All My Road Before Me

by C. S. Lewis

  Rob came. Completely reversed the earlier view: said the whole thing was neurasthenia and bunkum. He tried to hearten up the Doc who seemed at first to listen to him. When we started trying to get him to bed on a mattress in the drawing room there was another frightful fit—rolling on the floor and shrieking that he was damned for ever and ever. Screams and grimaces unforgettable. The fits began to get more frequent and worse. I noticed how exactly he reproduces what Faustus says in Marlowe. We spent most of the time holding him quiet—very hard work . . . While we were struggling with the Doc, Rob nodded at me and muttered ‘mad’, so I knew he’s given up the neurasthenic theory.

  Dr Hichens came. They chloroformed the Doc. I had to hold his legs—dript with sweat, he’s got as strong as a horse. He was ages going over: and kept on imploring us not to shorten his last moments and send him to Hell sooner than need be. When he was finally over Dr Hichens said ‘Now is the time to decide what to do with him.’ As D and I said afterwards this was the worst moment of all: it seemed so treacherous.

  They agreed that there was nothing for it but the asylum in the morning: or rather Rob pretended to agree, but it was only tactics as we afterwards discovered. They injected some strong narcotic, not morphia, I forget what, and Dr Hichens went away, promising to come back at 8.30. The Doc was now quite quiet but soon began to mutter. I was with him alone for a long time.

  Saturday 24 February: The Doc continued fairly quiet under the drug, but gabbling. After it had got light Rob watched him and I went out and took a few turns in front of the house. It was raining. Maureen of course had been awake all the night owing to the horrible noise and very much rattled.31 Mary had slept a good deal. I found the worst thing I had to contend with was a sort of horrible sympathy with the Doc’s yellings and grovellings—a cursed feeling that I could quite easily do it myself.

  Dorothy came. I was watching the Doc again for some time. Had some tea and a little bread and butter: but went upstairs and was sick as soon as I had swallowed it. The Doc seemed to become quite sane again and kept on saying irrelevant things: was threatened with several further attacks but they didn’t come on. Mary and I had to hold his hands a good deal. Sometimes he talked quite sensibly for several minutes: expressed gratitude to us in a way that would break your heart. We got him to take a little warm milk with great difficulty.

  Hichens, despite his promise, did not come till 11.30. The Doc seemed quite glad to see him. Afterwards Rob and Hichens retired to consult while I stayed to watch the Doc. In their consultation (D told me) Hichens took a much more cheerful view. Rob told him how many of the Doc’s symptoms were normal in his case. They concluded that it might possibly be mere hysteria, partly constitutional, partly from the war: but chiefly because the poor man thought that his syphilis had come awake and was going to drive him mad.

  During the day there were many encouraging signs. Tho’ often threatened with the attacks the Doc himself recognised them as a nervous ailment and didn’t talk about Hell. At about one o’clock Rob sent me into town to engage an ex-policeman for tonight in case of emergencies, since next time, instead of the Hell idea, the Doc might decide to murder someone. I did so and came back after lunch.

  Things seeming fairly quiet, I went up and lay down on my bed. Found I was now getting frightfully nervy: never having seen madness before, I was afraid of every odd thought that came into my own head. I kept thinking I heard the Doc start to rave again downstairs but it was only imagination.

  Came down for tea. D—looking wonderfully fresh and cheerful—told me there was nothing to do, and after some tea (not v. much, still feeling sick in the stomach) I went back to bed. Couldn’t stick it and came down at once to potter about with D for company. She was amazingly good. Everything really much more cheerful this evening, but somehow I found it much harder to stand.

  The Doc came in to supper and was coaxed to eat a little. Soon however the beastly preliminary signs came on and we had to lead him into the drawing room (Rob and I). The poor fellow had got his will back and was making an effort. He begged us to help him: accepted our ‘suggestions’ that he was alright and was now mastering it. My ‘perfectly safe’ turned out a most efficient catchword. Rob spoke to him sternly when he got wild and I spoke to him soothingly when he got scared. We managed to keep the fit in hand. Just before we got him to bed he started a bad one again, but asserted himself, using the phrase which I had suggested the day before about being a man and not afraid of bogeys. We had got him to take his sleeping draught a little earlier. He held my hand for a long time after he was in bed.

  The others lowered the gas and went away, Rob to bed and D to the next room. The Doc most pathetically thanked me for staying with him: he began to get a little extravagant, calling me an angel etc, but soon checked himself and said ‘Yes, I know that’s all sentimental nonsense’. At last to my delight I heard him to go to sleep—not a gabbling drug sleep, but steady snoring. At first he woke up a little startled whenever the clock struck: but after a word or two with me in which he invariably thanked me and apologised for keeping me up, he turned over and fell asleep. Once he started up and started the old contortions: but after I had spoken to him he lay down.

  I felt much better than in the afternoon—quite fresh and not at all nervy. Sat and smoked in the firelight till 4 o’clock. It wd. have been quite safe if I had slept: but whenever I began to doze, horrible faces came up, and I daren’t risk a nightmare, so I had to keep awake. At 4 o’c D went and called Rob to relieve me. She and I had just gone upstairs when the Doc—where Rob was I’m not sure—awoke and came up to the lavatory of his own accord. He seemed absolutely himself when he came out. Rob and I got him back to bed and he then said that he must see . . . Got to bed a little before five and slept like a log.

  Sunday 25 February: Woke up about eleven o’clock or later. Found that the Doc had slept well after I left him. I shaved for the first time since the trouble began, washed and had a large breakfast. I heard that Jenkin had been round to see me and asked me to go in. Rob said it would be quite safe for me to go out and D encouraged me to go, promising that she would rest that afternoon. I looked in to see the Doc, who was quite normal, tho’ naturally very much exhausted, and apologised for having been ‘such a fool’.

  With inexpressible relief I came out of this house of nightmare and walked in to Merton Street. Jenkin was just finishing lunch. Afterwards we rode on the top of a bus to the Banbury Road terminus, then crossed and returned by the Woodstock Road bus. It was a lovely springlike afternoon and all the almond trees were out. After our ride I had tea with Jenkin and walked home.

  Began to get a little nervy as I neared the house. Everything however was alright. The Doc was moved upstairs tonight, he and Mary taking my room. We discussed plans for the future. Rob promised to see early tomorrow morning about arranging for the Doc to be boarded and taken into a Pensions Hospital for war neurasthenia. We were left with the uncomfortable prospect of the Doc and Mary here and Rob gone, indefinitely, should this fail.

  Mary throughout this time has behaved with her usual relentless selfishness, rudeness, ingratitude, and sullen gluttony. She slept and cried upstairs while we were saving her husband from an asylum: she called us out of Hell on Saturday morning to get her a hot bath: come rain come fine, her cups of cocoa had to be ready when she wanted them. Tonight she called D upstairs to bring her biscuits when she was in bed. To be short, we must endure her for his sake: but there’s no two and sixpenny whore from a garrison town and no oily old gipsy woman who wouldn’t be a more welcome guest. She is not a woman at all—she is a stomach with a voice to ask for food without a please.

  I slept on the dining room sofa: lay very hard, so that I awoke feeling sore all over.

  Monday 26 February: The Doc and Mary—thank God—slept very late. I tried in vain to work. Rob went into town to make arrangements about the Doc being boarded preparatory to his being admitted to a Pensions Hospital. He returned with the good news that the people he had
seen were ready to further the matter and hoped that it would be easily managed. It was not till afterwards that I gathered from D that at the very best there would be a delay of ten days—jolly news for us. Rob then went upstairs and told the Doc what he had done. The latter seemed to approve and to be quite ready to go to hospital. Rob then departed—lucky man! The Doc came down for lunch—quite normal and looking very much better than he did before the attack.

  In the afternoon came Jenkin on his bike: D thought it safe for me to go out. I rode with him to Horsepath and back over Shotover. I don’t think much of importance was said.

  Coming back, I had tea and afterwards went out for a walk along Cowley Road with Mary and the Doc. The latter was really wonderfully improved: hummed tunes: made a few attempts at conversation: said he would never forget what I had done for him etc. After we came back I had to go out to the post and took him with me. He said he felt one of the hysterical attacks coming on again but it did not materialise. Later at supper he started the same thing, and again at bed time. Later still, after I had gone to bed, I heard him starting again and had to go to him. D holds out wonderfully. Myself still worried with the feeling of sickness.

  Tuesday 27 February: D told me the Doc was very much better this morning than he has yet been. He stayed in bed till lunch time. At 12 o’clock I went to Wilson and explained to him that I had not done any work and why. He was very sympathetic. He agreed with me about the absurd slowness of getting things through the Ministry of Pensions and cited examples from his own experience. We employed the hour talking about Elizabethan criticism on which I should normally have done my essay today.

  I then biked home. Was just going upstairs to change my clothes when Mary said ‘Johnnie says he’s got the horrid feeling again and you can stop them.’ I went to the drawing room and did so. In the afternoon I tried to work on The Owl and the Nightingale: but was much too tired and rattled to make any headway. At suppertime we had the usual performance of the threatened attack . . . and in a few seconds [the Doc] had himself worked up into a very good beginning of a fit. We succeeded in staving it off and gave him Horlick’s with a sleeping powder in it. He and Mary were soon snoring.

  D said she must have a few minutes peace to read the papers to herself but urged me to go to bed. I did—to lie awake for an hour or so, thoroughly nervy and miserable. Got up and found D just going to bed, and already in her room. I asked her if there was any milk to spare. I was sorry, for she came downstairs again to find some for me. I had a cup of hot milk and retired to bed, still to lie awake. A very windy night. Kept on thinking that I heard the Doc and at last I really did. I decided to try D’s advice of letting him alone. I heard Mary get up and she came into my room. I pretended to be asleep. She glided out again. I must have really fallen asleep soon after this, for I heard no more.

  Wednesday 28 February: Woke up deciding that the bed in Maureen’s room (where I lay) was a very much poorer affair than my own. The Doc unfortunately woke early. I went in to Miss Wardale and explained why I had nothing done. She taught me for a solid hour and I found it very tough to sit it out.

  Came home after leaving a note asking Jenkin to come out this afternoon. During the morning D had a very straight talk with the Doc, telling him that he knew and we knew that he was perfectly alright and that the continued hysteria was mere selfishness and nonsense. He remained quiet during the morning. We had another scene during lunch but succeeded in keeping him in hand.

  Afterwards I waited for a long time for Jenkin and finally rode in to Merton St. but he was out. I then turned and began to ride to Cowley but was driven back by rain. Coming home, I found all well, except that there had been a blowdown of soot in the drawing room. When it cleared up I went out on foot: walked up to Headington and along the private road in beautiful sunshine. I tried hard to detach myself from the atmosphere in which we have now lived for what seems eternity—with some little success, but not much.

  Came back to find Mary sitting alone by the drawing room fire. I passed on hastily to the dining room where I found D engaged in battling down another of the Doctor’s fits. As I heard afterwards, he had started on the damnation stunt again and had confessed new sins. He says that what is really on his mind is that he once betrayed a girl in Philadelphia: she wrote in despair telling him that a child was coming, and he never answered. Of course one can’t believe what he says: but if this is true, then the hell the cur is now going through serves him jolly well right32—but it seems rather rough that we should have to share it.

  Before we started tea, Jenkin came in: he and I sat with the Doc for some time and all went well. Tea was a nervous meal for everyone. Afterwards Jenkin and I walked with the Doc as far as Claytons, where I got some more of the powders: Jenkin came back with me and then left. During the walk the Doc was absolutely silent. He remained alright till supper and made some little response to my efforts at conversation. Towards the end of supper he began again. After much wear and tear we got him round again. I took him upstairs, helped him with . . . and got him into his bath. When he came out I brought him Horlicks with a powder in it, wh. though now perfectly compos mentis he refused to drink. Mary then went to bed.

  D and I then sat in the drawing room till 11.30 and then went to bed ourselves. I went to sleep at once. Presently in the middle of a complicated and interesting dream which I have forgotten—I was woken up by Mary. Went into the Doc’s room. Poor D was with him and had been for some time: as she said afterwards she had only called me because she was afraid of him getting absolutely out of hand again. He was nearer the complete breakdown this time than he has been since Rob left. Contortions horrible and screaming always just about to begin. At an enormous cost of will and muscle we kept him in control. They had succeeded in giving him the drug before I was called and he fought off its effects perversely for a solid hour. Then at last he went to sleep and we returned to bed, rattled and shivering with cold—forsan et haec.33

  Thursday 1 March: . . . I got up and had breakfast alone with D in blissful quiet. Our two charming guests remained fast asleep. D then despatched me into the town to buy pressed beef and pork pie.

  On returning home I found the Doc, who had now woken, was very well this morning. I looked in to see him. The poor devil naturally looked tired, but peaceful and easy and apologetic for last night. There was also a wire from Rob (to whom both D and Mary had written yesterday) to say that he was coming up by the 11.35. This was a great relief. I resolved, if human entreaty could compass it, to make him stay: for after all, as even Mary admits, the Doc is his ruddy brother and not mine. . . .

  Jenkin came and I told him I could not go out with him. While D and I were talking to him at the gate, Rob appeared. The Doc had another attack soon after his arrival: Rob—who had lunched in town—faced the music while D, Mary, and I escaped to have some food in the kitchen. Rob afterwards went off to interview the pensions people in St Aldates. He came back with the news that the Doc could go before one Dr Goode next Tuesday. If necessary Goode (who lives at Littlemore) could come out here instead, but it would need some pressure to manage that. In the meantime Mary and the Doc had been out for a walk: they returned about tea time, the Doc again on the point of starting ‘The Horrors’.

  After tea I went up to the Gonners for another mattress. Rob accompanied me the greater part of the way. He had just been looking at Maureen. He suggested that she had been overworking. I explained the necessity of the situation: in order to be fully qualified for a musical career she would have to pass the Oxford Senior. He said ‘Are they betting on a sound horse? Miss Whitty said that she had very little talent, certainly nothing above the average.’ I was very surprised to hear this: Rob thought that Miss W. had already said as much to D. He went on to enlarge on the disadvantages of a musical career and the delights of teaching domestic science. I asked him whether D ought to be told, but he wd. not commit himself.

  He left me at the corner of Gipsy Lane and I went on to borrow the mattress. After
a little chat with Lady Gonner I came away with it. I strapped it up in a roll and by bringing the loose end of the strap over my shoulder and bending down at an angle of 45 degrees I was able to carry it home on my back. It was one of the heaviest loads I have had. At our gate I found Rob setting out for the Gonners with Maureen.

  During his absence the Doc had another attack wh. I managed to fight down. To supper came Smudge and afterwards I did Anglo Greek with her. How far it was any good I don’t know, for I was very sleepy and nervy and the noise of scenes going on upstairs was worse than if I had been in them.

  After she had gone D, Rob and I met in the drawing room. Rob was debating whether to communicate with Goode or not and try to get him to hurry up. During this conversation he remarked that he wd. be leaving us again tomorrow. I laid before him as strongly as I possibly could the dreadful position in which he was leaving us. He refused absolutely to stay and then went to bed. D and I sat up for a little time—poor D is naturally beginning to be very tired. I slept on the dining room sofa, Rob having my bed.

  Friday 2 March: At breakfast D, Rob, and I had a council of war. After many arguments we concluded that it would be better not to bother Goode. Any hint of urgency, anything in the nature of an S.O.S. wd. only arouse Goode’s suspicions. Of course the fact of the syphilis would be pretty sure to emerge anyway: our only hope was that Goode would decide ‘This man has had syphilis and is therefore liable to insanity: but his present trouble is neurasthenia induced by worrying about that possibility, and by the war.’ Of course if they ruled that the present trouble was syphilitic they would not only not take him, but would cut his pension. And this was more likely to happen if they saw we were panicking to get him out of the house. Rob announced that he had changed his mind and wd. stay on to see the thing through. I have seldom been so grateful for any words . . .