2nd June. A fine but coolish morning. I am just off to the Serpentine, to bathe with other studiosissimi natandi. After mass this morning I read those chapters n and 12 Hebrews about faith; how magnificent they are. You know, when I think of all my wasted years of turning my back on all that, I feel that kind of unhappiness that must be a shadow of what one will feel after death—the misuse of life, the missing of its meaning, and now too late, life never turns back. All those years all this was there, and I refused it in selfish blindness. Well, I shouldn’t be bothering you with my unavailing regrets. Better go and drown them in those chilly waters of Lethe in Hyde Park. Next week I go to Cambridge, and shall return a Doctor; very oddly, it seems to me. General Omar Bradley will be also getting a doctorate—not lit: but something nobler, that generals get. No doubt I shall see him at the various festal meals and garden parties that are laid on for us. I dare say it will be quite fun.
I wonder why we (Cranmer? Was it one of his translations?) altered the sense of that Trinity collect. I never noticed it before. Of course firmitate must mean the firmness of the faith itself, and couldn’t anyhow be a verb. I see that in the Latin trans, of our P[rayer] B[ook] (Bright and Medd, 1865)1 they put “nos in eadem fide confirmes”2 following the English. The original Latin is better—more reassuring and assured. I have learnt it. It pays to compare with the Latin all our collects. This seems to be the end of this letter. Fac me in memoriam tuam manere?3
Your affectionate
R.M.
20, Hinde House, Hinde St., W.1
12th June, 1951
Dear Father,
Thank you so much for the delightful packet of books the other day, and for your letter yesterday (posted 5th June). I was so pleased to get it; it seemed too long since the last letter. But I shan’t expect to hear again for some time, because of the Retreat and Chapter. The books are all charming to have. I have always wanted a Pliny’s Letters, they are such good reading; I like so much all the descriptions of his various villas. And the sad death of his uncle from the eruption. In their way, the letters are as good as Cicero’s, and not so stuffed with politics, which I always find excessive in Cicero’s. Vincent Bourne is really a treasure. How well he did it, and how pleasant the verses are to read! Being 18th century (and Westminster at that) of course he pronounced them in the most Anglican of pronunciations. Unlike the Public Orator at Cambridge last week, who rolled out his pieces of flattery to us in the most impeccable modern-style Latin. … In case it would amuse you, I am posting you the addresses. He had mugged up a lot of information about me, even about my partiality for swimming, and my upbringing in Italy, and not only my father but my grandfather (W. J. Conybeare) having been Fellows of Trinity, and Herrick and Bishop Heber and every one!1 The addresses must have been a great deal of work preparing; but he is a practised Latinist, of course. I do like the Latin exercise book of 1827. Much more interesting than most modern ones. The fables and the Bible stories and the excellent moral reflections are all just what one would be interested to learn. I shall read them all, as I go about in trains, buses, etc. Moral aphorisms sound good in Latin, don’t they; better than in English, I think. And I particularly like the Bible stories. When my godchild gets on with her Latin, I shall read her some. By the way, I have an idea that I oughtn’t to have stood godmother at all, while alienated from the Church. How is this, I wonder? Or doesn’t it matter? Thank you too for the dear little St. John’s Gospel, a very portable size. I could carry that and the little Greek Testament together without making a perceptible bulge in a bag or pocket.
I did enjoy your letter. We are gradually recreating Mr. Livius; you remember his portrait; all we aren’t certain of is his nationality, and in my view he was a German citizen, sent to Lisbon by the emperor, as your aunt Katie said. But you think he was of Bedfordshire. In that case, isn’t Livius an oddish name? However, if he served with Warren Hastings… [sic] Perhaps we shall discover more about him as time goes on. You might write to Aunt Katie about him? All you say about your family interests me.
I am glad my Dorset letter arrived as a birthday one. And the book about Cowper that I sent you can count as a birthday present. As for those two novels you mention, I will certainly look about for copies of them. They are out of print, and I seem to have only one copy of each myself, which I probably ought to keep for reference. But if another turns up, as it well may, I shall send it at once. Dangerous Ages is, I think, rather poor, on the whole, but it might amuse you just to see it. I will also send you The Listener, which contains a …. talk by Evelyn Waugh about our choice of 100 books, and a letter from me in reply to it. He said we were actuated by political (Left) motives. I answered him in a letter to The Listener.
Cambridge was fun. I met all kinds of people. At the Luncheon (in Pembroke, because that is the Vice Chancellor’s College) I sat between Omar Bradley and Sir William Haley, the BBC Director. Omar B. was rather sweet. Edith Evans was there, and returned thanks at lunch for the new Chancellor’s toast of us (n of us) in a very charming and witty speech. Purely non-academic in background, she had never seen Cambridge before, and was delighted with what she called “the old grey walls and scarlet gowns.” At the garden party I was glad of the scarlet gown, as it was rather a cool day. I liked staying at Trinity, and in the evening we went to the A.D.C. revue, which was very funny. The Master retires at the end of June. So now I am a Doctor, and can tell policemen so when they criticise me for leaving my car too long in a street; they will think I have been busy with an operation or a confinement.
Last night I went to see a poetical play in a church—little S. Thomas’s, Regent Street. Rather interesting, I thought; by a young poetical dramatist Christopher Fry; I wonder if his plays reach America. After it, I was taken to a pub for drinks and sandwiches by a rather charming, entertaining … young assistant priest there. He told me that Anglo-Catholicism is now “much smarter” than Roman, so I feel much reassured. He is rather a new type to me; very social… and very extreme, which he finds rather amusing obviously. So extreme is St. Thomas’s that it has, it seems, come full circle, and they sit at Mass, or so he says. It must be very comfortable. However, it won’t tempt me away from Grosvenor Chapel, which hasn’t got so far as that, and is much less self conscious; in fact it isn’t self conscious at all. I love it more and more. Even when I go on to church almost, as it seems, straight from some late night party, and feel half asleep, at first; as the service proceeds I wake up. Yes, I am very lucky in the lot which has fallen to me, and find the dwellings very amiable. All one wants is to be had for the asking, and it is very beautiful and satisfying, and I like its quiet anonymity. Yes, I should indeed find it difficult —in fact, impossible—to profess Roman Catholicism. It wouldn’t suit me at all. I couldn’t do it without being mentally dishonest. Besides, I don’t like quite a lot in it. I am sure you are right that most R.C. converts are very ignorant of our church, and would probably find it satisfying if they really learnt what it can be at its best. If, for example, they had the privilege of corresponding with you, and having you point out to them the things you have pointed out and sent to me for the enriching of my knowledge and the suggestion of lines of reading and thought. I don’t see any one who has had that not valuing and appreciating and beginning to understand the church, or wanting to leave it for any other, however plausible and showy and magnificent and rotundum. The very idea makes me homesick at once. You have rooted me deep in C. of E.
I haven’t heard yet from Fr. Pedersen, but I expect he may materialize any time now, from what you told me.
13th. Now I have found a copy of Dangerous Ages in a cupboard. I have been looking at it, and don’t think much of it on the whole. I am rather amused to see what a different view I took then (30 years ago) of the various ages people are, from my present view; naturally, of course. I wonder what you’ll think of it. It won’t make you laugh much, I suppose; I think it’s more or less solemn throughout, and hasn’t many jokes; I don’t know why. I think And no man
’s wit is probably lying about somewhere too; if I find one (apart, I mean, from my own, that I must keep) I will send it in the same packet. It is nice for me that you like to see my books; I am glad you do.
Will there ever be another Revised P[rayer] B[ook] instead of that 1928 reject? I hadn’t realised it was so bad as that; but I scarcely know it. The Dean of Winchester (E. G. Selwyn) says they use it in the Cathedral. I will look up what Darwell Stone says about it.
I hope you enjoyed your marriage outing. Rather nice, marrying a girl you have known since a child. Naturally she wanted you to.
14th. I have been away all day, and must now end and post this, and also the large envelope with the Degree addresses and the Listener cutting. Thank you again, and my love always.
R.M.
20, Hinde House, Hinde St., W.1
22nd June, 1951
Dear Father,
Thank you so much for two air papers (12th June and 19th) and the air letter posted in the litter-bin on 18th, which was sorted out from the worthless mass of litter and safely posted. (You see how clearly I perceive the difference between papers and letters; careless talk on such a matter would be most reprehensible.) I’m glad they all arrived. And I’m so pleased that you like to have Cowper. I didn’t know about that picture being the one in your dining-room; how nice that is! I shall now go and look at it—and at the Romney—in the National Portrait Gallery, and fancy it hanging in that recess over the chimney piece while you talked and were read aloud to. What a good idea it was to send it to you; I’m so glad I did. I didn’t read a great deal of the book itself; I hope it is interesting and well done. I like your account of the picture, with the yellow breeches and the pen. The pictures one grew up with are for ever perceived in ourselves, I think. I use that word because I wanted to say something about its earlier meaning, with reference to that collect. I like your rearrangement of the words, and your emphasis; it is very much better, and I shall adopt it. But as to the word “perceive,” it seems one of those very many words in our P[rayer] B[ook] and Bible translations which have rather damaged their meaning to us to-day by their gradual slight changes in meaning during the last 4 centuries. It had in the 16th century in one of its senses a much stronger implication of possession, holding on to, taking root, than it has now, I suppose. Like the Latin percipere (per for through or thoroughly, capere, seize, lay hold of). I mean, this was one of the meanings of perceive, and probably the one intended in the collect, do you think? Obviously it often carried the sense of “take into possession”—as in a will of 1512, “I will that my daughters have and perceive all the revenues.” I think the translator of sentiamus must have meant this; something much stronger and more firmly possessed than merely “notice,” or even “feel” (in “perceive and know what things we ought to do,” it is used in the modern sense, of course; they seem to have used both). Perhaps a re-translation of our prayers and collects —or anyhow a revision—would help to elucidate them; though I think one would miss the accustomed words on which one grew up— “prevent us,” etc. To use the Latin versions avoids misunderstandings, of course; but simple people can’t usually do this. I must look up some book on the translation of the collects, and find out which were Cranmer and which other people. I like your “continually” for jugiter. It is a prayer I very often say, in Latin, and now I shall use your English version, with its improved intonation. Did I tell you I bought an American P[rayer] B[ook] at Mowbrays? I am interested to note the differences. And I have found Karl Adam’s Son of God in the London Lib[rary], and got it out to-day. It looks what I want. As to Dr. Addison’s book on the American Church,1 the Library has accepted my suggestion that it should get it, and are sending to New York for it; it’s not published here. My only blank draw now is Fr. Benson’s Cowley book,1 and that will no doubt turn up presently; I would like to read it, and of course I ought to, being S.S.J.E. myself. Though when I imagine taking on such a career, taking such unearthly, stupendous vows, committing myself to such a life, I feel breathlessly out of step and unutterably tiny and puny…. [sic]
Oh yes, I am safe from the Order of Preachers—who, to do them justice, have evinced no desire for my conversion. It would be no good if a thousand preachers, or a thousand angels, or His Holiness the Pope himself, evinced such a desire, and spoke as golden as Chrysostom, offering me a Red Hat (in addition to the black velvet one I got at Cambridge); I should remain an unregretting and unenvious C. of E. member, S.S.J.E. disciple. Besides, didn’t I tell you that I was informed lately by a young priest that to be an Anglo-Catholic is now “much smarter,” which quite settles the matter for me. But no one has tried to pervert or convert me; as to the brothers Mathew, I really believe they almost prefer Anglicans.
No: I don’t mean to use my “Dr.” either on envelopes or elsewhere, so am still Miss. I might try the doctor on a policeman or two, when they contemplate summoning me for parking too long in the street; they would suppose I had been conducting an operation or a confinement in a near house, and would let me off. But otherwise I shall bury it, except I suppose on official occasions, when one has to produce titles, decorations, etc. Nevertheless, I rather like to have it, as a warming little greeting from Cambridge. Edith Sitwell has a D.Litt. (not Cambridge; I think Nottingham2) and likes to be called “Dr.” When someone wrote of her in the Spectator some time ago as “Miss Sitwell,” Osbert wrote severely “I suppose your correspondent means Dr. Sitwell”; but most people don’t use it unless they are academically engaged, when it looks better to have it. I feel sure General Omar Bradley won’t use his!
I hope Fr. Manson1 gave a good retreat. I know the kind of voice you describe. I think it’s true that English speech has changed a good deal. It has become more mincing. Fr. Wilkins told me (in a letter) that Bishop Viall has arrived here; I think he got confused between him and Fr. Pedersen, and thought I wanted to see him. I hope he didn’t puzzle the poor man by telling him so. No Fr. Pedersen yet. Instead, I have in London a dear little half-American first cousin of 15,2 over on a visit to Europe; one of her aunts3 and I share taking her about; she is delighted with London and all she sees. “Is that a tea cosy? Gosh! I’ve heard of those!” And, “Who’d have thought I’d ever be driving in a car with Rose Macaulay to the Tower of London? Gosh!” She is my godchild, and very attractive, intelligent, and gay. Her aunt, my cousin, is R.C., and very properly asked my leave before taking her to Westminster Cathedral to hear Gregorian chants. She seems less precocious in some ways than one hears that American schoolgirls often are; doesn’t use lipstick, etc.; but she observed demurely, having met girls of her own age here, “when in Rome, I do as the Romans do”; so I don’t know what she does when at home.
Here we are all agog about the two Missing Diplomats, Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean, who have vanished into space in very odd circumstances. As we most of us knew them, or one or other of them, we are intrigued. Are they also in the American press? They are commonly supposed to have fled beyond the Iron Curtain; but we doubt the trans-curtain authorities having much use for them; they are … not scientists, and know nothing useful like atomic secrets. Some of their friends say they have probably … been murdered in a Paris brawl. The police are interviewing and questioning all their close friends, so are the papers, and highly coloured interviews appear in the vulgar press. If they ever return, they will be able to collect a handsome sum in libel damages. It is really pretty sad, because they are clever, and have many attractive qualities…. How odd it is, this disease that seizes on so many able people. Both these F.O. men were secret communists.
I am, at intervals, trying to persuade an acquaintance not to turn R.C. She had seen me in Grosvenor Chapel, which surprised her; so she tackled me on the matter of Rome, which is beckoning her through some priest she knows. I told her I didn’t see that Rome had anything good that we haven’t got. Then I found myself confronting such a miasma of sheer ignorance and misconception about both churches that I scarcely felt able to say anything. Isn’t it odd. Her
e is a woman of mature age and genteel bringing up and position … who really seems not to know the simplest theological or ecclesiastical facts…. But what goes on in such minds, and why should they consider such a change, having no knowledge of its implications? It is what you said the other day—misconception based on ignorance and lack of interest…. But they might give Ecclesia Anglicana a chance, these impulsive and unreasoning people. She wants me to go to lunch and talk it over. I am amused at being consulted as an ecclesiastical guide! And am rather glad of a chance to testify for my own Church.
23 rd. Vigil of St. John Baptist, and so cool and dull a morning that I didn’t bathe after Mass. I read an article in The Times about S. John, which I enclose. Is it correct in its view, about his views? I also enclose a photograph of us, all dressed up, processing along King’s Parade. I and Edith Evans are somewhere in it, but I can’t distinguish us. But it may amuse you to see it.
My love always,
R.M.
I sent you last week the Public Orator’s Latin addresses to us all.1
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