All My Road Before Me

by C. S. Lewis

  Lunch was very late and immediately afterwards I bussed into town to the Discussion Class. Gordon was ill, but seven of us carried on alone. My minutes were well received.34 Burns read a capital paper on Schools of Poetry: he quoted from the ‘Imagists’ one or two poems which I liked immensely—tho’ I was prepared to dislike them in theory.35 The discussion was quite jolly—and infinitely comfortable—a glimpse of the clean, sane, outer world again . . .

  Afterwards D and I went out to do some shopping—even in Cowley Rd. it was delightful to be together and away for a few minutes. Coming back—a big moon—we met Rob walking outside: he said ‘Johnnie is quite happy, confessing his sins to Mary.’ Rob told us that the girl whom the Doc had ‘betrayed’ was a common prostitute. Thank the Lord! We all remarked how the poor man would regret his many confessions if he ever recovered. At supper the Doc was nearly asleep and Rob got him up to bed soon afterwards.

  I soon came up with a hot water bottle and stayed to help in restraining an attack. Pretty near the edge this time and he said ‘I’m in Hell’ for the first time since Friday night . . .

  Saturday 3 March: Woke up after a very good night but too sore to lie on the dining room sofa any longer. After my tea I went upstairs and lay on the bed which D had just vacated, where I fell asleep again. Had breakfast alone in the dining room and afterwards did messages in Cowley Road: a most glorious fresh morning of blue sky and puff’d clouds. The Doc and Mary slept late: he had had a fairly good night but she had been forced to give him the second dope.

  Rob wrote a letter to Goode asking him to interview the Doc here instead of holding a board in town and I cycled with it over to Littlemore. Maureen was down here all morning from the Gonners with whom she has been staying ever since the trouble began. I found her and Rob playing catch in the road when I came back, which was really rather comforting.

  The Doc had rather a bad attack at lunch. Even between the attacks he never rallies now: a frightful expression of misery and lethargy has settled on his face, he replies if spoken to, only in monosyllables and in a whisper. Nothing can wring the ghost of a smile from him. For painfulness I think this beats anything I’ve seen in my life . . .

  D pretty tired today and had to cook a joint in addition to everything else. We got to bed about 12.30, I on the dining room sofa where I at once fell heavily asleep. At about three I was aroused by noises above: went up and found D (who had not slept at all) trying to quiet the Doc. The same old hopeless business and we got him over at last . . .

  The sight of these attacks has almost changed my deep rooted conviction that no mental pain can equal bad physical pain. Down again and noticed that it was 5.30. Soon asleep again.

  Sunday 4 March: Up about 9.45. As no one dare wash in the bathroom these mornings for fear of waking the Doc, and the scullery is always in use, I seldom get a chance of a morning wash. Just after I had shaved in Rob’s room Jenkin turned up. I went out with him: we rode to Garsington, then to our left and home by the windmill and Horsepath. Jenkin and I seldom say anything of importance on our jaunts these days, but it is like cool water to be out with him . . .

  After lunch I looked over an atrociously bad Latin prose by Sidney Stevenson: then Rob and I walked out on the golf links with the Doc. He had rather a bad attack soon after we had reached it: then pulled himself together and made some horribly pathetic attempts to join in the conversation. On the whole he was very bad this afternoon and (what was perhaps the most terrible thing of all) asked us what we were going to do with him. When we got home we found D on the doorstep who told Rob he was wanted in the drawing room.

  I knew at once that Dr Goode had come. (Goode, it appears, had been here for half an hour and D was on the verge of collapse, having been left to make nerve racking conversation with him.) Shortly after the three Doctors had been closeted together, D, who listened in the hall, announced that they had got on to the dreaded subject of the syphilis. Mary seemed to feel the suspense least: Maureen, tho’ of course not understanding the real issue, was trembling all over. D very nearly on the edge but holding on. I couldn’t stick the dining room any longer and went and smoked cigarettes in the lobby upstairs for the windiest hour and a half I have spent except under fire. It was freezingly cold.

  D came up now and then with news of what she cd. overhear: the prospect gradually improved. Goode had been heard to say ‘You have none of the symptoms of G.P.I.’36 Then he was heard talking to him about neurasthenia, particularly about the Hell idea, wh. results apparently from being frightened by one’s father in youth. The first fearful question was thus settled—Goode did not think that the poor old Doc was going mad. Of the next questions—whether he would be admitted to hospital and how soon—we cd. only hear the most tantalising murmurs.

  I was now given a little early supper so as I could set off to the Gonners with Maureen. Before I set off Goode left and Rob followed him out into the road. The Doc, who had been heard during the interview talking in a strong and ordinary voice, was now collapsed again. He was nevertheless more like himself and, poor fellow, very penitent for the trouble we had had. He said Goode was getting him into hospital but ‘it won’t be for a few days, and how can I go on staying here?’ Before Maureen left she kissed him and he smiled naturally for the first time this many a day. When I came back from seeing Maureen up to Red Gables the others were at supper and I went up to sit with the Doc, who was in bed. He said he was ‘afraid he’d upset my applecart’, meaning my work: I reassured him on this point . . .

  All the others early in bed. As I was taking up the jars37 for D I heard the Doc making noises as if he were going to be sick. Anon out came Mary and said she was going to get him his second go of dope. D and I were very doubtful about the wisdom of this, and after some hesitation I woke Rob to ask him, and he said sleepily, ‘Give it to him.’ I went into their room. The Doc showed no signs of hysteria but was complaining of flatulency wh. kept him awake. Mary kept on grumblingly urging him to take his dope. He became naturally angry in a way which was rather comforting to see, and shouted out, ‘I’m not going to take it Maimie.’ And Mary got angry too, and I held up my finger and recited ‘Birds in their little nests agree’ which didn’t amuse anyone—except me . . .

  Monday 5 March: Rob came into the dining room while I was having my morning tea and asked Dorothy to get him his breakfast at once as he had to ring up Goode between nine and ten. Later I went up and lay on D’s bed, she having looked into the dining room to tell me that it was empty. She presently came to me with the news that Rob was going back to Bristol today: which of course pleased us very little . . .

  When I went up to shave in Rob’s room he followed and made some tentative remarks about this being a nasty business for me. In fact he wanted, in addition to the pleasure of his own escape, the pleasure of being told by me that he was quite right to leave us and had been very good to stay so long and of course we couldn’t expect any more etc. He did not get it. He left the house at about ten.

  I began to work on Sidney’s Latin prose: the post-prandial demands of nature became so urgent, however, that I had to bus into College—our own lavatory being now inaccessible in the morning for fear of waking the Doc. In College I had a good wash in the bath rooms. Bussed back and finished my job. D and I were just going to have our own lunch when the Askins were heard stirring overhead. The Doc just as depressed and lethargic as ever today . . .

  Tuesday 6 March: Up lateish, bussed into town and washed at the Union: thence to Wilson to tell him again that I had done nothing. He quite understood the position of course, but said that all this waste of time was a very serious thing for me.

  I then came home and worked on Sir Gawain. The others got up for lunch: Mary said he had had a tolerable night without any dope. This was (at first) one of the best days he had had. He seemed perfectly normal and made some effort to join in the conversation . . .

  After tea I began work on my paper for Miss Wardale. The Doc soon began to get restless and an atta
ck was staved off. Mary got him to bed after supper and D had to go up and sit with him while I worked. I just managed to finish my paper when Smudge turned up—by appointment of course, but we had all forgotten her. I did Anglo Greek with her till twelve thirty, with a long interruption to soothe the Doc.

  After she had gone D and I sat down for a while: when I went up for the jars I heard the Doc making noises as if he was going to be sick. We knew this was the prelude to trouble and didn’t think it worth while to go to bed. Presently Mary came down and got him hot milk, but without powder, contrary to the advice of D and me who saw that powder would be necessary tonight. At about half past one we ventured to go up. I had just got into bed when I heard the Doc beginning: I waited a few minutes, then, seeing that it shaped badly, I hopped up. I succeeded in quieting him and Mary got him to take the dope. Before going back to bed I looked into D’s room and saw that she was sleep, for wh. I was very glad, tho’ it is a sad proof of how exhausted she is.

  Wednesday 7 March: Was called by D at 9.30 with the horrible news that there was no letter from the Pensions people: we had foolishly been hoping that the end of this hell might be announced today. Dorothy was poorly this morning: she had (D said) been wanting to get up all night, but, with the exaggerated niceness of her class, she had been afraid to do so.

  I went to see Miss Wardale and did my hour. Afterwards I did some shopping and came home. New trouble was afoot: Dorothy was suffering from acute pains and a dose of D’s salts had had no result. Before lunch I had to go up and talk to the Doc while he dressed. I hope I sympathise with the poor wretch, but, by God, never do I want him again to be within twenty miles of me—never.

  At lunch D discussed Dorothy’s condition. With unpardonable folly we all asked the Doc’s advice. D explained that she had already given her salts and cascara. The Doc advised further a strong dose of Epsom salts. After lunch I biked to Claytons to get this and when I came back it was administered under the Doc’s supervision. A few minutes later he began announcing, ‘Oh, I’d forgotten she’d had cascara as well. Oh dear, oh dear, I’ve killed her! The girl will die! Get her an emetic at once!’

  After the first shock I saw that this was probably another of his hysterical scares: but of course there was the possibility that it might be true. D, inclining to the latter view, was naturally nearly frantic. Mary was despatched to Dr Hichens. The unfortunate Dorothy was made to swallow a cup of mustard and water. I had to take the Doc into the drawing room and keep him quiet. It was tough work and by the time Mary returned I had passed a truly awful half hour, trying hard to hope for the best. Poor D broke down for once when Mary brought back the blessed news that it was alright and the Doc had been talking through his hat . . .

  D and I both feel pretty bitter against Rob for sneaking home and leaving us to hold the front line: we cannot believe that it is really inevitable. Mary and D both wrote him their accounts of the situation tonight. D and I sat up till about 12.15 . . .

  Some time afterwards we went to bed. After an hour or so of sleep I was awakened by the usual noise: went in and found D already there. He was very bad this time . . . We got to bed again at about four. About an hour later we were hauled up again. Mary said the dope had apparently had no effect. After another ghastly struggle . . . we got him to take a second dose. In bed again about six. The light was coming into my window and a lot of birds were singing—sane, clean, comfortable things.

  Thursday 8 March: . . . There was nothing from Rob—I had been hoping, like a fool, that last night’s letters would have fetched Rob. D was rather hurt when I described him as a cur: but I really find it hard to take any other view of his behaviour . . . Dorothy was of course pretty poorly after yesterday’s dietary of salts, mustard and cascara. D had done most of the work in the morning (so far as Dorothy wd. let her, for she is most anxious to spare D, to whom I think she is really attached) and I now washed up.

  Afterwards I did the Bruce passage in Sisam—good honest stuff. Mary went over to Iffley to get some clothes. She came back at about four thirty and went up to their room from which, a moment later, one of the patient’s best screams was heard. I went up and succeeded in pulling him together again. As soon as he came downstairs he started the paralysis stunt until Mary took him out for a walk . . .

  The Doc had an attack after tea, followed by several others (I think). D wrote a letter to Rob wh. was practically an S.O.S. Plenty of trouble with the Patient both at supper and afterwards. He and Mary had hot baths (I wish to heaven D and I ever had a chance of a bath these days) and we gave him his dope afterwards. As soon as he saw me bringing it into the room he started, or tried to start, ‘the horrors’ but I succeeded in hushing him up and Mary gave him the stuff by spoonfuls . . . Tho’ expecting to be called up again at any minute, D and I now went to bed, about 2 o’clock I think, and actually had a whole night.

  Friday 9 March: Nothing from the Pensions this morning, nothing from Rob all morning in answer to D’s S.O.S. of last night. I went into College for necessary reasons after breakfast. Coming home I found that Miss Featherstone had been to see D and promised, in her capacity of nurse, to come up and help with the patient today.

  D had been bucked up no end by Miss Featherstone’s visit and insisted on my going to the [discussion] class this afternoon, which I did, after an early lunch. It was held this afternoon in Gordon’s house in Chadlington Rd. Singh read us a paper on Tagore: really very courageous and praiseworthy but frightfully funny, full of the most impossible Babu rhetoric, through no fault of his own but just because some things won’t work in English.

  I came away before tea and walked back to Carfax with Burns, who was inclined to be friendly in his cold way and asked me to have tea with him, which of course I refused. Came home. Miss Featherstone and the Patient were in the dining room. D told me that she had been simply splendid with him: but she had been hard put to it, and but for her this would have been the hardest day of all. There had been a wire from Rob asking ‘could we hold on till tomorrow’. I should like to know what alternative we have. I went in and spoke to Miss F—very cheering to see that queer, homely, common, sensible old face again . . .

  Saturday 10 March: Awoke after a quiet night to find that a communication had at last come from the Pensions people. It was a masterpiece. The case had been put to them as urgent on Monday: they now asked to know when Dr Askins could be ready to go to hospital at Henley. As Rob was expected up today and we did not know when he was leaving Bristol, it was useless to wire for his advice. All morning we were expecting a wire from Rob, but none came. I managed to do a little work for Smudge . . .

  I soon had to come in to attend to the Patient. He was very bad in his horrors today, flinging himself on the floor and restrained with difficulty from screaming. I was alone in charge for some time. He got a little better before tea: but at tea the effort to make him eat anything had the usual result in screams and contortions . . .

  He finally lay down on the sofa and I sat on the table and talked to him: all the old wearisome assurances that he was quite alright, that it was nothing but nerves, that he was getting better, that there was no such place as Hell, that he was not dying, that he was not going mad . . . that he was not paralysed, that he could master himself. It is a sort of devil’s litany that he must be as sick of hearing as I am of saying . . .

  Sunday 11 March: Up late and very sore from the sofa, to which I don’t seem to get any more accustomed—as one rapidly did to much harder beds, in France, say. After breakfast I walked into College and there had a hot bath—a delicious treat in these days . . . Afterwards I went in to the Union and worked patching up some sort of an essay for Wilson on Elizabethan criticism—a subject that I shall always hate for its association with this time.

  I had tea in the Union and went to Chapel to hear the Mugger’s farewell sermon, which was quite moderate, and not the ‘heavy sob stuff’ which Jenkin had anticipated. It was followed, comically enough, by ‘Now thank we all our God’.


  Came home, had supper, worked for Smudge, and so to bed on the sofa. The Doc had several fits (indeed, tho’ milder, they have become almost continuous) but Rob attended to them. Rob is very impatient with him and bullying rather than masterful, wh. only excites the poor fellow more.

  Monday 12 March: Into town by 10 o’clock for my hour with Wilson. Came back to hear that Rob had fixed everything up by a trunk call to Pensions and the Doc was to go to Henley this afternoon. One of the most delicious moments I have had this long time: I could have gone on my knees to thank any deity who cared to claim the credit for this release. Pottered about revelling in the end of term feeling till lunch time.

  The Doc was very violent at lunch time and when the taxi (wh. Rob had ordered) came, I was afraid we would never get him into it. All through the meal he had been hooting and kicking and spitting out mouthfuls of food: he now began his ‘paralysis’ in a very acute form and fell on the floor. He bade ‘a last farewell’ to Mary. It was all very painful. I hoped it was mainly an hysteric’s instinct for melodrama, but I am afraid there was a certain amount of real pain in it too.

  Rob and I at last got him on board and the three of us drove to Henley. The country for the last half of the journey was very pretty, but it was a cold day. When we got to the hospital Rob went in alone, leaving the Doc and me in the taxi. He was away for a long time. I was in agonies lest there should be some hitch at the last moment. The poor Doc described his symptoms to me once again and very nearly began the screaming. At long last Rob appeared with a very fat man and they took the patient in.

  Thank God! Rob was going back to Bristol direct from Henley, so I drove home alone. Found D dreadfully tired, and no wonder. Worked after tea and went out just before supper to have a large whiskey and soda. Mary goes tomorrow. I hear she is buying me a present: I had thought it was not in her power to annoy me more, but this is the last straw. However, may the intention be accounted to her for her righteousness—for by God she needs it, the gaunt she wolf of Washington.