All My Road Before Me

by C. S. Lewis

  She had seen the Bitch: said she came round to say good bye: was the Commander there? No—in Oxford. Well wd. Mrs Hawes say goodbye to him for her? and could she see Maisie? ‘Maisie’s out,’ said the Bitch: ‘I’m not quite sure where. She isn’t round with you is she?’ ‘No,’ said Andrée, ‘I haven’t seen her today.’

  As soon as I had heard this story I bussed into town and called on Walsh the solicitor, after hanging about for some time to make sure that I shd. not meet the Commander in the waiting room. Walsh proved to be the jolliest old gentleman I ever met: he has a big nosed, big toothed face like a rabbit, and very bright eyes. Over his mantelpiece a notice catches your eye:—‘When in doubt tell the truth.’

  I explained who I was and told him the situation up to date. He said that D had not mentioned me, and that I, simply because of the sex, made a difference. He was horrified to hear that Maisie had slept in what was my room and asked if I wanted them to bring me before the city court for abduction. This was quite a new idea to me, and rather alarming. However, he presently decided that a girl of 19 couldn’t be abducted anyway ‘though they change the age so often these days that you’ll soon be able to abduct a woman of eighty’.

  I spoke of our efforts to avoid a scene between the Commander and Mr R. ‘You surely don’t mean,’ said he ‘that this Commander is going to commit an assault on an innocent old gentleman pulling up dandelions in front of a hall door!’ He advised us to tell no lies, to refuse to see the Commander, and to answer no questions. There appears to be no legal bother at all. I showed him Beckett’s alarmist letter and he simply handed it back with a smile and a shrug. So much for a first in jurisprudence! I parted from him in great good humour.

  Came back to find that no visit had taken place . . . A wire came from Maisie ‘Return Paddington 7’: we could find no such train in the guide book.

  Then came a ring at the door. I answered it, bracing myself for another encounter with the Commander, and found instead a Nun, who said ‘I’m Sister Hilary—a friend of Maisie Hawes. May I see Mrs Moore?’ Had a hurried consultation with D over this development and decided that no information must be given, whatever the Nun seemed like. Then D went to see her in the dining room. Went out to take chaircovers to the wash etc. After a long wait D emerged from the dining room and told me her story. Sister H. is a friend whom Maisie has mentioned as trustworthy. She came to D from the Hawes. The latter are not much worried about Maisie’s disappearance and think she is still in Headington, probably with us.

  The Sister is naturally worried about her. She had noticed ‘things’ when Maisie was a child and wondered about her treatment: she said it was a case of ‘misunderstanding’ between her and her parents. She said that the Commander had admitted that he lost his temper last night and said things he hadn’t meant—both to Maisie and me.83 He said that they were proposing to take Maisie to London on Wednesday and get her a dancing job: that the nursing yarn and the Belfast yarn were only threats. He had also complained that Maisie did no work in the house. D replied by a few facts about Maisie’s real life in that house: and the Nun certainly opened her eyes. She agreed that the Commander’s story about ‘having arranged to settle about Maisie’s dancing on Wednesday’ was probably a lie—and a very clever lie too, if it is designed to make us believe we’ve been on a fool’s errand.

  The Nun then asked D directly if she knew anything about Maisie. D refused to say: but promised to tell her if Maisie wrote to her, and said that she knew Maisie had friends in London who would look after her. The Nun did not press any of her questions. She said she would tell the devils only that D said she was not in the least surprised at Maisie’s flight. They parted on excellent terms although the interview had been difficult, each naturally regarding the other with suspicion.

  From the Ry. Guide we now perceived that one of the trains which Maisie might mean by ‘the 7’ would be in any moment and some one must go down and let Maisie into Warneford Rd. where she was to sleep tonight. Rushed down to the tennis court and sent Smudge to do so . . . Smudge turned up towards the end of the meal—Maisie not having arrived.

  As she insisted—God knows why—that her brother must not know of the matter—it naturally became necessary for me to go down in time for the next train: which was imprudent. Then D had to go and smuggle the key of Warneford Rd. out of Smudge’s pocket—Smudge being still at supper and on the duty list, listening to old Raymond. As soon as this had been successfully done I took a basket of food for Maisie’s supper and breakfast and hurried down to Warneford Rd. Came in and lit the gas so that it could be seen thro’ the fanlight. Maisie soon turned up, having had an excellent day with Baker’s aunt, and mindful of Walsh’s advice I left her at once and came up.

  At the end of Gipsy Lane I met Smudge, walking down to sleep with Maisie at Warneford Rd. Saw her back as far as the lamp posts—the last thing on God’s earth that I wanted to do.

  Home at last, very footsore and tired: positively giddy with one of the worst colds I’ve ever had—now developing into a cough . . .

  Tuesday 5 September: Rose feeling more tired than I have been since we left the Jeffreys—whom God reject!84 We set to work as soon as we could and slaved . . . all day, packing against time. We all kept up wonderful spirits considering everything.

  Andrée went off by the 10.50, Mr Sée calling for her and carrying her case. She is a remarkable character. This last week she has shown herself at her best, taking a hand in everything and helping us . . . Perhaps there has been a real change in her—D has a great knack of getting the best out of people . . .

  We got down to Warneford Rd. at about five. D and Maisie did most of the work upstairs while I worked in great haste below, settling in. Ivy gave us a fright by getting a bad heart attack. She had not told us that she was subject to them, but apparently she is—and if so, it is small wonder that the frightful pressure we’ve been going at has brought on one. Went twice to the pub to get brandy.

  In the midst of all this confusion Smudge flitted from room to room saying she thought she’d better go home tonight. A thousand times I felt tempted to reply ‘Well then GO!’, but of course she always yielded to D’s pressure. Indeed she has been very good and has not spared herself in helping: but I must confess I find her presence an intolerable addition to the strain of these days . . .

  Found that D, with a momentary lapse from common sense, perhaps in pride at being alive after such a day, was making Smudge play. So we had to sit and listen and I felt I didn’t care if the roof fell in. When that was over there was endless delay in getting to bed and of course, as the last straw to a perfect day, I was left alone with Smudge. To bed at last, and I had a few moments alone with D, who stands this bad time wonderfully. Cold seems rather worse.

  Wednesday 6 September: Still feeling pretty rotten. By the morning post Ivy got a letter from her fiancé saying he would arrive at Carfax by car at 9.30 and would she meet him. She of course was for going, but D thought this very dangerous as she had had another bad turn this same morning. Ivy proved obdurate and the only thing was for me to rush into town and try and forestall her by bringing the youth out.

  Ivy, by the by, is rather wonderful: the daughter of a shepherd, herself a trained nurse and yet content to do domestic work for us so as to give Dorothy a holiday . . .

  In the afternoon I sat in my own room and wrote up arrears of diary. Very tired and full of cold. D is still busy settling in and Maisie works like a brick.

  Thursday 7 September: A bad, feverish night—all full of confused dreams and no good from my sleep . . . In the afternoon I tried to work but felt too fuddled and ended by lying on my bed. A letter from Walsh saying the Commander had been to him and asked for Maisie’s address, which he had truthfully replied he did not know. He now has a letter from her. Early to bed.

  Friday 8 September: Stayed in bed till tea time. Called for the Odyssey and beginning at Bk. V read to the middle of Bk. VIII with great pleasure. Cold still pretty bad.

&
nbsp; Saturday–Saturday 9–23 September: Between my Friday’s entry and my departure for Ireland the only event of importance has been an interview between D, Ivy and myself. The origin of this was some trouble between Ivy’s people and herself . . .

  On Monday (11th) I travelled to Belfast, by Liverpool. On Thursday morning my first vision was of the town in its familiar squalor under heavy rain . . .

  My Father made some considerable opposition to my returning in ten days time, but I showed a firm front and after this preliminary unpleasantness he was really, with a few exceptions, at his best during my stay.

  W was in good form and he and I did a lot of motorbiking. Besides short rides over the hills to Holywood—the objective usually being a drink in the ‘Central Hotel’—he took me to Island Magee, to Newcastle, and to Browns Bay where we lunched with Kelsie and Gundred at K’s hut.85 The country is very beautiful and if only I could deport the Ulstermen and fill their land with a populace of my own choosing, I should ask no better place to live in. By the by it is quite a mistake to think that Ulster is inhabited by loyalists: the mountains beyond Newcastle and the Antrim ‘hinterlands’ are all Green.

  At this time I read Galsworthy’s Forsyte Saga: one of the finest novels I have ever read, and mercilessly true. I spoke of it to Mrs Greeves, herself a Forsyte, wife of a Forsyte, mother and daughter of Forsytes: she had read, and enjoyed it apparently, but without the least comprehension of the author’s purpose.86 She could not understand what I meant when I said the Forsytes were terrible people and thought ‘it was a great pity of Soames’. The sinister figure of Soames is the great creation of the book—and Irene, one of the very few heroines whose beauty is made convincing, though it is never described.

  I also read the greater part of James Stephens’ Irish Fairy Tales: his curious humour and profundity of course peep out in places—but the author of The Crock of Gold is simply wasted on other people’s tales. Beyond these two I read nothing.

  W had rigged up the croquet lawn, after some ten years lying idle. During this time the hoops have got lost or been stolen, and he had erected pairs of sticks to serve in their place—which presented a very curious appearance to me on my arrival. We played a certain amount, and until the very end, I was incredibly bad. We also persuaded our father to play, which he did in the funniest way imaginable, sometimes regarding the whole thing with lordly tolerance, and at others becoming intensely serious. After a while he developed powers by no means contemptible.

  Croquet and rain brought it about that we had very little of the after dinner strolling which is de rigeur there in the summer. I had a curious feeling that my father has ‘given me up’: I feel that he has ceased to ask questions about me, regards me as a hopeless enigma. The strain of conversing with him, the hopelessness of trying to make him understand a position, are of course old news: but this time one felt—rather pathetically—that the effort was over for good on his side. I can truly say I am sorry I have contributed so little to his happiness: whether he deserves it or not is another matter. Almost the only pleasure he can derive from me is that which may come from academic or literary successes in my career.

  In the evening W and I often played chess with varying fortune, but I think he usually won. Arthur was at home when I arrived, intending to sail for England the next day. This, however, was prevented by a chill which brought him to bed and after that he put off his departure from day to day so that I could not let D know many days ahead: consequently she was able to send me only one letter during my stay. I saw Arthur frequently. Whether it was his health or my absorption in other things I don’t know, but we found practically nothing to say to each other. I worked on my dissertation nearly every day and finished it.

  On Thursday 21st W and I left and crossed to England by Heysham. This route was new to both of us. If you can face the early start—5.45 boat train from Heysham—it has every advantage. The boats are more comfortable than either the Liverpool or the Fleetwood and—what is unique—they give you really good coffee. We travelled first class all the way and had a most comfortable journey: a breakfast-car came on at Leeds in which we had a capital meal, and, later, a morning drink. We had a compt. to ourselves. I was reading H. G. Well’s Modern Utopia—a poor, hazy, affected book.

  On reaching St Pancras we went at once to Karraway’s where Baker, according to a letter from me, had left tickets for the St Martin’s. I got these and spoke to his aunts—they tell me he has got the part of Page in the Merry Wives—and then rejoined W. After lunching at the Euston Hotel we drove to the theatre—one of the nicest small houses I have been in and very quietly decorated. We saw Galsworthy’s Loyalties and Barrie’s Shall We Join the Ladies? The latter was rather poorly acted, but an amusing conception. Loyalties was as well done as anything I could have imagined: every part a little masterpiece in itself and yet subordinate. A capital play, though, to my mind, it errs in concentrating the interest of the last act on Dancy and thus leading to a rather obvious ending, while the real issue—the issue suggested in the title—is dropt out of sight. But perhaps I have not quite understood it.

  From the St Martin’s we returned to have a whiskey at Euston, and thence to Paddington where [Warnie] saw me off. He is under orders for Colchester—not the best place in the world, but good enough, provided they don’t send him to this infernal Turkish war.

  I travelled down to Oxford comfortably enough, nearly asleep, and arrived home at 9. D in good form. Maisie still here, but in touch with a good job at Cardiff.

  Saturday 23 September: After breakfast I went into town and gave my dissertation to the typist who promised to have it ready by Thursday. I then went to College and got from Frank the notice about the Magdalen Fellowship. I there found to my horror that the dissertation and testimonials were to be handed in on Monday and not on the 30th as I had supposed.

  I therefore went to Magdalen and spoke to the porter who told me that I had better see the President. I accordingly called at his residence—opposite the great gate—and was admitted to a blue panelled ante room which I shared for 20 minutes with a female secretary who did not ask me to sit down.

  Sir Herbert Warren proved to be a stout man with a short grey beard, thick lips, and an affable manner. He has the reputation of being a great snob but is supposed to be a good champion to all who have a College claim in him.87 He said I might certainly send in my dissertation in MS if I liked. I then went to the Union and wrote to the Master, to Carritt, and to Stevenson asking for testimonials. I found in College that the Mugger was not in College, so I shall hardly have his reply by Monday . . .

  Sunday 24 September: It was a glorious morning and we decided that Moppie (Maisie Hawes), Maureen and I should go out. I washed up after breakfast and laid lunch while Moppie ‘did’ the rooms: but we had been so late in getting up that we were not on the road till 12 . . .

  After lunch I helped D to compose a letter to Moppie’s prospective employer Miss Quinlan of Cardiff. She had sent a form of agreement involving the father’s signature and we had to explain why this was impossible.

  Later on I started Maureen on an English essay and tried to give her some ideas about structure. I am to teach her Latin and English for the ‘School Certificate’ and the task—especially the English—appalls me. After supper Smudge arrived, looking much better for her holiday. Sat up with D alone after the others had dispersed and talked for some time . . .

  Monday 25 September: . . . I bussed into Oxford and called at the typists: she had not yet finished my dissertation and asked me to return at a quarter to six. I spent the interval in the Union reading Chesterton’s Browning. At quarter to six the typescript was indeed finished but not collected so I had to take the MS after all.

  I called in Univ. where kind testimonials from Carritt and Stevenson had been left for me and, armed with these, proceeded to Magdalen. Here I met Ewing back from Geneva and competing: later on Dodds turned up (from Reading) also competing. There are about eleven candidates—one rumour made
it 60—one of whom is Freeman of the House. Our interviews with Warren were very short and we filled up forms.

  Home by about 7.30 to find Smudge here. This evening I was bitterly tired and I can’t think why: D says that possibly I miss the drinks that I have got into the habit of with W. I am accordingly finishing in small tots the brandy which was bought for Ivy.

  Tuesday 26 September: I was woken this morning by Moppie putting her head round the door and shouting ‘I’m going to Cardiff.’ This turned out to mean that there was an answer from Miss Quinlan saying that she would take her without the form of contract. She is to go on Thursday and they ‘will discuss matters when she arrives’. It will be pleasant to be by ourselves again, but we will miss Moppie’s odd presence. She is terribly, childishly naive and retains many obstinate vulgarities from her upbringing: but there isn’t a spark of bad in her. In fact she is rather like a large and intelligent dog about the house. I have hopes that, in this case at least, D’s kindness has not been misplaced.

  After breakfast I walked to Magdalen and from 10 to 1 we did an English essay on ‘The use and abuse of satire’. I should be sorry to have my production survive as a specimen of my work—but I think there was enough guts in it to attract attention . . .

  At 3 I returned to Magdalen: meeting D on the bus. From 3 to 6 we did ‘literary unseens’: Hesiod, Dionysius of Halicarnassus and Ausonius. I found the Hesiod rather difficult. Tea was brought to us in hall at 4.30—an admirable innovation in exam methods . . .

  To bed at about 11. I was much less tired and am beginning to slough my Little Lea skin.

  Wednesday 27 September: . . . After breakfast to Magdalen by 10 o’clock and did a Philosophy paper. I think I put in some good work on the importance of Time to ethics and on generalisation: but my answer to the Kant question was uneven and I foolishly wrote a lot of poor pudding about Pragmatism.