Letters to a Friend

by Constance Babington Smith

  July

  20, Hinde House, Hinde St., W.1

  12th July, 1951 †

  Dear Father,

  I was beginning to think it was some time since I had had a letter, when your air paper of 8th July came this morning. But I’ve not had the one you posted on 2nd July—if it has miscarried, it will be the first to have done that; but I suppose there is still time, if it caught a slow plane. Anyhow, I now have this one, which I love to have. I’m glad those two novels, bass-sustained,1 arrived safely. I do up packets very badly, lacking your gift for it; but I think they get there all right, as a rule. As I think I mentioned before, I don’t believe Dangerous Ages is much good; but I shall like to hear your views on it some time. You know, I always do like to hear what you think of books, mine or others. I’m very glad the Cowper is good; I shall get it from the Library and read it carefully. I know N. Nicholson is interesting; I like his poems rather, too. I should like to meet him some time. How I wish you were here, so that I could meet some of these people with you! But probably there would be no time for that kind of thing; S.S.J.E. Fathers (to judge by Fr. Pedersen) seem always occupied on their businesses. I hope Fr. P. will turn up in London at a time when I am there too. I have given up going abroad this summer, as I have to finish this book, and, though I shall be away for short times (Isle of Wight and elsewhere) I mean to be mostly in London, basing myself on libraries and this studious and book-littered flat. It is the first London August I shall have spent since the war, and may be rather nice—quiet and uninterrupted and sunny (one hopes) and a little shabby and derelict—old clothes and the Serpentine and driving outside London to near country, and above all WORKING. Last August I spent in Italy—and returned to find a letter from you, that started the train that led to this new country in which I now inhabit, and am fixed, I hope for good. Odd and grateful thought.

  “What you say about Mary Lavelle makes me want to read it, which I haven’t ever done, though Kate O’Brien’s novels always interest me. I fancy she takes what I call (unjustly, probably) the R.C. view of sin. Which is, no doubt, more to the purpose than the irreligious view, but still rather off the mark, perhaps. Not that I don’t know many R.C.s who take the most sensitive and austere view of sin possible; agnostics too, for that matter; so perhaps it is, after all, partly a question of character. All the same, I believe there is something in the R.C. slant on conduct that is sometimes disconcerting. But when I read Mary Lavelle, I will see how it strikes me. Last night I saw that little play by Charles Williams, The House of the Octopus, acted in St. Thomas’s Church, Regent Street. It was really rather moving and impressive; he takes the right line about Sin. Psychologically it is interestingly worked out; dramatically, full of tension and horror. They have the idea at that church (which isn’t a parish church) of preaching the Gospel partly by drama; it is a very ancient idea, of course, and a good one. The vicar, Fr. McLaughlin, produces and directs the plays. The priest I know there is my bright young friend Fr. Gerard Irvine.

  I go on brooding over the translations of P[rayer] B[ook] and N[ew] T[estament] words. Isn’t there a case for altering “comprehended,” in S. John 1. 5, to overcame or overpowered? That is, isn’t it, what katelaben (can’t type Greek letters) means. The Vulgate has comprehenderunt, which means the same. And we (starting with the early translations I suppose, tho’ I haven’t Tyndale’s 1525 translation at hand, the earliest I have is the Genevan, 1560) rendered it “comprehended,” which was used then often in the sense of captured, overcame, took hold of. The Genevan Bible uses it too in Philippians III. 12, “that I may comprehend that for which also I am comprehended of Christ Jesus.” Apprehend still has that sense; one can be apprehended by the police, taken possession of. But “comprehend” hasn’t been used in that sense since the 17th century, and very seldom after the quite early part of the century, and still we have it in the passage that is read aloud daily after Mass, and it does seem rather unnecessarily misleading. I don’t know what the R.V. has, but I believe some newer versions have substituted “overcame,” which seems to be more sensible. I don’t mind myself, as I can use the word in its obsolete sense easily; but what about … the simple uninstructed? Why be misleading, just for nothing? I wonder what Douai has for it, and Ronald Knox. I must look them up. Then, the Lord’s Prayer. What made the Vulgate take epiousion (in S. Matthew’s version of the Lord’s Prayer) as meaning supersubstantial (supersubstantialem), and in S. Luke as quotidianum? Rather odd, with the same word. I rather wish it did mean supersubstantial; it is perhaps a better meaning than “daily”; but apparently it doesn’t. Still, in saying it one can think of spiritual food if one likes, of course. But what I can’t understand is the two different words in the Vulgate. For that too one might look up the Knox version. I do like your little Latin and Greek Testaments so much. What with them and all the English versions to compare, reading the Bible is an exciting job. Not only the meaning and the moral, but the forms of expression.

  I’m sure Kitty Witham never looked much at any dictionary. But there were English dictionaries; the first, I think, Elizabethan, and various others through the 17th and 18th centuries, though of course none on Johnson’s scale. There were spelling dictionaries and rhyming dictionaries; the rhyming ones I always find interesting as throwing light on period pronunciation; e.g. barn rhymes with fern and all the other em words; in fact, all the er spellings were pronounced ar; and so on. Very illuminating as a guide to contemporary speech, and I don’t think those people who sometimes do “Shakespeare as the Elizabethans pronounced him” on the radio make enough use of these dictionaries. In fact, no dictionaries, old or new, are used enough; I should like to force pronouncing dictionaries on the BBC, and on those dreadful voices who call out through megaphones at the London stations lists of places, pronouncing them as they have seen them spelt (which Kitty at least escaped) —“Oxford” (like the ford of a river), “Birming-ham,” all the oms to rhyme with bomb instead of with come and rum. Very jarring. I should think Norman Nicholson would be interested if you, as a Cowper Johnson, wrote to him about his book, wouldn’t he?

  I think I shall send this by air, as you might be wondering why I hadn’t answered the non-arrived letter of 2nd July—and anyhow it’s a long time since I last wrote, and this may as well speed through the air. It brings my love.

  Yours affectionately,

  R.M.

  20, Hinde House, Hinde St., W.1

  17th July, 1951 †

  Dear Father,

  This is a p.s. to my air letter (yes, letter: this, I know is a paper) posted the other day, in which I said that yours of 2nd July hadn’t arrived. But lo, it came this morning. Why it should have taken 15 days (longer than most ocean mail) I can’t think, nor can the P.O., where I am writing this on my way to a garden party (hence the pen). Some delay must have held it up. But I’m so glad it wasn’t lost, because it is so especially nice a one. I thought I would let you know at once, in case you thought it had got lost.

  Did I tell you the London Library got that U.S. Episcopal Church book for me, and I am reading it with great interest. Interesting to learn how the Church developed, and how the English religious movements were reflected in it. Another book I am reading is From Puritanism to the Age of Reason (Cragg), tracing the English move away from Puritanism from the 17th century to the 18th, through the Cambridge Platonists (delightful people, one and all, I have always thought) to the Latitudinarians and the 18th century theologians.

  I shall get the Mary Lavelle Penguin. I’ve never read it, though I do read, and like, K. O’B.’s books. She knows her world—that world of Irish R.C. governesses in Spain, having been one herself once.

  When I’ve read it I shall write and tell you what I think about it; probably what you do. Do read, if you come on it, Simone Weil’s books—or rather her correspondence, collected and published (in French, but translated) by a French Jesuit priest. I find her extremely interesting and moving, in her integrity, able brain, firm and concentrated thinkin
g. She had objections to the Church, and refused to be baptised; but was a magnificent Christian. You should see the film of The Third Man; it is really very exciting. I’ve not read it in book form. Of course in the film the views of Christianity don’t come in much. I doubt if he is interested in Christianity in itself—only in its interactions in the lives and souls of R. Catholics (them alone). (After all, I can’t finish this now.)

  18th July. In a fortnight my Chapel closes for August. Where shall I go to weekday Mass when in London? I expect All Saints. I met the other day Canon Hood (head of Pusey House) who lives in London, not far from me, during vacations. He helps at various churches, including the Annunciation, Bryanston Street, which is about my nearest (daily-Mass) church. I asked him what it was like: “very Roman,” said he—tho’, he added, it does throw in bits and pieces of the P[rayer] B[ook] into its mass, such as the Church Militant. To me (with my S.S.J.E. training) there is something rather silly about these near-Roman churches, so I think I shan’t attend it….

  The most extreme church in London, about, is S. Magnus the Martyr’s. The Vicar, Fr. Fynes-Clinton, has relics, and can liquefy blood!1 I’m glad my Chapel attempts no such nonsense.

  My love always,

  R.M.

  20, Hinde House, Hinde St., W.I

  23rd July, 1951

  Dear Father,

  Though I wrote to you (air paper) on the 18th, and. an air letter a few days earlier (before yours of 2nd had reached me), I feel inclined to write a sea letter this evening, partly because 1 got your air paper posted 16th the other day (on 20th, I think), in which you promise me an Ovid vol., and the one I should most like to have—Tristia, Fasti, and Ex Ponto. His laments from the Pontine exile always move me; how he hated it! It is good of you, and I much look forward to its arrival, also to the packet of newspaper cuttings. By the way, in case it might interest you, I enclose a review by someone in the Listener of that Cowper book, which the reviewer thinks well of.

  Since I last wrote, I have read Mary Lavelle, and see what you mean about the end. I think the explanation is that the girl, though a Catholic, wasn’t meant to be religious; I think no reference to religion crosses her mind throughout the book (or does it?). I imagine she took her religion, in which she had grown up, without much thought or understanding or deep caring; neither had she firm moral principles. One may perhaps think this odd in a well brought up Irish Catholic girl, for as a rule they are rather modest and puritan in feeling and conduct; and I think this is an artistic defect in the book. But the point is that I don’t suppose the author herself, though a Catholic, is particularly religious; I don’t even know if she is pratiquante, for I know her very little. So the religious aspect wouldn’t naturally be prominent in her view. She does certainly seem to sympathise and approve, and (one gathers) plans a happy solution to the love affair; and it is a real flaw that the moral and religious aspect of it are so absent. To me a more unpleasant flaw is the extreme unreticence of the description of the affair; such details should be “tacenda,” but seem increasingly less so. I don’t like it; I agree with you and Cicero; I suppose we are all three old-fashioned, and brought up in a more reticent and fastidious tradition. I certainly was, and such things always jar on me. At the best, they cheapen and sully what should be a very private experience; at the worst, they are rather disgusting. What is good in the book is the lively picture of the Irish “misses” in Spain, and the odd little society they form together; obviously a study from life. The Spanish family too is well drawn. But if she hadn’t fallen in love with Juanito, or if they had done so and given way to it and then been sorry and parted for good, it would have been a much better and more interesting book. The conflicts of human beings with evil, the evil in themselves, are an intensely interesting and important theme, and modern fiction ignores it too much. Love seems to carry all before it, and the author usually backs it heavily as a winner and it romps triumphantly home. But, to give R. Catholicism its due, this isn’t a characteristic, usually, of R.C. novels; they do, as a rule, consider the moral and religious aspect, though not always to much purpose. It’s odd about R.C.ism. It has somehow got a reputation for being more in earnest about morality than other churches; is it deserved? For instance, a cousin of mine the other day, talking about … a convert, … who often speaks irritably and unkindly to her old mother, said “I wonder how much she tries not to. I suppose she does, because she is a Roman Catholic.” I said, why should R.C.s be supposed to try harder to be good than others, and she said, well they go regularly to confession, so must think what they are doing. This, of course, would apply to many Anglicans too; but one doesn’t hear often “I suppose so-and-so tries to behave well, because he or she is an Anglican.” …

  No sign yet from Fr. Pedersen. I do hope he will turn up one day, while I am in London (I shall be mainly here, but partly in the Isle of Wight). I regard him as your angel, or messenger, and want to hear news of you. But no doubt he will turn up; I expect he has been mainly out of London so far.

  I have been reading lately Ronald Knox’s New Testament. It reads well, doesn’t it; but some of his translations seem to me a little disingenuous and wrong, also his notes on them. E.g. S. Matt. I, 25, which he renders “and he had not known her when she bore a son,” explaining in a note that a more literal translation would be “till she bore a son,” but this might “impugn the perpetual virginity of our Lady.” He shouldn’t be thinking about that, surely, in translating. The Vulgate has donee, the Greek heos; both, of course, mean “till,” not “when.” I wonder what the Douai has; I must look it up. He refers to some Hebrew word “represented by till” which he thinks was used, but how do we know what Hebrew words were used? The whole note strikes me as propagandist rather than scholarly. Still, I suppose his translation wouldn’t have passed the church authorities unless he had been very careful to smooth over awkward points. For “the darkness comprehended it not” he has “was not able to master it,” which is quite good, but has a note that “master” may be taken as overcoming or understanding. But can the Greek katelaben mean understand? I suppose he must be right, as he is such a good Greek scholar; but no such meaning is in my Lexicon.

  That prayer you mention, “et fac me …” is a wonderful statement as well as prayer. Since you first told me of it, I have used it continually, and always after Mass. I wonder sometimes how often it is a good thing to make one’s communion. At present I go every morning, and am by way of communicating twice in the week; I mean once as well as Sunday; either on some saint’s day or special day, or in the middle of the week. But I have no thought-out rule about it. … I haven’t thought yet where I shall go when I am here in August and my Chapel is closed. I don’t much care for the idea of the Annunciation, Bryanston Square [sic], but it has the advantage of being near and in the right direction—i.e. towards, not away from, my bathe. All Saints is in the wrong direction for this. When too chilly for the Serpentine, I go to the Lansdowne Club swimming bath, which is lovely, clear and green, with high diving boards and a water shoot [sic], I often go there on Sundays with friends, and we improve at long-distance swimming under water, which is very important, or might be in some emergencies. I can’t think how people who can’t swim dare to go about at all, they are in constant peril. And particularly of course when at sea. I saw to-day the picture of a little jeep that swims; its owners drive in it down to the Channel or the Solent, and then drive it over the water to France or the Isle of Wight, it must be lovely. But how dreadful if it sank, and left one swimming. I think I will bring that situation into a novel. But I must try and get a trip in one first. My plans are at present to be here till mid-August, then, when my sister goes to the Isle of Wight, to join her there for a few days (perhaps about the 20th) then back here, with occasional week-ends away. In a way it is rather peaceful not to be rushing abroad, with all the arrangements that this entails, and certainly I shall be able to do more work. My Ruin book presses on my mind, and I have been very slothful and neglectful about
it lately. I really must go at it hard for the next two months. It is fun writing it, but hard work. Any letters that come for me will be quite safe, and forwarded by our good porter if I am away. It is rather remarkable that, I think, no letters of yours to me, or mine to you, have been lost finally, though some have been tardy. Touch wood here. I couldn’t bear to lose even one! I wish I knew (complete change of subject) what this week’s gospel about the steward, meant. Perhaps it is a muddled story, got down wrong by whoever wrote it.

  I am using Bishop Andrewes’s Preces Privatae a good deal just now. Some of the prayers are very good; and I like the way it is arranged. I am also interested in the Hellenistic environment of early Christianity—the Hermetic Books, etc.—and am reading what I can of it. Dr. Kirk is good on that, of course. The cultural background in which the early Church grew up; it is very illuminating. If you were here, I should be talking to you about this and so much else.

  I have an invitation to go to Jugo-Slavia at the expense of the Jugo-Slav Peace Committee, to a conference in October. I am tempted, because of seeing Jugo-Slavia free; but then I reflect that the conference is in Zagreb, 150 miles from the Dalmatian coast which I want to see, that it is high up and will probably be cool by then, that Z. is a large town, not wildly interesting, and that I should have to attend the conference, which would bore me badly and be full of clichés and nonsensical platitudes about peace, and that I mightn’t care for many of my colleagues there. So I have put the temptation behind me, much as my heart leaps up at the notion of seeing any part of Abroad (which, unlike you, I adore) for nothing. But the price would be this conference, and it is too high to pay. Had it been in Split or Dubrovnik, on the coast, with all those lovely islands off shore, then I must have fallen for it, conference and all. So perhaps it is as well that it isn’t!

  Do you take a holiday, and go away for a little? I hope so. Tell me sometime, and where you will be. It might be nice to visit your Florida mission house, and wander for a time among the Spanish moss and swampy lagoons and creeks, perhaps with a bark boat. I am ashamed of my own holidays, which are often so wonderful. Now I must stop this ramble.