TO A.K. HAMILTON JENKIN (B):
28 Warneford Road,
Oxford
April 21st [1923]
My dear Jenkin,1
I’m afraid this is almost unpardonable. I have outraged all decency towards you and every one else lately. My excuses are poor enough. Your card arrived on the day on which I had to go down to Bristol to the funeral of the poor old Doc. After all his troubles, after all our efforts against the nerve trouble, he died quite suddenly of heart failure–bloody business.2 Since then there have been no end of minor bothers–a move to a new house with all its attendant labours and infuriating difficulties and incidental money worries.3 Also I have got myself thoroughly rattled about the future. I also absolutely forgot your card as if it had never been for the first few days. Afterwards it joined that huge mass of postponed correspondance which all this time has lain like a cloud at the back of my mind and driven me crazy. As to the answer (if its any use now) I can only say don’t count me in any arrangement. If I get a pupil in the long Vac and make some money I may be able to come down for a time late in the long Vac. But as far as I see now it is long odds I shan’t be able to. Can you accept the apology? I know that the fact one is plagued and depressed and tired is not really an excuse for being uncivil. I can only ‘cry your mercy’–I am like the first chapter of the Return4–
Yrs ever
C. S. Lewis
P.S. Your Chaucer Primer is in my desk & will be returned at request.
TO ARTHUR GREEVES (W):
28 Warneford Rd.
April 22nd [1923]
My dear Arthur,
Your letter was very welcome. We have been through very deep waters. Mrs Moore’s brother–the Doc–came here and had a sudden attack of war neurasthenia. He was here for nearly three weeks,5 and endured awful mental tortures. Anyone who didn’t know would have mistaken it for lunacy–we did at first: he had horrible maniacal fits–had to be held down. We were up two whole nights at the beginning and two, three or four times a night afterwards, all the time. You have no idea what it is like. He had the delusion that he was going to Hell. Can you imagine what he went through and what we went through?
Arthur, whatever you do never allow yourself to get a neurosis. You and I are both qualified for it, because we both were afraid of our fathers as children. The Doctor who came to see the poor Doc (a psychoanalyst and neurological specialist) said that every neurotic case went back to the childish fear of the father. But it can be avoided. Keep clear of introspection, of brooding, of spiritualism, of everything eccentric. Keep to work and sanity and open air–to the cheerful & the matter of fact side of things. We hold our mental health by a thread: & nothing is worth risking it for. Above all beware of excessive day dreaming, of seeing yourself in the centre of a drama, of self pity, and, as far as possible, of fears.
After three weeks of Hell the Doc. was admitted to a pensions hospital at Richmond: and at first we had hopeful accounts of him. But the poor man had worn his body out with these horrors. Quite suddenly heart failure set in and he died–unconscious at the end, thank God. Of course I cannot pretend to have the same share in it as poor Minto, but I am very, very sorry–tho to me the horrors he suffered here were much more heartrending than his death could ever be.6 As you will understand we are all rather run down and dead tired, in mind at any rate. Isn’t it a damned world–and we once thought we could be happy with books and music! We are at present engaged in moving to another house.
Your letter is rather cryptic. I gather you objected to your Irish visit more than ever–and so we shall every time till the bitter end. One thing in your letter however is excellent–I mean what you say you feel about your work. Thats the stuff! As you say, work is the only thing (except people of course, the very few people one cares about) that is worth caring about. I find it hard to imagine your way of thinking in painting–the technical side counts for so much more with you than with poets. One thing I take it is sure for all the arts–that the ‘noble thoughts’ and ‘beautiful ideas’ and ‘vision’ and all the other rot that appeals to amateurs is just what does NOT count for twopence: its the man who sees how to do something, that matters. I am glad you read Strachey’s Victoria7–a capital book. In the intervals of packing etc I am working away at routine work for exams–chiefly the dull mechanical parts for wh. alone I am fit just at present. If you can make your visit to Oxford later than May you will be more likely to see something of us, for we’re in the devil of a muddle at present. With love and good wishes from all the family.
Yrs ever
Jack
TO HIS FATHER (LP VIII: 119–20):
Univ. Coll.
May 27th [28] [1923]
My dear Papy,
I do not care to think how long it is since I last wrote to you. I have made some attempts to do so before this, but they have all collapsed under the pressure of work, or of the mere trifling and lassitude which is the reaction to work. You wrote to me that a disinclination to write letters was ‘one of the marks of approaching old age’ which you felt or thought you felt. If that were true, what a premature senility is mine! It is a very ridiculous and a very wretched confession that I can hardly remember any period since I was a child at which I have not had a crowd of unanswered letters nagging at the back of my mind: things which would have been no trouble if answered by return but which hang on for weeks or months, getting always harder to write in the end, and contributing their share to the minor worries that lay hold of us when we have the blues or lie awake. That anyone should let himself maintain such a standing army of pinpricks would be incredible if it were not fairly common. Perhaps you will plead guilty yourself to a homefelt recognition of the state I am describing: if not, you are one of the proud minority. Our Colonel, on the principle of ‘diamond cut diamond’ knows how to defeat this laziness in another because he is so familiar with it himself. At Whitsun he wrote to me saying he would arrive for the week end unless he heard to the contrary: that at any rate means that no one can keep him waiting for a reply!
He came from Friday evening to Monday.8 He is at present deep in Gibbon9 and is very enthusiastic about it. I envy him his routine work–in itself apparently not uninteresting and finished definitely at four o’clock with the rest of the day free for general reading, with no uncertainties or anxieties. Despite the frittering away of time over drinks and gossip in the mess and the low mental level of the society, I cannot help feeling that for him the military life has solved the problem of existance very well.
The result of the Exeter fellowship has not yet been announced: but I have heard it said that it is one of those elections in which no electing is done: that they have had some pet candidate of their own in view from the beginning and are in fact merely delaying in order to ‘give an air of artistic verisimilitude’. The rumour of course is unofficial but it came from a donnish source and is only too likely to be true. When I first heard it, it completely knocked me over: it was one of the biggest disappointments I have had in recent years. While ready enough to take my chance in an open field, I was disposed to question the candour or even the honesty of a College that set everyone’s wits and hopes to work and perhaps induced some to change their plans in order to give the false appearance of an election to what was in fact a kind of co-option.
I have since dismounted from my high horse of indignation and admit that this is the way in which the world is run and that a man may as well get used to it. Your own view of the Exeter project was quite right as far as fact goes: it WOULD be a small thing, about £200 a year and would be very rightly rejected on that account–if I had a supply of more lucrative and equally congenial openings at my feet or if you were a plutocrat who could, without feeling the strain, keep me indefinitely in my present position while I waited for the ideal job.
These however are ‘IF’S and ANDS’ according to the proverb. In the concrete situation I felt that the Exeter pittance was the shadow of a great rock in a thirsty land.10 It would have given me exactly what I wanted: a means of subsistence during five years in which I could have gone on with my work, frequented the senior philosophical and literary societies, made myself known to all the important people, and produced a learned thesis after which it would go hard but I found a place here easily enough.
Your other argument about ‘changing horses’ is one that naturally occurs. Partly, one’s conclusion on that depends on weighing chances and risks, not between a bird on the hand and one in the bush, but between two in the bush–which no two people will ever do quite alike. Partly–well I have taken the English school in such a very short time that a little interruption cannot make matters much worse. If I pull through it will be thanks to knowing most of the work before, and to a lucky faculty (which has always helped me till now) of being in spate at the right moment.
Our summer here consists of sleet, frost and east winds: tho’ the summer invasion of Americans has come punctually enough. I mention this because they introduce a good American story which you may not have heard. In the old days of primitive sheriff rule in the western states a man was hanged and shortly afterwards his innocence was proved. The local authorities assembled and deliberated on the best method of conveying the news to the inconsolable widow. It was felt that a too sudden statement would be a little ‘brutal’ and the Sheriff himself, as the man of greatest refinement, was finally deputed to wait upon the lady. After a few suitable remarks on the figs and the maize, he began with the following, ‘Say Ma’am, I guess you’ve got the laugh of us this time!’
After my eloquent analysis of the state of the mind of the man who doesn’t answer letters it would perhaps be incongruous to expect an early reply from you: but I shall hope for the best. I am very sorry not to have answered you before and thanked you for the enclosure, which I do now–if that did come after the gap, for indeed I am not sure. I hope you are in good health in spite of the vile weather: I, of course, have a cold.
your loving son,
Jack
TO HIS FATHER (LP VIII: 132–3):
[University College]
July 1st [1923]
My dear Papy,
Your letter came through unusually quickly and I am answering it after having slept on it. Before everything else let me thank you heartily for what it contains. I hope some day to repay these long years of education in the only way in which they can be repaid–by success and distinction in the kind of life which they aim at. But that is partly in the power of fortune and in the meantime I can only record that I am not foolish enough to take these things for granted and that the thought of how much you are doing for me is often, even insistently, before my mind.
The Exeter Fellowship, as you may have read in the Times, has been awarded–but not to the youth whom the rumour pointed out: what is more, not even to an Exeter man. The winner is a Balliol man and I am told is engaged in some archaeological work in Athens: this fact–that he already had some concrete job on hand which involved residence abroad and which needed money–must naturally and on the whole justly, have weighed very strongly in his favour and made him an almost deadly rival for the rest of us. The upshot, then, is that the rumour was false, and this fellowship at any rate, was awarded on its merits. While the realisation of the rumour might have been more flattering to our vanity, the actual result, as you will see, is–as far as it goes–an answer to the misgivings about influence which you mention in the first part of your letter and which, of course, I have felt quite as strongly as you. I will now turn to your next point.
I should not be a son of yours if the prospect of being adrift and unemployed at thirty had not been very often present to my mind: for of course the worrying temperament of the family did not end in your generation, and to quote Jeremy Taylor11 ‘we were born with this sadness upon us’. But, shaking off all that is temperamental and due to momentary fits of optimism and pessimism, I can only put the situation thus. I have, and of course shall have, qualifications that should, by all ordinary probability, make a tolerable schoolmastering job practically certain whenever we decide to give up Oxford as hopeless.
The same qualifications also put me fairly high in the rank of candidates for academic jobs here. The Magdalen people told my tutor quite recently that they thought my work for their fellowship quite on a level with that of the man who won it, except that it was ‘more mature’. But of course the number of other hungry suitors with qualifications equal to mine, tho’ not very large, is large enough to put up a well filled ‘field’ for every event: and the number of vacancies depends, as in other spheres, on all sorts of accidents. What it comes to is that there is a pretty healthy chance here which would, on the whole, be increased by a few years more residence in which I should have time to make myself more known and to take some research degree such as B. Litt or Doc. Phil. and which would be, perhaps, indefinitely or permanently lost if I now left. On the other hand, even apart from the financial point of view, I very keenly realise the dangers of hanging on too long for what might not come in the end.
Speaking, for the moment, purely for myself, I should be inclined to put three years as a suitable term for waiting before beating a retreat. We would hope of course that something would come along sooner than that, but I should take three years as a fair trail of the chances. I think too that there may possibly be a vacancy in Univ. by that time. It is unfortunate–or I feel it so–that even while we are on this subject, I have to ask you for some present money for expenses which I have had to meet. Some of them are rather old and have been paid. The items are, book bill £6-15, new shoes and repairs to old £2-7, grey flannel trousers £1-2-6, fees for examinations £5, two terms fees for Miss Wardale £8-15-1. I am afraid they loom rather big, but I do not think there is anything that could have been avoided.
The English School is come and gone, tho’ I still have my viva to face. I was of course rather hampered by the shortened time in which I took the school and it is in many ways so different from the other exams that I have done that I should be sorry to prophesy. I have the chance of a little job examining for the ‘Oxford Local’ some time next month. It will mean very little money and a good deal of rather disagreeable work, but I shall take it because it will remind people of me and may lead to more lucrative work of the same kind some other time.
I am sorry to hear about the Goodman.12 Although there is a good deal about him which I don’t care for, he is such a familiar figure and has been a subject for ‘wheezes’ so long, that I can’t help feeling what Macaulay calls ‘a kindness for him’–and he has always been pleasant in his quaint way whenever I met him. I am afraid poor Mrs Greeves must be having a bad and anxious time.
The weather here is now warm and quite different from what you described at home. Once more with many thanks and hopes that all this business will solve itself soon,
your loving son,
Jack
On 16 July the University announced the examination results of the English School, and the following morning Jack wired his father the good news: ‘A First in English.’ Some time later, when compiling the Lewis Papers, Warnie made the following observation on his brother’s achievement:
When we reflect on the circumstances of Clive’s life during the time he was reading this School–the shortness of the period at his disposal, his ill health, the constant anxiety inseparable from supporting a family out of an undergraduate’s allowance, his fears for the future, the unceasing domestic drudgery, the hideous episode of Dr John Askins’ final illness, and the move to Hillsboro–we are astounded at the extent of an achievement which must rank as easily the most brilliant of his academic career. (LP VIII: 140)
Arthur Greeves, who was still a pupil at the Slade School of Art in London, arrived in Oxford on 11 July and spent a fortnight with Lewis. There seems to have been a temporary ‘cooling-off’ between them, possibly owing to the fact that each was surrounded by new friends and new ideas. Arthur was comfortable with Lewis, but not with his Oxford friends. In his diary, Lewis said that when Arthur arrived on 11 July ‘we renewed our earlier youths and laughed together like two schoolgirls’ ( AMR, p. 256). However, a few days later he wrote with disappointment that Arthur
is changed…Someone has put into his head the ideal of ‘being himself’ and ‘following nature’. I tried on one occasion to point out to him the ambiguity of that kind of maxim: but he seems to attach a very clear meaning to it–namely that the whole duty of man is to swim with the tide and obey his desires…He has taken over from psychoanalysis the doctrine that repression in the technical sense is something quite different from self-control. (AMR, p. 257)
As he mentioned to his father, Lewis needed money badly, and no sooner had Arthur Greeves left Oxford, than he began correcting English essays for the School Certificate. These Certificates have disappeared, but they were a kind of miniature ‘Schools’ introduced by the Board of Education in 1905. Every boy and girl who had reached the age of 16, and who had not left school at the age of 14, was allowed to sit these examinations. The universities of Oxford and Cambridge had a large say in what went into them. To obtain a Certificate one was required to pass a minimum of five subjects of which English, Maths and Latin were mandatory. Upon completing the Certificate to the satisfaction of the Oxford and Cambridge Schools Examination Board one could, if one hoped to enter Oxford or Cambridge, take either the Board of Education’s Higher School Certificate or Responsions–the ‘entrance examination’ administered by the two universities.
TO A.K. HAMILTON JENKIN (B):
Hillsboro,
Western Rd.,
Headington.
12th August [1923]
My dear Jenkin,
I’m so sorry your letter was not answered before–I’ve been having the hell of a job correcting the English Essays for the Higher Certificate, blue pencil in hand, twelve hours a day. You’ve no idea what its like. Fancy reading essay after illiterate essay on ‘The Conquest of the Air’ every single one telling you about Montgolfier13 and his little fire balloons and ending up with a forward glance at the possibilities of the Helicopter. Now what might a helicopter be?
As to the important business–I’m afraid it looks like a dud. Our P.G.14 (an atrocious little blackguard of a French nouveau riche boy with negro blood in him and the manners of a swine) does not go till after the first fortnight of September and then I’m afraid I shall have to go to Ireland for a bit. If the Blackguard shd. go a bit earlier (wh. I think is just possible) I will let you know at once and try to come–that would be early in Sept.
Yours, hot, hustled & fed up C. S. Lewis
TO HIS FATHER (LP VIII: 161–3):
[University College]
22nd Nov. [1923]
My dear Papy,15
You wrote your first (and last) few lines before my letter reached you and I have been continually expecting an answer to mine. This, combined with the usual reasons of a dilatory man, has eked out my silence to its present length.
I have a certain amount of news to give you, all of an inconclusive character. To get the least agreeable item over first, I am afraid old Poynton has proved a broken reed in the matter of pupils: I believe, because he put off the job too long. He is an oldish man and habitually overworked so I do not judge him hardly, tho’ I was rather disappointed.
I had a really cheery conversation with my old history tutor, Stevenson–honest fellow, whom nature intended for a farmer: by which I mean no depreciation of his scholarship but an appreciation of his character. He told me that my name was much mentioned in connection with the vacant fellowship and suddenly exclaimed ‘And I don’t mind telling you, in my opinion it will be a scandal if you don’t get a fellowship at this College or some College soon.’ He also spoke of me to the new Master in the hope that the latter’s wide acquaintance with journalism might give me a temporary lift by getting me some reviewing to do. Not to make the story too exciting I will tell you at once that this came to nothing.
It led however to an interview with the new Master–Sir Michael Sadler,16 the education expert. I was very favourably impressed: he is much younger and more interesting than his predecessor and I fancy there is less of the ‘to be sure the Bursar does that’ business about him. He congratulated me on my past successes and added ‘We will do whatever we can for you’. He gave me a new book on Wordsworth to review in a given number of words, which I found as difficult a job as I have ever done. He was however pleased with my effort which he pronounced ‘Very much to the point’ and wrote to six editors, including your friend Strachey, on my behalf. None of them could find room for me, but he tells me that there is still some hope for the future: and tho’ I place very little confidence in it, it is as well to have established personal relations with the rising sun.
I have got quite recently ONE pupil, tho’ not through Poynton. He is a youth of eighteen who is trying to get a Classical scholarship. I am to coach him in essay writing and English for the essay paper and general papers which these exams always include. I fear we shall win no laurels by him. I questioned him about his classical reading: our dialogue was something like this:–
SELF: ‘Well Sandeman, what Greek authors have you been reading?’
SAND (cheerfully): ‘I never can remember. Try a few names and I’ll see if I can get on to any.’
SELF (a little damped:) ‘Have you read any Euripides?’
SAND: ‘No.’
SELF: ‘Any Sophocles?’
SAND: ‘Oh yes.’
SELF: ‘What plays of his have you read?’
SAND (after a pause): ‘Well–the Alcestis.’
SELF (apologetically): ‘But isn’t that by Euripides?’
SAND (with the genial surprise of a man who finds £1 where he thought there was a 10/-note): ‘Really. Is it now? By Jove, then I
HAVE read some Euripides.’
My next is even better. I asked him if he were familiar with the distinction that critics draw between a NATURAL and a LITERARY epic. He was not: you may not be either, but it makes no difference. I then explained to him that when a lot of old war songs about some mythological hero were handed down by aural tradition and gradually welded into one whole by successive minstrels (as in the case of ‘Homer’) the result was called a natural epic: but when an individual poet sat down with pen in hand to write Paradise Lost, that was a literary epic. He listened with great attention and then observed ‘I suppose Grey’s Elegy is the natural kind.’ What idiots can have sent him in for a Scholarship? However, he is one of the cheeriest, healthiest, and most perfectly contented creations I have ever met with.
I am still weighing alternative schemes for my thesis in an unproductive but I hope not unprofitable indecision. I hope to get it straightened out before I come down. Whatever I fix on I see a good deal of work ahead. I hope you have got over the bad turn I left you in and are as well as anyone can be in this suffocating cold. Getting up and going to bed are two evil moments these days.
your loving son,
Jack