All My Road Before Me Read online

  A letter came from Arthur today asking me to spend a few days with him in London: wh. wd. be rather pleasant but is not possible.7 Roman History all afternoon and some in evening, besides Bk. II of the Republic. In bed shortly after 12.

  Wednesday 5 April: Started revising Greek History today. At first I found my notes etc. in great confusion, but when that was straightened out I worked with more interest and pleasure than I had expected.

  A pretty woman called this morning with the enlargement of Paddy’s photo:8 it is not ‘finished’ yet and (perhaps for that reason) seems to me to be more lively and interesting than the old one. After lunch I called on Miss Baker to get the details about a performance at Cumnor in which Masefield is to act as Lear: she did not know, and Maureen is to find out from the O’Maleys.

  I also got the two poems (typed v. accurately for 1/-) and saw Stead in order to get the address of the London Mercury.9 He told me with a solemn face and admirable naivety how he had got his accepted. Two or three were sent back by return post, whereupon he went up to London and called on the Editor, saying, ‘Look here Mr Squire, you haven’t taken these poems of mine and I want to know what’s wrong with them!!’10 If the story ended there, it would be merely a side light on Stead, but the joke is that Squire said, ‘I’m glad you’ve come to talk it over: that’s just what I want people to do’ and actually accepted what he’d formerly refused. Truly the ways of editors are past finding out!

  Stead gave me the proof of his new book, The Sweet Miracle, wh. I took away. So far it seems rather dull. Worked for the rest of the day, except for a nightcap of Repington.

  Thursday 6 April: D woke me up with alarming news from Ireland. It appears that ‘Hi’11 has called at the bank and that the bank’s letters to D have been returned, once more by the stupidity of the Bristol post office. It is therefore very probable that the Beast12 has been informed, and the bank’s mention of letters (as opposed to pass book) suggests that D is overdrawn. Of course we have the wind up, since, if the Beast ceases payment it will be very hard to see our way: Maureen’s school, for instance, must go to blazes: our joint incomes will hardly suffice for bare rent and food.

  We move today to Red Gables, which Lady Gonner has very kindly lent us during her fortnight’s absence (it only needs a few more such kindnesses to land us in the workhouse!).13

  A day disturbed with packing, besides mental anxiety, yet I managed to do a fair morning’s work. It was a strange, lurid afternoon, ready to thunder. We reached Red Gables at 6 p.m. by taxi. It is a very charming house with an excellent library, where I found and started Mallock’s New Republic. After supper I had meant to do History Notes but was very tired: so read the 4th Bk. of the Republic instead. Maureen has got tomorrow’s post. D rather done up by the move and the wind up: only Maureen, thro’ stupidity or heroism, remains in excellent spirits . . .

  Friday 7 April: Nothing from Ireland by this morning’s post—only my two poems returned by the Mercury. Settled down after breakfast and had done two hours very satisfactory work memorising Gk. History notes up to date, when I was interrupted by the arrival of Joy Whicher and her mother . . .

  I went to Warneford Rd. in the hope of letters, but there was no one in the house. I find that Maureen tried again after supper and very foolishly burgled the house from the back: it is to be hoped that Miss Featherstone will not mind. D and I propounded the strongest letter we could to the Bristol P.O. thro’ whose bungling the whole situation has come about. With the absence of news, the wind up continues. D is very worn out with the move and indigestion.

  I woke up with a sore throat but it seems to have gone. As I said this afternoon, I wish life and death were not the only alternatives, for I don’t like either: one could imagine a via media . . .

  Saturday 8 April: D woke me up this morning coming into my room with the joyful news that the pass book had come: no financial or personal crisis having materialised. I went to town immediately after breakfast for meat: got back shortly before eleven and put in good work on Gk. History till lunch, and after lunch again until tea time . . .

  Maureen tells me that while she was in a shop today an unknown undergraduate entered and announced to all and sundry that he had taken his degree—this beats ‘Corsica’ Boswell!

  Heard from Dorothy that Miss Featherstone is talking of coming back to Warneford Rd., which is serious news. After supper I read most of the 5th Bk. of the Republic. A beastly headache and feeling generally fagged: D rather better, but not as well as before we left. As an intellectual nightcap have been puzzling over our accounts, which come out to a different figure each time. Not a pleasant day, but thank God for this morning’s news.

  (Finished The Everlasting Mercy, in my opinion much the poorest thing of Masefield that I have read yet—nearly all of it could have been composed extempore; but perhaps I was a dull reader today.)

  Have just remembered to record that Pasley and ‘Johnnie’ Hamber were married today. It must be one of the horrors of marriage to reflect at such a time how many kind friends know exactly what you are doing.14

  Sunday 9 April: Today I finished Masefield’s Pompey the Great, with very great pleasure: it has the merit of forcing you to ACT each speech as you go along, it is finely realistic and moving. Next to Dauber and parts of Reynard, the best thing of his I have read. Afterwards I walked on Shotover, getting back before lunch.

  I tried very hard to write something today, but it was like drawing blood from a stone. In spite of promising myself not to be influenced by the decision of the Mercury—and I know from what they publish that their canon is wrong—the rejection of my things has made me rather despond . . .

  Monday 10 April: A letter from Pasley written on the second day of his honeymoon—the eighth he had written that afternoon. D considers it a curious way of spending such a time, but he sounds pleased.

  Put in a very satisfactory morning’s work, going over Roman Hist. (the wars of ad 69, I’m glad to find the Gk. hasn’t put them out of my head) and then Gk. notes up to date. Went out a little before lunch to enjoy the sunshine and drink a bottle of Guinness next door in the ‘White Horse’.

  After lunch I copied out the poem beginning ‘The last star of the night’ meaning with it to try the Mercury again, and to send the Mercury’s refusals to the English Review. I accordingly walked into Oxford: a beautiful warm day. Left the poem at the typists and sent off the two others: looking in a copy of the English Review for its address, I was disgusted by the poetry in it—all in the worst modern tradition—and half thought of not sending mine. But I decided I need not be nice, as I shall almost certainly be rejected anyway . . .

  Tuesday 11 April: We were all much amused by the arrival of Maureen’s report today, in which she is marked as ‘improving’ in two subjects she doesn’t do—a good example of the methods of this school.

  Put in a good morning’s work on Gk. History and read most of the 6th Bk. of the Republic after lunch. Went into Oxford after tea . . .

  Found the Doc here when I came back, looking very much better: he soon goes to Clevedon. He stayed for supper: afterwards we talked of the Napoleonic wars, a subject on which he has funds of information . . . I walked to the bus with him afterwards: we began on Christina dreams, but, as always with him, ended on immortality.15 . . .

  Friday 14 April: Last night I had a ridiculous dream of Squire’s sending back my poem and saying he could not accept it because I spelt the word ‘receive’ wrongly: and sure enough, the first post brought the poem back! I intend to hammer away for a bit at him yet.

  Did Gk. History until lunch time—rather a slow morning. In the afternoon I walked up the field path which represents the Roman road, along the road which skirts Stowe Woods, and back by the footpath starting through Elsfield church . . .

  Put in good work after tea and again after supper. Another beautiful day, with a very fine sunset at supper time: a wind was just rising then, soon followed by rain, and there is a glorious storm now. D has a wonderful
Dundalk newspaper from one of her ‘gens’ in Ireland called the Democrat: among other treasures, we found someone in the Deaths column described as ‘a thoroughly decent woman’ . . .

  Saturday 15 April: D reminds me that it was this day four years ago I was wounded at Mt. Bernenchon. Worked in the morning. After lunch I walked into Oxford to call in College and buy some things. A beautiful sunny and windy day, but in town detestable on account of the dust and crowds of holiday makers. College looking very deserted and dismal. I took from the library Grundy’s Persian War which is indispensable . . .

  Tried to work at ‘Dymer’ and covered some paper: but I am very dispirited about my work at present—especially as I find it impossible to invent a new opening for the ‘Wild Hunt’. The old one is full of clichés and will never do. I have leaned much too much on the idea of being able to write poetry and if this is a frost I shall be rather stranded.

  Another fine sunset. I see I have never yet mentioned the cat in this house: it is very large, and bleats like a sheep in the most irritating way. Read some more Repington. A dissatisfying day, but, praise God, no more headaches. (This stay at Lady Gonner’s is, as we expected, proving terribly expensive: while Miss Featherstone is turning the other house upside down in our absence.)

  Sunday 16 April: Today being Easter Sunday I was somehow persuaded to go with Maureen to Highfield Church. I was struck with the extraordinary sternness of Mr Clarke in his official capacity—he looked a regular fighting priest. He preached a good little sermon with a flavour of metaphysic wh. one would not expect from his conversation—but perhaps it was out of a book. He is a jerky little man, like a wagtail, and it is surprising that he is not more popular with the Demos.16

  After lunch I worked at ‘Dymer’ and made some progress: but it will need more guts soon than I can at present put into it . . .

  Monday 17 April: . . . Miss Brayne, Maureen’s violin teacher, came to tea. I went to another room and worked at memorising and afterwards did some walking in the garden. D had a long talk with Miss Brayne, whom she likes. She (Miss B.) says that London or Brussels is absolutely necessary for serious music. Unless I happen to get a London job funds will never run to it.

  After supper I finished the 7th and began the 8th book of the Republic. A most amusing and encouraging letter came to me today from Aunt Lily, telling me how she had put several people on to Spirits in Bondage and recording many nice things said.17 Also a piece of wedding cake from the Pasleys.

  Tuesday 18 April: Worked in the morning. In the afternoon I walked into Oxford and looked up Civil Service examination papers in the Union. ‘Greats’ is child’s play compared with them . . .

  Before supper I called and saw Arthur Stevenson and his mother, hoping to hear something of the Civil Service.18 He has however given it up. He tells me there is no vacancy this year in the Home Civil, and that probably there will be none next. This is owing partly to Geddism, partly to the nominations of so many ex-officers without examination. It was in this way that ‘Diz’ got his post. Stevenson thought that the slackness of life in the C. S. was greatly exaggerated, and that people were often kept late at their offices. Thus ends the dream of a Civil Service career as suddenly as it began: I feel at once that I have been in alien territory—not mine, and deep down, impossible.

  In the evening I copied out ‘Joy’ and worked a new ending: it is now ready to be typed. D in poor form . . .

  Wednesday 19 April: . . . We were not best pleased at the unexpected appearance of Cranny.19 His bald head steamed (he had walked up in an overcoat from Warneford Rd.) but he refused my offer of a wash . . . Cranny and I talked theology. I asked him why people in his position, who didn’t believe that Jesus was a God, spent their time in patching up a sinking ship instead of setting to work on the new one. He said he didn’t think there was going to be anything new. He thought that evolution had first of all tried successive types, then settled down to the development of one type, MAN: in the same way we had first had successive religions and would now settle down to the development of one. I wonder if the mastodon talk in the same way.

  He told me that Stead, after discussing various people, had said ‘Lewis, of course, is inclined to Roman Catholicism’. Amazing man, Stead! Cranny is very keen on the Doc’s becoming ordained: but there are many difficulties. He stayed for an interminable time and broached every conceivable subject: D and I were exhausted. He said that the present distress was rather exaggerated and that many of the unemployed at Childrey were living at the cinema. I don’t think he has much real sympathy. I had a bad headache before he went . . .

  Thursday 20 April: A somewhat dull morning’s work. Went to the White Horse before lunch. In the afternoon I went into Oxford to try and get back ‘Joy’ but found (wh. I knew already if I had remembered) that it was early closing day. We left Lady Gonner’s by taxi at three o’clock. The maids have grown very fond of D and would hardly let us go: they are Dorothy and Beatrice (pronounced Beetrus), both v. ill trained country girls, lazy, noisy and inefficient, but warm hearted and great fun.

  We found Miss Featherstone in good form, but looking wretchedly ill. She made no proposal to come back. I think, and D agrees with me, that she has decided to put up with us and is playing out her part thro’ pure virtue. Very busy settling in from tea to supper time. D has stood the move and the packing well, and is much stronger than when we went away. Maureen very sick at leaving: D and I miss the garden but on the whole find the change (as someone said ‘Warneford Rd. isn’t even suburban’) less unpleasant than we expected. Dorothy (Broad) still away. I shouldn’t mind being back to my plates and dishes if it weren’t for work: I am hoping to lose less by taking tomorrow as Sunday and working on the real Sunday.

  After supper I began to copy out ‘Nimue’ with many corrections: I am pleasantly satisfied with it. Whether I succeed or fail, how ridiculous that will read some day! . . .

  Friday 21 April: Got up shortly before seven, cleaned the grate, lit the fire, made tea, ‘did’ the drawing room, made toast, bathed, shaved, breakfasted, washed up, put the new piece of ham on to boil, and was out by half past ten . . .

  I got ‘Joy’ at last from the typist for 1/9d. In all the things they have typed so far, I have not found a single error . . .

  Got back about 12 o’c: found to my disgust that Maureen was out and left D cooking—the first time since her illness. Washed up after lunch. Worked at Gk. History notes until tea when Miss Baker came. Had got settled to work when D called me down ‘for five minutes’ to talk about Maureen’s programme for next term. This would not have mattered, but before I could make my escape, Miss Baker began to be ‘just going’ and continued so. When she finally got away it was time to get supper and to clear the tea things which Maureen had kindly left in status quo. A good hour thus wasted altogether . . . Worked again after supper, leaving washing up to Maureen. D keeping much better.

  Saturday 22 April: Got up about 6.30 and did the same jobs as yesterday. Was settled to work by 9.5 o’clock and put in an excellent morning . . .

  Sheila Gonner—jolly child—came to tea. Dorothy is to come back tomorrow: so we shall no longer be servantless. At her request I lent her my crib to Tacitus’ History for her sister Rose—I wonder what makes her imagine that she wd. like it? Possibly early Christian novels of the Quo Vadis type.

  Worked again after tea, and from supper till ten o’clock, finishing Herodotus. The last few pages of the IXth Bk. I now read for the first time, having got tired of it on my first reading . . .

  Sunday 23 April: In the morning I finished fair copying ‘Nimue’: if ‘Joy’ is accepted I shall use the resulting money to type it . . .

  In the afternoon I called on Mrs Stevenson to talk houses. The man Raisin (or Rayson) is building two more which he may let, and while Mrs St. assails the existing house, we are to try for one of the new ones. They are all at the foot of Shotover on the Roman Road and under Professor Jack’s wood . . .

  Monday 24 April: Yesterday I f
inished my notes to Herodotus and started to memorise them en masse today. Put in good work from 9 to 11 in the morning, then went in to town with Maureen to see her off for Bristol, where she will stay for some days . . .

  I then called at the office of Rayson the architect, 15 Broad St. He is a chatty and cheerful little man and may be honest. He told me that his project of building two new houses near the one Mrs Stevenson is after is still in the vague future. He wd. not begin them until he had disposed of the present one. I explained our own position and asked him to tell me frankly if anyone was before us on the waiting list. He said there was no one and took D’s name down. He tells me the roof of the Bodleian was made of copper: we both commented on the beautiful colour.

  Worked after lunch: after tea I walked on Shotover. A boisterous day with fierce showers and bright sunshine. I stayed some time looking out over the plain to the Chilterns and watching the clouds. For some reason I was specially struck today by the enormous scale of the cloud landscape, especially from a hill. Worked after supper: earlier to bed.

  A cheerful letter from my father today, announcing that Warnie has been at home (from Sierra Leone) for twelve days and is well: also that he has paid in my allowance for the coming term.

  Tuesday 25 April: A hard day’s work. The woman-with-the-false-eyebrows-who-tells-lies called today for Dorothy who is becoming one of her customers: she confided to her some details about us which were the subject of conversation among our next door neighbours. Dorothy told D as soon as the woman was gone. It was most illuminating: and how the dogs can know so many facts about me as they do, passes my comprehension. D said it was the worst part of being poor—to have to live among them . . .