All My Road Before Me

by C. S. Lewis

  After lunch I walked out and put a copy of Dymer thro’ Mrs Hinckley’s letter box: then on and up Shotover. It was an afternoon of absolute silence, a feeling of thinness in the air, and a very pale blue sky with white marestails in it. Walked to the end of the Plain and then down thro the bracken, not in Pullen’s Gap but in the open place next beyond it, where my grove is. Coming down into the fields I heard the ‘burr’ of some birds suddenly rising quite a distance off. The winter sun on the bracken and woods was indescribably mild and pure. Home by the very muddy way.

  D’s cold still v. heavy at tea time. Went on with my Language till supper and after and began the next stage of my mnemonic. Each day as I set out for my walk I repeat it as far as it has gone, which I find quite easy: it also prevents me sliding into a day dream in the first half mile, and leaves me (when the repetition is done) really receptive.

  Maureen out tonight at the theatre to see the Ghost Train. Letter from my father today enclosing a bad review from the Westminster Gazette and (what’s much worse) saying that the Heynes are visiting Oxford and will ‘look me up’.

  Maureen came in about 11 and a rather unfortunate conversation took place (I forget the early stages) in wh. I said that D made a great mistake in always concealing anything that was wrong with her until it was really bad. Maureen chimed in with something about D’s eyes wh. I didn’t fully understand but wh. means, I suppose, that they were bad while I was away. This infuriated D. I tried to pour oil on the waters, and said laughingly that D didn’t approve of criticism. Maureen said ‘When you criticise me, I don’t fly into a flaming temper’—wh. tactless, but by no means untrue, expression, of course made things much worse.

  Sunday 16 January: D still v. annoyed this morning. I sat in and worked on the first chunk of the ‘King of Drum’, wh. is to consist, I hope, of three short chunks—about 130 lines each. This chunk is a new version of a piece I began writing about two years ago, wh. itself was a re-writing of the ‘Wild Hunt’ (about 1920), which in its turn was based on something I started at Bristol in 1918.

  Washed up after lunch, this being Winifred’s Sunday for going home to Appleton: then took Pat for a short stroll in Cuckoo Lane. A very cold, dark, deadly afternoon. After tea I went on writing till supper, finished the first chunk to my satisfaction, and tried unsuccessfully to begin the second. Washed up after supper and re-read some of Raleigh’s letters. D is reading Forster’s Passage to India . . .

  Monday 17 January: A heavy white frost this morning. I worked from breakfast to lunch on language, mainly constructing a Mnemonic for ‘O.E. to M.E. (Vowels)’. I am beginning to enjoy this stuff and have certainly got further this time than in any of my innumerable previous attempts to cosm that chaos. What a brute Wyld is—no order, no power of exposition, no care for the reader. It is satisfactory to see that no amount of learning can save a fool.

  It began to snow before lunch. In the afternoon Pat and I walked down Cuckoo Lane and into College by the back way. The snow was at that stage when it gives the greatest variety of colours—the paths wet brown, the grass half white (like gooseberry fool with cream) and an occasional streak of real white on a loaded branch. The river was a very dark green, all but black. Found the fire lit in my room and clothes and blankets airing.

  Home for tea and went on at the language, doing the consonants: where I half forgave Wyld for introducing me to the beautiful words ‘yeave’ and ‘yeavey’.

  A letter from Barfield to say that he is at Air Hill and will come over—always good news. After supper I finished Prelaticall Episcopacy and read the whole of the first book of Reason of Church Govt. Full of great things—the passage on Discipline (v. Platonic) and chaps. VI and VII . . .

  Tuesday 18 January: A frost and white fog this morning. Worked after breakfast on Norman influence in M.E., besides learning my mnemonics up to date.

  A splendid walk in the afternoon, the fog having cleared. I went up Shotover thro’ Quarry and along the top to the Horsepath lane which I went down. A winding lane going down hill before one thro’ steep banks, with trees, but not too many, so that you can see the further reaches of the lane below you, is one of the best sights. The sun was straight ahead of me, a watery looking sun, and below it in the valley the mist was collecting again—very faint purple. As often, there was a great silence, emphasised by the occasional springlike chuckling of a bird quite close, or the very lazy crowing of a cock further off. Went through Horsepath and up again by the field path into the bracken.

  Was thinking about imagination and intellect and the unholy muddle I am in about them at present: undigested scraps of anthroposophy and psychoanalysis jostling with orthodox idealism over a background of good old Kirkian rationalism. Lord what a mess! And all the time (with me) there’s the danger of falling back into most childish superstitions, or of running into dogmatic materialism to escape them. I hoped the ‘King of Drum’ might write itself so as to clear things up—the way ‘Dymer’ cleared up the Christina Dream business.

  Home lateish for tea and found to my disgust that D’s visitors (Mrs Studer and the Thomas’s) hadn’t yet turned up. They came about 5 and Mr Thomas stayed till 6.30, thus ruining my evening’s work.

  Went on with Norse influences before and after supper, finding them unexpectedly difficult. Wyld hates foreign influences and wants to account for everything by sound laws—consequently tells you as little as possible. Wright has plenty to say about Norse vowels etc, but will use no examples (hardly) except dialect words.3 In the end I had to fall back mainly on the popular books—Bradley and Pearsall Smith. Finished the day by reading a good bit of Reason of Church Govt. D’s cold seems better.

  Wednesday 19 January: I intended to go into town this morning but changed my mind and sat in to my Language—starting the M.E. inflexions and making out a map of dialectal areas, which I think I’ve got all wrong . . .

  I went for my walk across the fields to Stowe Woods and home by road. Still puzzled about imagination etc. As I was crossing the big field into Barton on the way back, I suddenly found myself thinking ‘What I won’t give up is the doctrine that what we get in imagination at its highest is real in some way, tho, at this stage one can’t say how’: and then my intellectual conscience smote me for having got to that last pitch of sentimentality—asserting what ‘I won’t do’ when I ought to be enquiring what I can know.

  Decided to work up the whole doctrine of Imagination in Coleridge as soon as I had time—and the thought of Wordsworth was somehow very re-assuring. That’s the real imagination, no bogies, no Karmas, no gurus, no damned psychism there. I have been astray among second rate ideas too long . . .

  I left soon and bussed into College, to look out Collection papers. Found the papers in great confusion. There is not a complete Ethics among them all. What’s worse I can’t remember how much Ethics my lambs are to have done! While in College I was rung up on the telephone by Betjeman speaking from Morton in the Marsh, to say that he hasn’t been able to read the O.E., as he was suspected for measles and forbidden to look at a book. Probably a lie, but what can one do? . . .

  Thursday 20 January: Into town immediately after breakfast. There was a thick frost, a bright sky, and it was biting cold. Went to the printers and left my O.E. paper. They undertook to let me have proofs at 3 tomorrow. Bought some butter for D, paid my bill at the Davenant (£22) and came home. D had been to see Hedges who has been in communication with the income tax people about my 1925–26: the upshot is that I have to tackle the Bursar again. I begin to fear this wretched business will never be settled.

  Spent the rest of the morning on Raleigh’s Milton wh. is full of good things and not a good book. Saurat and even Abercrombie are miles beyond him.4 Raleigh is always complaining about Milton’s God not being kind and loving, and saying that Satan is the real sympathetic character—and all that dear old pap. He has no notion of the real theme of individual will against the structure of things, and no notion that Milton might appreciate and sympathise with th
e individual and yet think that the Universal must be more right and more real. In fact Raleigh is really in the same position as the people who think that if Milton appreciates Comus he can’t appreciate the Lady more: they never can see that the man who really likes toffee best is also the man who understands brown sherry and knows that it’s nicer than toffee.5

  Walked into Old Headington after lunch and met Percy Simpson wheeling his two children in a pram: he looked a rum figure, bustling along at about a mile an hour, with his watery eye and his perfectly circular little hat. Accompanied him as far as the corner of Barton, anathematising phonetic-maniacs.

  I then went over the fields, round to the stile, and home by road. I was very unreceptive and devoted myself to repetition of mnemonics. Went on with language after tea. A maddening example of Wyldism:—he suddenly remarks in a parenthesis ‘The normal development of feaht wd. be faught.’ You remember him saying that ea became e. Look it up and find you’re quite right, nothing about au there. Then you try it the other way round and look up ‘New Diphthongs in M.E. Sources of au.’ Not a word about ea + ht. After half an hour I ran the real explanation to earth in Wright.

  After supper I discussed the tax muddle with D and got together the facts wh. I’ve got to write to the Bursar about. When that beastly business was done I scouted as absurd an inner suggestion that I might do some more work and solved a crossword puzzle instead . . .

  Friday 21 January: Woke up to a very cold morning and found that a good deal of snow had fallen in the night. Decided not to lose my last day’s liberty in work and settled down after breakfast to ‘The King of Drum’. Produced about 20 lines for the opening of the next chunk, in a metre I have never struck before (rhythm of O.E. verse, but rhyming), with very little effort and greatly to my satisfaction. I also began to simmer with ideas for the further development of the story.

  Took Pat out for a short walk down Cuckoo Lane, where the snow greatly excited him. After lunch I bussed in to College where I found the reliable Baxter’s proofs of my O.E. paper waiting. Also a note from Barfield in rhymed Latin and a letter from Fausset, saying he cldn’t. come at present but asking to be allowed to come at two days notice later on . . .

  Home to tea. I had been looking forward all day to resuming the ‘Drum’ poems, but when I came to it after tea I found myself completely dried up. Hammered out about seven bad lines with great labour and gave it up.

  After that, a pleasant slack evening by the fire—crossword puzzle and chat with D—marred by the thought of term beginning tomorrow.

  Saturday 22 January: Up rather earlier and bussed into town after breakfast for Collections. I found Weldon lolling in the smoking room and learned from him that I am to keep the Greats men this term (whom I thought I was to hand over) and to take them through Aristotle, which is a nasty surprise. Held my Collections in Hall greatly to the annoyance of the College servants.

  Lunched in Common Room and then back to my own room where Valentin and Betjeman came to do an O.E. paper. I sat by the chimney corner and corrected papers while they sat at the table and muttered and worked themselves into contortions intended to be expressive of mental agony. They stopped at about 4, saying they had done all they cd. I said something about the uses of imagination in guessing words to wh. Valentin replied with unusual sense ‘Oh, I could write a story all right.’

  Bussed home. The snow was beginning to thaw and there was a heavy mist. D was out calling on the Studers when I arrived. Had tea and a chat by the fire, feeling rather languid and head-achey.

  Back to College for dinner and sat down to finish Collection papers afterward—the Aristotle one raising points wh. took me a good deal of time. I shd. have finished it, however, if Weldon had not come in shortly after 10: this meant hot toddy and bawdy conversation till 1 o’clock. He tells me that his brother is master in a Borstall institution and from that source (1) that among the boy-criminals the murderers are much the pleasantest fellows and those whom careful treatment can make the most of, because they have some character; (2) that it is quite a common thing for people to make £50 a week in town or at Brighton by laying traps and then blackmailing people for sodomy. Bishops seem to be the best prey . . .

  Sunday 23 January: Up late. Put my washing under my arms and Sweet’s Reader in my pocket and set out after breakfast on my walk home. It was more ‘yeavey’ than ever and one had to pick ones steps carefully to avoid a fall. The ‘walks’ were very fine in a sombre way, with the river looking like green ink and the further bank only a strip of white, clearest at the water’s edge and then melting almost immediately into a dark grey fog, with a few ghosts of pollards. I was greatly taken by the antics of a water rat, who sat up (apparently on the water, really, I suppose, on some branch just below the surface) to look at me and then in an access of coyness dipped right upside down like a duck.

  Reached home very hot from the struggle of shuffling up hill in the slush: felt so heavy all day and had such a headache that I began to think I was getting one of the many current epidemics—but I suppose it is the sudden change from my regular Headington hours and diet.

  Spent the morning re-reading Wulfstan’s Sermon, with some enjoyment. I am really getting into this language at last. All well at home, D in good form.

  Went out for a long heavy tramp after lunch to try and get rid of the oppression that was on me. The weather had at least one advantage—it had cleared the countryside of the usual mob of walkers-in-their-Sunday-best. I went to Stowe Woods by road and home over the fields to Barton. The mist v. thick. Occasionally two bushes and a patch of grass wd. be quite free from snow and these, doubly framed both with fog and snow surrounding them, had a curiously aloof appearance.

  Home about 4.30 very tired but feeling much better. Read some of the Fall of the Angels and then bussed in to College. Sat next to Onions after dinner and told him about Wyld’s iniquities over the word fought. He agreed that that W had no method—but also mentioned the real difficulty, that you have to treat W[est] S[axon] as the Norm for ‘business purposes’, and yet it is least important for the history of the language . . .

  Monday 24 January: Overslept myself this morning: was just aware of Hatton coming in to call me, and then, next moment as it seemed, it was 8.30 and my tea was cold.6

  A good review from G.K’s Weekly arrived by the morning post, signed by a man called Crofte-Cooke, where Dymer figures as ‘a great poem’ for the first time7 in print.

  This morning came Hetherington, then Valentin whom I hounded through some pages of Wulfstan, translating myself and then getting him to do it over again—as Kirk taught me Greek at Bookham.

  A new Greats pupil called Campbell came to interview me, a languid youth with half-shut eyes and a drawl—what Parker calls ‘La-de-da.’8 I was also rung up on the telephone by Betjeman who invited me to tea this afternoon. A damned nuisance but of course one has to accept.

  Bussed out home and heard from D that poor M. Studer is dead. It is the best thing for him, but with no money and a wife who has already been out of her mind, the prospect for his children is dreadful.9

  Walked up Shotover after lunch. The snow has almost disappeared tho the landscape, seen from the hill, is still decorated with a few streaks and splashes of white—often at the edges of fields. It was a sunless afternoon but very pleasant with a loud warm wind blowing, and the colours of grass and hedges, after the recent white and dirty grey, were very refreshing and soft.

  Bussed back into town and to Betjeman’s rooms in St Aldates—a v. beautiful panelled room looking across to the side of the House. I found myself pitchforked into a galaxy of super-undergraduates, including Sparrow of the Nonesuch Press.10 The only others I remember are Harwood of the House (no relation) and an absolutely silent and astonishingly ugly person called McNeice, of whom Betjeman said afterwards ‘He doesn’t say much but he is a great poet’. It reminded me of the man in Boswell ‘who was always thinking of Locke and Newton’. This silent bard comes from Belfast or rather Carrickf
ergus.11 The conversation was chiefly about lace curtains, arts-and-crafts (wh. they all dislike), china ornaments, silver versus earthen teapots, architecture, and the strange habits of ‘Hearties’. The best thing was Betjeman’s v. curious collection of books.

  Came away with him and back to College to pull him along thro’ Wulfstan till dinner time. In spite of all his rattle he is really just as ignorant and stupid as Valentin.

  Came straight back to my rooms after dinner (where Cowley was dining in and lecturing on the cruelty of women12) and got rather a shock at getting my Battels for last term—£47. Worked till 11 finishing the Collections papers and thank heaven they are now off my chest. Read Milton for three quarters of an hour and went to bed, v. tired, and did not go to sleep for a long time.

  Tuesday 25 January: Worked on Milton (Minor Poems) in the morning, with considerable interest despite a feeling of tiredness and a headache.

  Home to lunch where I found D in v. good form but tremendously busy with cooking: I helped to fry the grill for lunch. Went for a walk afterwards, over the fields to Elsfield and home by Barton. A gale blowing, Oxford and the hills beyond it very blue and occasional gleams of yellow sunlight over the nearer landscape.

  My walk took me longer than I intended, and when I got home and ate a hasty tea I was very late for meeting Barfield, whom (I now remembered) I had asked to come to College at 3. He had left a note saying he was gone to tea, but presently came in. It was delightful to see him. After a confused chat of philosophy and jokes, we settled down to read Aeschylus’ Prometheus together, as we had promised ourselves to do.

  After an hour or so we went out and dined at the Town & Gown. Coming back we sat up till half past one to finish our play, sometimes convulsed with laughter at our own literal translation—or those of Paley, wh. are even more exquisitely funny—but equally impressed with the poetry when we read it thro’ again in Greek. I understood the play better this time. The wild defiance at the end must definitely (for a Greek) have stamped Prometheus as one of 13—a ‘primitive’ properly superseded by Olympians.