Читать книгу C. S. Lewis: A Biography - A. Wilson N. - Страница 11

Lewis and the other boys were about to take part in trench warfare. The training they received was heartlessly casual. After only a few weeks’ drill at Keble, he was given some leave and returned to Univ, the only man in the college. ‘I spent a long time wandering over it, into all sorts of parts where I had never been before, where the mullioned windows are dark with ivy that no one has bothered to cut since the war emptied the rooms they belong to. Some of these rooms were dust-sheeted, others were much as their owners had left them … ’ The important thing was that he did not go home to Ireland during this spell of leave. There were reasons for that. The journey, properly speaking, took two days. The Irish channel was patrolled by U-boats and there was the danger of the packet being hit by a torpedo. But the most important reason was that he did not love his father, and he did not want to go home. Albert Lewis, for his part, though worried sick, and angry that Jack’s brilliant career should be interrupted by the demands of soldiering, could not stir himself to visit his son in Oxford, even though Jack more than once invited him. Albert had a dread which was almost pathological of leaving the office routines. He hated travel. Also, unknown at this point to either of his sons, he had started to drink very heavily. He contented himself with writing letters to his Member of Parliament, Colonel Craig, trying to get Jack transferred to the Royal Artillery.

It was natural, at this anxious period when the comforts of a true home were precisely what a boy needed, that Jack should have happily joined in with Paddy Moore’s people who visited him regularly from Bristol: his twelve-year-old sister Maureen and his mother Janie, a pretty blonde Irishwoman of forty-five. In August, Warnie got a short spell of leave from the Western Front, and Jack was persuaded to go back to Strandtown to spend the week with him. He had reached the point where he could not bear to see his father à deux, but with his still-loved brother it was a different matter. On 21 August, Warnie went back to France and Jack returned to Oxford for his only piece of practical training for trench warfare – a three-day bivouac in Wytham Woods. It was wet weather – ‘Our model trenches up there will provide a very unnecessarily good imitation of Flanders mud,’ he quipped to his father. To read on the boat, the P’daytabird had lent him a novel called The Angel of Pain by E. F. Benson which he now wanted back. ‘I will send you the Angel of Pain in a few days: just at present my friend Mrs. Moore has borrowed it.’¹

Albert could not possibly have guessed that from now onwards Mrs Moore’s presence at Jack’s side was to be almost constant. At the end of September he got a month’s leave, and chose to spend nearly all of it with Paddy Moore and his family at 56 Ravenswood Road, Redlands, Bristol. ‘On Monday, a cold (complete with sore throat) which I had developed at Oxford went on so merrily that Mrs. Moore took my temperature and put me to bed,’ he wrote home. When the cold was better, he only had a week in which to dash home and see his father.

The experience of being mothered, for the first time in his life since he was nine years old, was having a profound effect on Jack. The feelings of affection were not one-sided. Jack’s personality, which had so charmed Kirkpatrick, was also having a strong effect on Mrs Moore.

That October, Paddy Moore and Lewis were parted. Lewis was gazetted to the Somerset Light Infantry and Paddy was assigned to a different regiment. But it was obvious that the links between Mrs Moore and Lewis were not to be severed. She wrote to Albert, ‘Your boy, of course, being Paddy’s room mate, we know much better than the others, and he was quite the most popular boy of the party; he is very charming and most likeable, and won golden opinions from everyone … ’ But from no one more than from Janie Moore herself. Where was Mr Moore, whom she referred to as ‘The Beast’? Somewhere in Ireland, it was thought. Jack was given to understand that he had treated her badly and failed to give her enough money. The Lewis family knew nothing of this and assumed that Mrs Moore was a widow.

They had no idea that there was any crisis brewing in Jack’s life either of an emotional or of a practical character. In fact, he was about to be sent off to war. The call came in November. He was given forty-eight hours’ leave, after which he would be sent to France. Naturally, he went to Bristol to stay with Mrs Moore, and telegraphed to his father: ‘HAVE ARRIVED IN BRISTOL ON 48 HOURS LEAVE. REPORT SOUTHAMPTON SATURDAY, CAN YOU COME BRISTOL? IF SO MEET AT STATION. REPLY MRS MOORE’S ADDRESS 56 RAVENSWOOD ROAD REDLANDS BRISTOL.’ To many parents, the significance of ‘REPORT SOUTHAMPTON SATURDAY’ would have been obvious: Southampton was where the troopships sailed from. But to Irish Albert, who had never sailed from Southampton, only from Liverpool or Belfast, the words meant nothing. He could not allow himself to believe that the words meant what they said. So he wired back ‘DONT UNDERSTAND TELEGRAM, PLEASE WRITE. P.’ By letter Jack spelt it all out. ‘Forty-eight hours is no earthly use to a person who lives in Ireland and would have to spend two days and nights travelling. Please don’t worry. I shall probably be a long time at the base as I have had so little training in England.’

By the time this letter reached Strandtown, Jack was in France. Albert found the news overwhelming. ‘It has shaken me to pieces.’ He did not realize how it had shaken Jack, nor how his failure to come and say goodbye at that crucial emotional moment had helped to sever a few more threads of affection binding the son to his father and to his home. He could not have seen how much the shape of things to come was foreshadowed in the hasty scribble which he held in his hand as he trudged, half-drunk, from one empty room to the other at Little Lea. ‘Can’t write more now,’ Jack had said, ‘must go and do some shopping.‘ There can have been few other young officers in the British Isles at that period who, with only hours to spare before leaving for an almost certain death in the trenches, were required to perform menial domestic tasks. But it was to be part of Lewis’s relationship with Mrs Moore from the beginning that he ‘must go and do some shopping’.

By the time of his nineteenth birthday, he was in the front-line trenches, near the village of Arras. Christmas was spent there. Back at Little Lea, Albert spent the day alone. He went to the early service at St Mark’s. ‘At times I was unable to repeat the responses. It is something more than sentiment and early associations that comforts a sorrowful man in this Holy Eucharist and leads him to look forward with firmer faith to the safety and salvation of those he loves … ’² He nevertheless felt furious with Jack for not responding to Colonel Craig’s attempts to get the boy transferred to an artillery regiment. Jack, however, had his reasons. ‘I must confess that I have become very attached to this regiment. I have several friends whom I should be sorry to leave and I am just beginning to know my men and understand the work.’

School had been a nightmare which everyone expected him to enjoy. No one pretended that you should enjoy the Army, and this mysteriously made it more bearable.³ He found the camaraderie of the men, and of the senior officers, who were not in the least like the bloods of Malvern, much more to his taste. Even the ‘dugouts’ were not as bad as he had feared. ‘They are very deep, you go down them by a shaft of about 20 steps; they have wire bunks where a man can sleep quite snugly and braziers for warmth and cooking.’⁴ The trenches were also a place where ‘a man’, at least this man, could read. That January found him deeply absorbed in ‘Adam Bede and The Mill on the Floss, which I like even better’.

In February, he went down with trench fever, or pyrexia – with a high temperature, and many of the symptoms of influenza. He was transferred to the Red Cross Hospital at Treport and wrote home for ‘some cheap edition of Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy’.⁵ The hospital was a converted hotel, and the discovery of clean sheets, pretty nurses and above all books was very welcome to the patient. The only drawback to the place was that his room-mate was conducting a love affair with one of the nurses, and kept him awake. ‘I had too high a temperature to be embarrassed but the human whisper is a very tedious and unmusical noise.’⁶ When the amorous room-mate departed, Lewis was left on his own and read a volume of G. K. Chesterton’s essays. Here, too, was to be a great influence, almost comparable in scale and importance with George MacDonald; but for the time being he merely enjoyed Chesterton as a wit and stylist, without being quite aware of what it was that he was swallowing with the thrusts and paradoxes. ‘A young man who wishes to remain a sound atheist cannot be too careful of his reading.’⁷

Once he was better, he had to put his books down and return to the Front. On one occasion, he took sixty German prisoners – ‘that is, discovered to my great relief that the crowd of field-grey figures who suddenly appeared from nowhere all had their hands up’.⁸ He now began to taste the horror of the war. The corpses everywhere recalled the deadness of his dead mother. Days were passed squelching in thigh-length gumboots through the mud while facing enemy fire. Almost as much as the bullets, the soldiers dreaded the barbed wire. Merely to tear your boot on the wire was to fill it with muddy water. As the spring days advanced, the Germans increased their offensive, determined to make one last grand Wagnerian gesture of defiance against their almost inevitable defeat. During the battle of Arras on 15 April 1918, Lewis was on Mount Bernenchon. He was standing near his dear friend Sergeant Ayres when a shell exploded. It killed Ayres outright and the splinters from it hit Lewis in the leg, the hand, the face and just under the arm. This last splinter touched his lung and momentarily winded him. When he found that he was not breathing, he concluded that this was death. The intelligence dawned on him dully – inspiring neither fear nor courage. In fact, it was not death but that fate which all English soldiers coveted – a wound not of great gravity, but sufficiently serious to remove the victim from the scene of conflict: in other words, ‘a Blighty’.

After a short spell in the Liverpool Merchants’ Mobile Hospital, Étaples, he was taken home, and by 25 May he was able to wire to his father: AM IN ENDSLEIGH PALACE HOSPITAL ENDSLEIGH GARDENS LONDON. JACK. He followed up the telegram with a letter asking his father to come over and visit him for a few days. Albert was himself laid up with severe bronchitis at the time. Even so, given the fact (repeatedly revealed in his surviving diaries) that he was desperately worried about his boy, it is remarkable that he was unable to stir himself for a hospital visit when the bronchitis was clear.

Mrs Moore was not so diffident, and came to London at once to be near Jack. She was extremely worried about the fate of her own son, Paddy, who had been reported ‘missing’. Before they had been separated and sent off to different regiments, Paddy and Jack had made a pact: in the event of one or the other’s death, the survivor would ‘look after’ the bereft parent of the one who had been killed. Mrs Moore’s daughter Maureen distinctly remembered this solemn undertaking being made by the two eighteen-year-old boys.⁹

To what extent Paddy Moore would have been a welcome guest at Little Lea in the event of Jack’s death, let alone able to ‘look after’ Albert Lewis, was never put to the test, for it was Moore who was lost, and Lewis who survived. After a few weeks in the Endsleigh Palace Hospital, Jack was well enough to get up, and he took the opportunity for a Sunday outing from London to Great Bookham.

Even to go to Waterloo was an adventure full of memories, and every station I passed on the way down seemed to clear away another layer of time that had passed, and bring me back to the old life. Bookham was at its best; a mass of green, very pleasing to one ‘that has been long in city pent’ … I opened the gate of Kirk’s garden almost with stealth, and went on past the house to the vegetable garden and the little wild orchard with the pond where I had sat so often on hot Sunday afternoons, and there among the cabbages in his shirt and Sunday trousers, sure enough, was the old man, still digging and smoking his horrible pipe … ¹⁰

The Kirkpatricks welcomed home the wounded soldier; Mrs Moore had welcomed him; but Albert still did nothing. One explanation may be found in a little incident which occurred several months later when Arthur Greeves happened to call at Little Lea and put his head round the study door. He found Albert slumped in a chair, very red in the face. ‘I’m in great trouble, you’d better go away,’ he said. Jack’s harsh gloss on this sentence was, ‘No evidence as to what this “great trouble” was has ever been forthcoming so I think we may with probability if not quite certainty breathe the magic word ALCOHOL.’¹¹ He was still a boy. Alcohol was still a subject of mirth. Its nightmares – very forceful in his family – lay in the future.

It would not appear that Greeves said anything about Albert’s peculiar behaviour in his letters to Jack. The two friends were back to ‘normal’ as correspondents, swapping opinions about books, while from Greeves’s side there were confidences about his emotional and sexual preferences. Before going to the wars, Lewis had expanded upon his own taste, in imagination at least, for sado-masochism, and a fellow-Irishman called Butler, an old boy of Campbell College, had put him on to the Marquis de Sade. Arthur’s tastes were still developing along homosexual lines. From Endsleigh Palace Hospital, Lewis had written to him, ‘I admit the associations of the word paederasty are unfortunate but you should rise above that.’¹²

How far Lewis was able to indulge any of his sexual tastes must remain something of a mystery. We are at a point in his life where in his own account of the matter a great but almost exhibitionistic silence is observed. ‘One huge and complex episode’, he wrote in Surprised by Joy, ‘will be omitted. I have no choice about this reticence. All I can or need say is that my earlier hostility to the emotions was very fully and variously avenged.’¹³ That he fell in love with Mrs Moore, and she with him – probably during the period when she was visiting him in hospital, and frantic with worry about Paddy – cannot be in doubt. Neither of them was a Christian believer, nor were they bound by any code of morality which would have forbidden them to become lovers in the fullest sense of the word. True, she was still married to the Beast, and would go on being married to him for the duration of her long association with C. S. Lewis. While nothing will ever be proved on either side, the burden of proof is on those who believe that Lewis and Mrs Moore were not lovers – probably from the summer of 1918 onwards. ‘When I came first to the University,’ Lewis tells us with typical hyperbole, ‘I was as nearly without a moral conscience as a boy could be … of chastity, truthfulness and self-sacrifice, I thought as a baboon thinks of classical music.’¹⁴

As the months went on, feelings between the father and son, who had not seen one another since Jack’s return from France, grew less and less amiable. Albert complained to Warnie about the silences of ‘that young scoundrel IT’. For his part, Jack complained to his father, ‘It is four months now since I returned from France and my friends suggest laughingly that “my father in Ireland” of whom they hear, is a mythical creation like Mrs. ‘Arris.’ Albert took the Mrs ‘Arris joke in very poor part, and not unnaturally felt that his son and Mrs Moore had been jeering at him behind his back. Jack, with the pomposity of youth, felt constrained to justify himself: ‘I do not choose my friends among people who jeer, nor has a tendency to promiscuous confidence ever been one of my characteristic faults.’ His father was aware that he had been negligent. ‘No doubt Jacks thinks me unkind and that I have neglected him,’ he wrote to Warnie. ‘Of course that fear makes me miserable … I have never felt so limp and depressed in my life.’¹⁵ Warnie assured him that everyone understood that the solicitor’s office could not be neglected. But Jack never did quite understand this, and the estrangement of that summer of 1918 was to leave wounds as lasting as those sustained at Arras. In September 1918 it was confirmed that Paddy Moore had indeed been killed, and Albert Lewis wrote a letter of condolence to the bereaved mother. Janie Moore wrote back:

I just lived my life for my son and it is very hard to go on now … Of the five boys who came out to us so often at Oxford, Jack is the only one left … Jack has been so good to me. My poor son asked him to look after me if he did not come back. He possesses for a boy of his age such a wonderful power of understanding and sympathy. He is not at all fit yet and we can only hope will remain so for a long time [sic].

Presumably the last, somewhat ‘Irish’, sentence means that she hopes Jack will continue to be regarded as a convalescent and not be sent back to the slaughter of the Front.

His wound was still troubling him in October when he was sent to the Officers’ Command Depot in Eastbourne, Sussex. Mrs Moore took her daughter to lodgings in Eastbourne so as to be near him. Lewis and Mrs Moore were mutually dependent. Whatever other ingredients there might have been in their relationship, one which made sense to talk about was that of the mother and the son. Janie Moore had gained a son. She always spoke of him as her adopted son and this, in effect, was what he was. By a route of tortuous coincidences, the wounds which had been inflicted on him in August 1908 with the death of Flora were now to be given a chance to heal. Anodos had kissed the marble statue and she had come to life.

As for the other wound, his hospitalization and enforced convalescence had provided Lewis with precisely the right degree of leisure for some literary activity. He had set off to France with a pocket-book full of his own poems, and in the course of the year he had added to them. Since being taken back to Blighty, he had rearranged these verses – all lyrics – into a cycle which he wanted to call Spirits in Prison, taken from the First Epistle of St Peter, where Christ went ‘and preached unto the spirits in prison’. The lyric cycle is not markedly religious in tone, but it is striking that, even in his ‘atheistical’ phase, the young poet should have looked to the New Testament for his title.

He sent it off to publishers, and by September he heard ‘the best of news’,¹⁶ that it had been accepted for publication. His editor, C. S. Evans, arranged for him to have an interview in October with William Heinemann himself. Lewis found Heinemann ‘a fat little old man with a bald head, apparently well read and a trifle fussy – inclined to get his papers mixed up and repeat himself’.

Heinemann said, ‘Of course, Mr Lewis, we never accept poetry unless it is really good.’¹⁷

Whether this was an attempt to convince himself, or whether Heinemann really meant it, we shall never know. The publishers not only accepted Spirits in Prison for publication; they also assured Lewis that John Galsworthy, the novelist and author of The Forsyte Saga, would give it some publicity in his magazine Reveille, in which a selection of work by contemporary poets was promised. ‘You’ll be in very good company,’ Evans assured Lewis, ‘for we have poems by Robert Bridges, Siegfried Sassoon and Robert Graves in the same number.’¹⁸ Actually, much to Lewis’s chagrin, Galsworthy decided not to include any of Lewis’s poems in the next number of Reveille, so clearly not everyone shared Heinemann’s glowing opinion of the young poet.

Albert Lewis was proud, but he did not allow paternal pride to blind him to the poor quality of the work. He said that ‘for a first book – and of poetry – written by a boy not yet twenty it is an achievement. Of course we must not expect too much from it.’ That would seem to be the sanest judgement of the book that there is. Albert, the catholic and voracious reader, also pointed out to his son that there was already a novel by Robert Hichens called Spirits in Prison and that he would do well to choose a different title. It was duly changed to Spirits in Bondage. Lewis did not publish it under his own name, but under that of Clive Hamilton – his own first name and his mother’s surname. Nevertheless, by some absurd oversight, he appeared in the Heinemann catalogue as George S. Lewis. Galsworthy did eventually relent, and in the February 1919 issue of Reveille he published Lewis’s poem ‘Death in Battle’. The book had the quietest, tamest of receptions, much to the poet’s disappointment, but this did nothing to diminish his sense that a poet, first and foremost, was what he was.

In November 1918, the dread that he might be transported from Eastbourne back to the Western Front was lifted. The Armistice was signed. ‘It is almost incredible that the war is over, isn’t it?’ he wrote to Greeves. ‘Not to have that “going back” hanging over my head all the time.’ Holidays with no school term to cloud them, the condition of being perpetually at home, these were to become images in his mind of the heavenly places. Life was returning to normal. He spent Christmas in Ulster, but in an important sense Belfast was not any longer home. When he resumed his undergraduate career at Oxford in the new year, he did not go alone.