Yours affectionately,
R.M.
ps. I told you T could read both sides of the transparent paper quite well.
1. Hinde St. Methodist, 2 minutes.
2. S. James’s, Spanish Place, (R.C.) 4 min.
3. S. Paul’s, Baker St., 5 min.
4. S. Peter’s, Vere St., 6 min.
5. S. Marylebone (parish church), 10 min.
6. All Saints, Margaret St., 15 or 20 min.
7. S. Cyprian’s, Clarence Gate, 20 min.
8. Grosvenor Chapel.
Notes
In 1 and 2 I should feel something of an alien. 3 is, I believe, a little Low, but near. 4 is a charming little early 18th century building, built for a chapel of ease to S. Marylebone, but now attached to All Souls Langham Place, and probably doesn’t have H.C. every Sunday.
5, my parish church, is 18th c. Palladian, and spacious, with pew rents. I don’t know it at all, or what services it has. For 6 I should have to get my car out; it lives in a lock-up behind these flats.
The same applies to 7, which is, I believe, even more exalted than 6.
A little further still there is Regent St., with S. Thomas’s, very small and extreme. So much so that probably I should not know how to behave there; I am told they try to reproduce Basilican worship, but how far they succeed I don’t know. The Revs. Patrick McLaughlin and Hugh Ross Williamson. (I know about this because a friend of mine goes there sometimes.)
So I think when time allows, All Saints, and when it doesn’t S. Paul’s, and when there is a service, S. Peter’s. Or there is Grosvenor Chapel, to which I sometimes went many years ago, and liked. I forgot to insert it, so have put it in now too near; but it is about the same distance as All Saints, I think. A pity the very near one is Methodist. Or I could bicycle, which I do a good deal in summer in London, but not in winter. The excitement of this is traffic-dodging, but on Sundays there is next to no traffic.
20 Hinde House, Hinde St., W.I
23rd February, 1951 †
Dear Father,
I think these air letters are an excellent idea; yours came in 3 days, which is certainly quicker than the normal, though this is chancey, and it might be 5 or 6 days next time. Your kind seems rather more spacious than ours. But one can get quite a lot on to them. By the same post came the stories (10 days). How nice they are. I enjoy them very much, particularly poor Eulogius, which reads very well, and I like the English.1 One has much sympathy with the young disciple, who didn’t like sitting in the village. And with the poor misguided, generous Abbot, and with Eulogius, who must have felt stone-cutting on one keration1 a day a miserable downfall. The eunuch did better on his paximatia2 and bean broth. Your arrival at toasted crusts was most ingenious; and how interesting to find the Greek mother had used it. I will try it (and keration) on a Greek restaurant I go to sometimes. But I must be careful not to order either, as I shouldn’t want to eat them, not being a desert saint. I must get hold of the Liber de Miraculis. The desert ascetic life seems very like the same life in the 4th century; but there is more humanity in Abbot Daniel than in most of those Latin hermits. In fact, he must have been a charming person. So must poor Johannes, labouring over his translation. I suppose he lived in one of those beautiful monasteries round or in Amalfi. There was a close connection in his time between Amalfi and Constantinople, and the Emperor had a court there; that, no doubt, would be one way in which the Byzantine stories came west. If I find out more about J. I will let you know. These stories must be hard to put into such beautiful English, and it must be fun doing it. I shall like to see the third. Margery Kempe,3 yes, indeed I know her, and have her. I think it was Logan Pearsall Smith, who loved the book, who gave it me years ago. It is fascinating. The religious side of the Norfolk life of which the Pastons represent the more secular side. What a lot comes out of Norfolk. Juliana, too. How good you are to suggest sending me some Latin. But no, don’t. Such books are too precious to send away. I would love to come and see them, but, as you say, I shouldn’t even be allowed to do that. I am building up my Latin books more now; and now I even have a pretty little Juvenal, for which I thanked you, and for the other delightful arrivals, in my air letter of 21st. What language do you generally read the psalms in? I think one wants both the Latin and English; both are so good. I must get a Greek testament, and read it properly … [sic] Yes, Humbert Wolfe (now dead) was a very intelligent and understanding person; a poet himself; a brilliant and versatile Jew. I crossed out his commentary because it seemed to me a little foolish. But it is true that the inter-penetration of unknown worlds seems to have got a good deal into the poems, written at quite different periods.1 Sometimes I meant the dead and the living, sometimes ordinary life and the kind of dream life beyond it, sometimes the Christian assault on the world (as in Lady Day)—the manifestation of the glory, as you say—sometimes the impact of some remote unbelievable past, sometimes of strangenesses one doesn’t understand but feels. But many, of course, are quite matter of fact and earthly. The Pond records a summer afternoon in 1919, when we lay and discussed what on earth we should do about things.
The romance and adventure of that desert world is haunting. All that shifting-coloured waste of land, and a hermitage every few miles—“turn but a stone and start a hermit,” and (by your Abbot’s time) little round Byzantine domes. And beneath the desert, buried cities, silted over for centuries; some have been uncovered, others still wait. And, in the far distance, the glories of Byzantine cities. And Hons roaming, making friends, it seems, with the hermits. Do you know Helen Waddell’s Beasts and Saints, and her other Desert Fathers books?
I suppose the Infans was only a title, was it, and carries no implication of childhood—I mean, it wasn’t the Child Jesus whom the abbot saw? It is rather a strange title; I remember no other use of it, except in the Spanish Infante, which doesn’t imply infancy. Is it used anywhere in the New Testament (vulg[ate]), as an alternative to puer and servus? Perhaps one of its meanings is “son.” I lack a medieval Latin dictionary. I like the immediate reaction of the abbot to the news of Eulogius’s good fortune—“it is I that have done this murder.” I expect he knew that Ejulogius] couldn’t take riches well. It is a wonderful story. In my last air letter I sent you a drawing of my situation in re churches. I hope very soon to be able to go out early to Grosvenor Chapel. In the letter before that (I think) I told you about poor Fr. Wilkins being laid up with bronchitis; I hope he goes on pretty well. I have finished the Norfolk Diary, with great interest. One day I might make a Norfolk tour in my car, with that Penguin for a guide and instructor. Or I might go on pilgrimage to Walsingham. A Rom. Cath. I know once said he could not kneel and pray in the Anglican shrine there. I’m glad we have no such inhibitions about the R.C. one. Or, indeed, about the shrines and churches of any sect; it would be saddening. This letter draws to its close, and I have really got a lot on to it. And I would rather it reached you in 3 or 4 days than in 2 or 3 weeks, so it seems a good idea. Thank you again so much for Abbot Daniel.
Yours affectionately,
R.M.
March
[Postmark: London, W.I]
1st March, 1951 †
Dear Father,
How lovely to get a nice long air letter from you yesterday. It came after I had visited Fr. Wilkins in St. Luke’s Hostel, for he most kindly wrote to me at once on getting your letter (“a delightful long letter,” he said) on Tuesday. He told me visitors came between 2 and 5, and that he would be glad to see me if I had time and felt well enough, before he went out on Thursday, when he was going down to nursing sisters at Hastings, till Easter or later, and after that hoped to be back at St. Edward’s, I suppose allowed to do a little, but not to climb stairs, which doesn’t sound v.g. Broncho-pneumonia acting on a rough heart-valve, as no doubt he will have told you. So I went there between 4 and 5 on Tuesday, and we chatted for half an hour, about India, the army, the old war, Cowley in America, you; nothing specifically professional, as I felt it scarcely the mome
nt, and anyhow there didn’t seem an opportunity; we talked about other things all the time, and I enjoyed seeing him. We didn’t refer to church life, except that I think I mentioned that I had been on Sunday to Grosvenor Chapel and liked it. I suppose we are both rather shy; too shy to talk easily about anything not superficial and mundane. I know I am. People don’t think I am shy, because I gabble away to anyone about anything or nothing; but that’s different. I believe there is no one but you to whom I find it easy to talk (or write) on the subjects I have written to you about. To you it is entirely easy and natural. Partly it is that you have always met me halfway, or more than half-way, and one has the feeling that you really care. Then, you understand all I say or ask, with all its implications and overtones, and your answers always cover what I meant and add more to it; and I always understand what you mean. Incidentally, you have a knack, which pleases me, of making me laugh a little even on a serious subject; as, to take a small example, when in a recent letter you remarked that my communion would “last for a bit; but not for another 20 or 30 years.” I doubt if Fr. Wilkins would have said just that. Still, I know it’s no use letting my non-resident chaplain spoil me for a resident one, and I really will go to someone before Easter. You know, I rather liked … Grosvenor Chapel at High Mass last Sunday … And it would be easy to go there, as they seem to hear confessions regularly. And I like the atmosphere of the church; I used to like it long ago, tho’ never a regular attendant. If I do go there, I could say what you suggest about the long gap, and get advice about how an earnest Catholic should comport herself. For I do feel a little vague about this; having been re-admitted into the freedom of this Civitas Dei, I should like to behave like a good civis, so far as I can, and get all I am able out of it. How much prayer, what church-going, at what hours—does a good civis communicate at noon, how often does she try to attend early mass—you know the sort of questions that arise in the unpractised mind. (I am talking, of course, of a civis in rude health; I shall soon be this, tho’ this cough still hangs about.) Or again, I might seek one of the St. Ed[ward’s] Fathers. Oh dear, I am indeed thankful you didn’t stay in this climate; if you had, and had died of it, I shouldn’t be in this Civitas now at all.
I answered your io-cent letter,1 which you despise unduly, by a similar letter (6d.) on the 23rd; in it I thanked you for those lovely Abbot Daniel stories; in an air letter on 21st I wrote of the arrival of the Norfolk Diary, Juvenal, snapshots, U.S. P[rayer] B[ook], etc., all good things, Margery Kempe, as I said, I have had for some years, and find it extremely interesting. (By the way, Fr. Wilkins says you can imitate Norfolk with the nicest exactitude.) Thank you for being pleased about my quite undeserved Cambridge Doctorate. Yes, it’s true that I was “educated at Oxford.” When we were brought from Italy by our fond parents who had decided it was time we had some English schooling, we settled in Oxford because my father wanted to search the Bodleian for a medieval MS. he thought must be lost there, as indeed it was. So the girls attended the Oxford High School and the boys Lynam’s Prep, school, and pretty dim it seemed after our libertine and bare-legged scrambling about our Italian shore and hills, complete with canoe and pony. Having found his MS. and written his large book about it, my father took a lectureship in English Literature at Cambridge, his own University, and we all lived there, but I was sent to Somerville, where I read history and enjoyed myself hugely. So I always feel rather amphibious about the two universities; tho’ it is Cambridge that is in my blood, and most of my ancestors were there, tho’ the Conybeares seemed to go to Oxford in the 18th cent. I am fond of both and on the whole more of my present friends (male) were Oxonians. I certainly meant no aspersions on Oxford by sending slightly unamiable people there. But on the whole I am pleased that my Hon. Doctorate will be Cambridge; filial piety perhaps. I doted on my father. As children we endorsed what our Italian servant said of him—“proprio come il Signor Iddio—sa tutto, tutto!”2 And he told us the most entrancing stories from Herodotus and Dante’s Inferno. And grounded us in Latin and cricket (a game however that I never liked much, it was too tame). I always feel likeM. Aurelius about the example of my father; his integrity and unselfishness were so profound. One of those sons of the parsonage who read Darwin as they grew up and suffered Doubt, which remained with him thro’ life. But the most magnificent principles. I am always glad he didn’t live to think ill of me. It is odd; our generation, and perhaps the one after ours too, can reconcile God and Christianity with the revelations of science much more easily than the late Victorians could. I remember Dr. Raven writing that somewhere; he, of course, is a really good biologist and (modernist) Christian. Oh dear, this seems like the end; cut off in its prime, this letter is. My further valuable remarks must wait. Thank you much for all yours.
Yours affectionately,
R.M.
20, Hinde House, Hinde St., W.1
5th March, 1951 †
Dear Father,
Thank you so much for your 10-cent of 27th Feb. I always use these things for India (sister) and various Canadian acquaintances, but hadn’t realised till lately that they went outside the Commonwealth, in fact to our late colonies such as Mass., Virginia, New York, etc., which was stupid of me. They are really very convenient, and seem about as quick as the others; yours, posted 28th, has taken 5 days only. Thank you a lot for having sent Margery K[empe]. When I came to look for my copy, I couldn’t find it, and think I may have lent it to some reprobate friend who hasn’t returned it, so I shall be really glad to have it again, and shall re-read it. And the two little podgy books, Horace and Ovid, how nice, and I do thank you. Of course, apart from their qualities, it pleases me to have these books from your shelves, if you can really spare them. I have now got from the Library John Bailey, which I have been reading (last night in bed) with much pleasure. I know some of his books, tho’ never met him. But when he was dining out in London thro’ the twenties, he kept meeting so many people I also have met that it makes one feel one was there too. What a number of sides he touched life on. And he had a good habit of putting in his diary the good things people had said to him, which is worth while, tho’ I should never have the patience even to keep a diary. I like his references to your father, and one to you. I have been thinking about his constant idea that Christianity runs the danger of exclusion of many of the best interests. I don’t see why this should be; surely it should contain everything good in itself. In fact, he does say this; but feels it often hasn’t, and here of course he is right. One thinks of some of the early Fathers of the Church and their fierce concentration, which was I suppose a reaction against pagan licentiousness, but went stupidly far; as when Gregory scolded priests for reading the profane writers. He would perhaps have purged your shelves? J.B. wanted “a new interpretation of Christianity, with more of Plato and Origen in it and less Aristotle and Augustine.” So did Milton; and perhaps that argument has raged always. Remembering Von Hügel, Acton, and so many great Christians of wide interests and range, J.B. needn’t, surely, have been anxious. If our Lord had taught Greeks not Jews, would more of these general and artistic interests have got on the record? But it seems to me they have come in ever since, except among the fanatics, like Savonarola, puritans like S. Bernard who hated all decoration and beauty for its own sake as much as he hated Abelard and the reasoning philosophers; and the Protestant and R.C. puritans down the ages. Light, beauty, learning, and breadth of range—they are all there for those who want them. I don’t remember that Margery K. did.
I am really getting nearly well now; coughing almost negligible, and putting on again a few lbs. of weight that I had lost. I do go to early church now, driving in my invaluable car. Grosvenor Chapel 8.15, Sundays and weekdays, so can go any day I like. (What about mid-day communion? Is it good?) Yes, I live very warm and cosy here; central heating, nice little flat, adequate plain cooking (tho’ I am not nearly so gifted in this sphere as many of my friends, male and female) and of course pretty frequent lunching and dining with friends. As to milk,
which I don’t much like, there is any amount. I believe one should drink more of it.
I am interested just now in selecting short passages, fragments from psalms and Bible and collects and missal and general reading (in any language that I know) that seem to suit the occupations and emergencies and encounters likely to occur in the day ahead. If one collects a store of such, one can select at will. As Donne said, search in the wardrobe for suitable clothes.
Your rich and strange houses—no thank you, not often! I do sometimes frequent them for week-ends (summer, not winter, tho’ I did at Xmas) and it is quite fun just for that time, because I like the people in them (or I wouldn’t go there), and there is what J. Bailey calls “much good talk,” but it wouldn’t do for long, I like my freedom. Some of my friends spend most week-ends in one another’s houses in the country; I couldn’t do that. Tho’ what an odd view it was of à Kempis’s, that the more he had been among people, the less of a man he became. Perhaps the desert saints felt this too. Definitely un-Christian, it seems.
By the way, I was enchanted by a remark of yours in another letter about “some other reputable church”: it opened vistas of fascinating speculation as to what goes on in the less reputable and I thought of the temples of Daphne outside Antioch, and those of Sybaris, and indeed many more. I shall explore a little! Did I tell you, in my church list, of St. Thomas’s, Regent Street, tiny and infinitely high, where I went with a friend some time ago and heard the Rev. Hugh Ross Williamson preach about “the terrible narrowness of Christ,” into which we must enter? Not, I felt, my cup of tea. John Bailey would have been furious. Did you read the book he edited about Lady Frederick Cavendish (Lucy Lyttelton)? It was very good reading. We (my father, rather) knew lots of Lytteltons, and used to stay at Hagley Hall. He was at school with Edward Lyttelton, later headmaster of Eton, whom I greatly admired when young and when he was on the same Hellenic cruise as my father and I; I think 1913.
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