda. A pleasant return journey in evening sunlight through country which I like for our jolly stay at Crendon last year. We had supper at Buols. Here I had an interesting talk with W, but I don’t know how much he weighed his words. He said he supposed he wd. grow up some day. Then home by bus in glorious moonlight.

  The others met us at the terminus where they were seeing Smudge off—who, says D, has been much better today. Letters of congratulation from the Ainley-Walkers, Carritt, Lionel Lord, Stevenson and Benecke. Carritt says I got A = for all the Philosophy papers, Aβ for ancient history, β = for the other histories, and β = for classics, which is a shock. He also recalls Stock’s dictum that ‘I am not a real philosopher, but quite brilliant’. As consolation for all this, Stevenson tells me that I am one of the very few firsts who didn’t get a serious viva.

  Wednesday 9 August: . . . We were rather late for lunch at which Smudge was present. Afterwards I had intended to do a little work, but was beguiled into playing with W at pingpong which we continued very strenuously till tea time. Then came the Pasleys and Helen Munro. Pasley gave me a very poor account of the lectures for teachers which he is attending. They talk to them like babies and it must give strangers an odd impression of Oxford.

  The rain, wh. had been heavy all afternoon, had now cleared and while I washed up the others played croquet. I managed a little reading of Bradley, alone in the drawing room with D, and then played myself. During the game I amused Helen and Maureen by surreptitiously clipping nearly all the clothes pegs on to the tail of W’s coat . . .

  Thursday 10 August: . . . At about 2 o’c. Smudge, Andrée, W, and I set out with tea baskets etc. and proceeded to Magdalen Bridge. In spite of Smudge’s advice I insisted on taking a canoe, which was very foolish of me. For four of us it was too cramped and the state of the river after the recent rains made it rather dangerous. At the rollers78 the landing stage was completely under water and in many places the current defied my poor skill in steering. I paddled alone all the time with occasional emergency help from Smudge. W in the bow, wedged tightly into a small space with legs apart and a flybutton showing, dressed in a suit of P’s, was rather a funny sight. It was a beautiful afternoon. We landed in a meadow on the left bank just above the Parks, and had tea in the hay. Plenty of ragging. Back to Magdalen bridge about seven, where the man said he was very glad to see us again!

  The girls went home: W and I to College to look for post, thence to drink in the yard of the Mitre. Here he urged me definitely to say whether I would be home in September and I said probably not. This resulted in a complete cessation of talk.

  Just before mounting our bus I met Beckett and agreed to lunch with him tomorrow. Home for supper and Smudge played for us. D in rather poor form. I am a little sick of our present life and specially of the work it makes for her and the total lack of privacy. Oh for a day alone.

  Friday–Monday 11–14 August: These days I can hardly manage my diary. After we had gone to bed on Thursday W continued to sulk and presently announced his intention of returning home next Monday. Wishing to keep things on a friendly basis I made some conventional question of ‘why’, to which he replied at once, ‘Oh, I can bore myself for nothing at home.’ I am now convinced
that this was mere temper and not seriously to be resented from one who habitually lives (with me) in a thoroughly schoolboy atmosphere. At the time, though I only answered ‘that’s true’, it delivered me up to the usual circle of foolish and angry anti-Christinas.

  In the morning discussion was renewed. He continued to sulk and I was so disgusted at this childish sort of compulsion that I was tempted to reject all thought of going home. His argument that I had to go sooner or later and that it was a pity not to acquire merit by being there when his presence made it easier, seemed to carry some weight. Besides conscience was pricking me on P’s account.

  I talked it over with D and walked into town with W, through Mesopotamia after breakfast, when I told him I would do as he wished. I also said that he must be quite clear that I had not given way because of his fit of temper and that that line would not work again. He affected not to understand . . .

  I lunched with Beckett in All Souls. He advised me to try for a fellowship there. We fed in the buttery with a man called Lawrence (formerly of Jesus)79 and an older one whose name I did not catch. Both were most interesting and agreeable. We drank beer bottled in the 19th century: it is clear red, tastes and smells like toffee, and is very strong . . .

  On Sunday we played a good deal of croquet. I amused Andrée with my attempt to translate the opening of Aeneid II into French alexandrines. In the evening we tried to go to the Cowley Fathers to hear plainsong,80 but got landed instead in the Catholic Church where we were royally bored and where the priest (possibly the Father Burdett S.J. whose name appeared on the door of the confessional) was about the nastiest little man I have ever seen. However, I was glad on the whole, for I have never been to a Mass before, and some of the singing was good.

  On Monday we went on the river—Smudge, Andrée, Maureen, W and I in a punt. A good day on the whole, tho’ Maureen was rather a nuisance. No doubt it is good for W to be teased by her, but it is very bad for her to learn this sort of licensed buffoonery. A great rag in the garden after supper. W got from the Union a book on Social France in the XVII Century by Cécile Hugon, who appears to be the woman I met on July 17th.