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HUGH
Memoirs of a Brother
by
ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON
Fifth Impression
_But there is more than I can see,
And what I see I leave unsaid,
Nor speak it, knowing Death has made
His darkness beautiful with thee._
[Illustration: _From Copyrighted Photo by Sarony, Inc., New York_
ROBERT HUGH BENSON
IN 1912. AGED 40
In the robes of a Papal Chamberlain.]
Longmans, Green, and Co.
Fourth Avenue & 30th Street, New York
1916
PREFACE
This book was begun with no hope or intention of making a formal and
finished biography, but only to place on record some of my brother's
sayings and doings, to fix scenes and memories before they suffered from
any dim obliteration of time, to catch, if I could, for my own comfort
and delight, the tone and sense of that vivid and animated atmosphere
which Hugh always created about him. His arrival upon any scene was
never in the smallest degree uproarious, and still less was it in the
least mild or serene; yet he came into a settled circle like a freshet
of tumbling water into a still pool!
I knew all along that I could not attempt any account of what may be
called his public life, which all happened since he became a Roman
Catholic. He passed through many circles--in England, in Rome, in
America--of which I knew nothing. I never heard him make a public
speech, and I only once heard him preach since he ceased to be an
Anglican. This was not because I thought he would convert me, nor
because I shrank from hearing him preach a doctrine to which I did not
adhere, nor for any sectarian reason. Indeed, I regret not having heard
him preach and speak oftener; it would have interested me, and it would
have been kinder and more brotherly; but one is apt not to do the things
which one thinks one can always do, and the fact that I did not hear him
was due to a mixture of shyness and laziness, which I now regret in
vain.
But I think that his life as a Roman Catholic ought to be written fully
and carefully, because there were many people who trusted and admired
and loved him as a priest who would wish to have some record of his
days. He left me, by a will, which we are carrying out, though it was
not duly executed, all his letters, papers, and manuscripts, and we
have arranged to have an official biography of him written, and have
placed all his papers in the hands of a Catholic biographer, Father C.
C. Martindale, S.J.
Since Hugh died I have read a good many notices of him, which have
appeared mostly in Roman Catholic organs. These were, as a rule, written
by people who had only known him as a Catholic, and gave an obviously
incomplete view of his character and temperament. It could not well have
been otherwise, but the result was that only one side of a very varied
and full life was presented. He was depicted in a particular office and
in a specific mood. This was certainly his most real and eager mood, and
deserves to be emphasized. But he had other moods and other sides, and
his life before he became a Catholic had a charm and vigour of its own.
Moreover, his family affection was very strong; when he became a
Catholic, we all of us felt, including himself, that there might be a
certain separation, not of affection, but of occupations and interests;
and he himself took very great care to avoid this, with the happy result
that we saw him, I truly believe, more often and more intimately than
ever before. Indeed, my own close companionship with him really began
when he came first as a Roman Catholic to Cambridge.
And so I have thought it well to draw in broad strokes and simple
outlines a picture of his personality as we, his family, knew and loved
it. It is only a _study_, so to speak, and is written very informally
and directly. Formal biographies, as I know from experience, must
emphasise a different aspect. They deal, as they are bound to do, with
public work and official activities; and the personal atmosphere often
vanishes in the process--that subtle essence of quality, the effect of a
man's talk and habits and prejudices and predispositions, which comes
out freely in private life, and is even suspended in his public
ministrations. It would be impossible, I believe, to make a presentment
of Hugh which could be either dull or conventional. But, on the other
hand, his life as a priest, a writer, a teacher, a controversialist, was
to a certain extent governed and conditioned by circumstances; and I can
see, from many accounts of him, that the more intimate and unrestrained
side of him can only be partially discerned by those who knew him merely
in an official capacity.
That, then, is the history of this brief Memoir. It is just an attempt
to show Hugh as he showed himself, freely and unaffectedly, to his own
circle; and I am sure that this deserves to be told, for the one
characteristic which emerges whenever I think of him is that of a
beautiful charm, not without a touch of wilfulness and even petulance
about it, which gave him a childlike freshness, a sparkling zest, that
aerated and enlivened all that he did or said. It was a charm which made
itself instantly felt, and yet it could be hardly imitated or adopted,
because it was so entirely unconscious and unaffected. He enjoyed
enacting his part, and he was as instinctively and whole-heartedly a
priest as another man is a soldier or a lawyer. But his function did not
wholly occupy and dominate his life; and, true priest though he was, the
force and energy of his priesthood came at least in part from the fact
that he was entirely and delightfully human, and I deeply desire that
this should not be overlooked or forgotten.
A. C. B.
Tremans, Horsted Keynes,
_December_ 26, 1914.
CONTENTS
I
HARE STREET PAGES
Garden--House--Rooms--Tapestry--Hare
Street Discovered--A Hidden Treasure 1-14
II
CHILDHOOD
Birth--The Chancery--Beth 15-24
III
TRURO
Lessons--Early Verses--Physical Sensitiveness--A
Secret Society--My Father--A Puppet-Show 25-41
IV
BOYHOOD
First Schooldays--Eton--Religious Impressions--A
Colleger 42-51
V
AT WREN'S
Sunday Work--Artistic
Temperament--Liturgy--Ritual--Artistic Nature 52-65
VI
CAMBRIDGE
Mountain--climbing--Genealogy--Economy--Hypnotism--The
Call--My Mother--Nelly 66-81
VII
LLANDAFF
Dean Vaughan--Community Life--Ordained Deacon 82-88
VIII
THE ETON MISSION
Hackney Wick--Boys' Clubs--Preaching--My
Father's Death 89-99
IX
KEMSING AND MIRFIELD
Development--Mirfield--The
Community--Sermons--Preaching 100-113
X
THE CHANGE
Leaving Mirfield--Considerations--Argument--
Discussion--Roddy--Consultation 114-129
XI
THE DECISION
Anglicanism--Individualism--Asceticism--A
Centre of Unity--Liberty and Discipline--
Catholicism--The Surrender--Reception--Rome 130-151
XII
CAMBRIDGE AGAIN
Llandaff House--Our Companionship--Rudeness--The
Catholic Rectory--Spiritual Direction--
Mystery-Plays--Retirement 152-167
XIII
HARE STREET
Ken--Engagements--Christmas--Visits 168-175
XIV
AUTHORSHIP
The Light Invisible--His Books--Methods of
Writing--Love of Writing--The Novels 176-187
XV
FAILING HEALTH
Illness--Medical advice--Pneumonia 188-195
XVI
THE END
Manchester--Last Illness--Last Hours--Anxiety--Last
Words--Passing on 196-208
XVII
BURIAL
His Papers--After-Thoughts--The Bond of Love 209-215
XVIII
PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS
Courage--Humour--Manliness--Stammering--
Eagerness--Independence--Forward 216-230
XIX
RETROSPECT
Boyhood--Vocation--Independence--Self-Discipline 231-240
XX
ATTAINMENT
Priesthood--Self-Devotion--Sympathy--Power--Energy 241-252
XXI
TEMPERAMENT
Courtesy--Chivalry--Fearlessness--Himself 253-261
INDEX 263-265
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Robert Hugh Benson in 1912, aged 40.
In the Robes of a Papal Chamberlain _Frontispiece_
_From copyrighted Photo by Sarony, Inc., New York._
Hare Street House _Facing page_
From the front, 1914 2
From the garden, 1914 4
The Master's Lodge, Wellington College, 1868 16
Robert Hugh Benson and Beth at the Chancery,
Lincoln, in 1876, aged 5 20
The Three Brothers, 1882 44
Robert Hugh Benson in 1889, aged 17. As
Steerer of the _St. George_, at Eton 48
Robert Hugh Benson in 1893, aged 21. As an
Undergraduate at Cambridge 68
Mrs. Benson 76
Robert Hugh Benson in 1907, aged 35 158
At Hare Street, 1909 168
Hare Street, in the Garden, July 1911 174
Robert Hugh Benson in 1910, aged 39 184
At Tremans, Horsted Keynes, December, 1913 188
Bishop's House, Salford 200
The Calvary at Hare Street, 1913 208
Robert Hugh Benson in 1912, aged 40 250
Robert Hugh Benson in 1912, aged 41 258
"Then said _Great-heart_ to Mr. _Valiant-for-Truth_, Thou hast
worthily behaved thyself. Let me see thy Sword. So he shewed it
him. When he had taken it in his hand, and looked thereon a while,
he said, _Ha, it is a right Jerusalem Blade!_"
_The Pilgrim's Progress._
HUGH
I
HARE STREET
How loudly and boisterously the wind roared to-day across the low-hung,
cloud-smeared sky, driving the broken rack before it, warm and wet out
of the south! What a wintry landscape! leafless trees bending beneath
the onset of the wind, bare and streaming hedges, pale close-reaped
wheat-fields, brown ploughland, spare pastures stretching away to left
and right, softly rising and falling to the horizon; nothing visible but
distant belts of trees and coverts, with here and there the tower of a
hidden church overtopping them, and a windmill or two; on the left, long
lines of willows marking the course of a stream. The road soaked with
rain, the grasses heavy with it, hardly a human being to be seen.
I came at last to a village straggling along each side of the road; to
the right, a fantastic-looking white villa, with many bow-windows, and
an orchard behind it. Then on the left, a great row of beeches on the
edge of a pasture; and then, over the barns and ricks of a farm, rose
the clustered chimneys of an old house; and soon we drew up at a big
iron gate between tall red-brick gateposts; beyond it a paling, with a
row of high lime trees bordering a garden lawn, and on beyond that the
irregular village street.
From the gate a little flagged pathway leads up to the front of a long,
low house, of mellow brick, with a solid cornice and parapet, over which
the tiled roof is visible: a door in the centre, with two windows on
each side and five windows above--just the sort of house that you find
in a cathedral close. To the left of the iron gate are two other tall
gateposts, with a road leading up to the side of the house, and a yard
with a row of stables behind.
Let me describe the garden first. All along the front and south side of
the house runs a flagged pathway, a low brick wall dividing it from the
lawn, with plants in rough red pots on little pilasters at intervals. To
the right, as we face the door, the lawn runs along the road, and
stretches back into the garden. There are tall, lopped lime-trees all
round the lawn, in the summer making a high screen of foliage, but now
bare. If we take the flagged path round the house, turn the corner, and
go towards the garden, the yew trees grow thick and close, forming an
arched walk at the corner, half screening an old irregular building of
woodwork and plaster, weather-boarded in places, with a tiled roof,
connected with the house by a little covered cloister with wooden
pillars. If we pass that by, pursuing the path among the yew trees, we
come out on a pleasant orchard, with a few flower-beds, thickly
encircled by shrubs, beyond which, towards the main road, lies a
comfortable-looking old red-brick cottage, with a big barn and a long
garden, which evidently belongs to the larger house, because a gate in
the paling stands open. Then there is another little tiled building
behind the shrubs, where you can hear an engine at work, for electric
light and water-pumping, and beyond that again, but still connected with
the main house, stands another house among trees, of rough-cast and
tiles, with an open wooden gallery, in a garden of its own.
[Illustration: _Photo by Bishop, Barkway_
HARE STREET HOUSE
FROM THE FRONT 1914
The room to the left of the door is the dining room, with Hugh's bedroom
over it. To the right of the door is the library.]
In the orchard itself is a large grass-grown mound, with a rough wooden
cross on the top; and down below that, in the orchard, is a newly-made
grave, still covered, as I saw it to-day, with wreaths of leaves and
moss, tied some of them with stained purple ribbons. The edge of the
grave-mound is turfed, but the bare and trodden grass shows that many
feet have crossed and recrossed the ground.
The orchard is divided on the left from a further and larger garden by a
dense growth of old hazels; and passing through an alley you see that a
broad path runs concealed among the hazels, a pleasant shady walk in
summer heat. Then the larger garden stretches in front of you; it is a
big place, with rows of vegetables, fruit-trees, and flower-borders,
screened to the east by a row of elms and dense shrubberies of laurel.
Along the north runs a high red-brick wall, with a big old-fashioned
vine-house in the centre, of careful design. In the corner nearest the
house is a large rose-garden, with a brick pedestal in the centre,
behind which rises the back of the stable, also of old red brick.
[Illustration: _Photo by Bishop, Barkway_
HARE STREET HOUSE
FROM THE GARDEN 1914
The timbered building on the left is the Chapel; in the foreground
is the unfinished rose-garden.]
But now there is a surprise; the back of the house is much older than
the front. You see that it is a venerable Tudor building, with pretty
panels of plaster embossed with a rough pattern. The moulded brick
chimney-stacks are Tudor too, while the high gables cluster and lean
together with a picturesque outline. The back of the house forms a
little court, with the cloister of which I spoke before running round
two sides of it. Another great yew tree stands there: while a doorway
going into the timber and plaster building which I mentioned before has
a rough device on it of a papal tiara and keys, carved in low relief and
silvered.
A friendly black collie comes out of a kennel and desires a little
attention. He licks my hand and looks at me with melting brown eyes, but
has an air of expecting to see someone else as well. A black cat comes
out of a door, runs beside us, and when picked up, clasps my shoulder
contentedly and purrs in my ear.
The house seen from the back looks exactly what it is, a little old
family mansion of a line of small squires, who farmed their own land,
and lived on their own produce, though the barns and rick-yard belong to
the house no longer. The red-brick front is just an addition made for
the sake of stateliness at some time of prosperity. It is a charming
self-contained little place, with a forgotten family tradition of its
own, a place which could twine itself about the heart, and be loved and
remembered by children brought up there, when far away. There is no sign
of wealth about it, but every sign of ease and comfort and simple
dignity.
Now we will go back to the front door and go through the house itself.
The door opens into a tiny hall lighted by the glass panes of the door,
and bright with pictures--oil paintings and engravings. The furniture
old and sturdy, and a few curiosities about--carvings, weapons, horns of
beasts. To the left a door opens into a pleasant dining-room, with two
windows looking out in front, dark as dining-rooms may well be. It is
hung with panels of green cloth, it has a big open Tudor fireplace, with
a big oak settle, some china on an old dresser, a solid table and
chairs, and a hatch in the corner through which dishes can be handed.
Opposite, on the other side of the hall, a door opens into a long low
library, with books all round in white shelves. There is a big grand
piano here, a very solid narrow oak table with a chest below, a bureau,
and some comfortable chintz-covered chairs with a deep sofa. A perfect
room to read or to hear music in, with its two windows to the front, and
a long window opening down to the ground at the south end. All the books
here are catalogued, and each has its place. If you go out into the hall
again and pass through, a staircase goes up into the house, the walls of
it panelled, and hung with engravings; some of the panels are carved
with holy emblems. At the foot of the stairs a door on the right takes
you into a small sitting-room, with a huge stone fireplace; a big window
looks south, past the dark yew trees, on to the lawn. There are little
devices in the quarries of the window, and a deep window-seat. The room
is hung with a curious tapestry, brightly coloured mediæval figures
standing out from a dark background. There is not room for much
furniture here; a square oak stand for books, a chair or two by the
fire. Parallel to the wall, with a chair behind it filling up much of
the space, is a long, solid old oak table, set out for writing. It is a
perfect study for quiet work, warm in winter with its log fire, and
cool in summer heat.
To the left of the staircase a door goes into a roughly panelled
ante-room which leads out on to the cloister, and beyond that a large
stone-flagged kitchen, with offices beyond.
If you go upstairs, you find a panelled corridor with bedrooms. The one
over the study is small and dark, and said to be haunted. That over the
library is a big pleasant room with a fine marble fireplace--a boudoir
once, I should think. Over the hall is another dark panelled room with a
four-post bed, the walls hung with a most singular and rather terrible
tapestry, representing a dance of death.
Beyond that, over the dining-room, is a beautiful panelled room, with a
Tudor fireplace, and a bed enclosed by blue curtains. This was Hugh's
own room. Out of it opens a tiny dressing-room. Beyond that is another
large low room over the kitchen, which has been half-study,
half-bedroom, out of which opens a little stairway going to some little
rooms beyond over the offices.
Above that again are some quaint white-washed attics with dormers and
leaning walls; one or two of these are bedrooms. One, very large and
long, runs along most of the front, and has a curious leaden channel in
it a foot above the floor to take the rain-water off the leads of the
roof. Out of another comes a sweet smell of stored apples, which revives
the memory of childish visits to farm storerooms--and here stands a
pretty and quaint old pipe-organ awaiting renovation.
We must retrace our steps to the building at the back to which the
cloister leads. We enter a little sacristy and vestry, and beyond is a
dark chapel, with a side-chapel opening out of it. It was originally an
old brew-house, with a timbered roof. The sanctuary is now divided off
by a high open screen, of old oak, reaching nearly to the roof. The
whole place is full of statues, carved and painted, embroidered
hangings, stained glass, pendent lamps, emblems; there is a gallery
over the sacristy, with an organ, and a fine piece of old embroidery
displayed on the gallery front.
This is the house in which for seven years my brother Hugh lived. Let me
recall how he first came to see it. He was at Cambridge then, working as
an assistant priest. He became aware that his work lay rather in the
direction of speaking, preaching, and writing, and resolved to establish
himself in some quiet country retreat. One summer I visited several
houses in Hertfordshire with him, but they proved unsuitable. One of
these possessed an extraordinary attraction for him. It was in a bleak
remote village, and it was a fine old house which had fallen from its
high estate. It stood on the road and was used as a grocer's shop. It
was much dilapidated, and there was little ground about it, but inside
there were old frescoes and pictures, strange plaster friezes and
moulded ceilings, which had once been brightly coloured. But nothing
would have made it a really attractive house, in spite of the curious
beauty of its adornment.
One day I was returning alone from an excursion, and passed by what we
call accident through Hare Street, the village which I have described. I
caught a glimpse of the house through the iron gates, and saw that there
was a board up saying it was for sale. A few days later I went there
with Hugh. It was all extremely desolate, but we found a friendly
caretaker who led us round. The shrubberies had grown into dense
plantations, the orchard was a tangled waste of grass, the garden was
covered with weeds. I remember Hugh's exclamation of regret that we had
visited the place. "It is _exactly_ what I want," he said, "but it is
_far_ too expensive. I wish I had never set eyes on it!" However, he
found that it had long been unlet, and that no one would buy it. He
might have had the pasture-land and the farm-buildings as well, and he
afterwards regretted that he had not bought them, but his income from
writing was still small. However, he offered what seems to me now an
extraordinarily low sum for the house and garden; it was to his
astonishment at once accepted. It was all going to ruin, and the owner
was glad to get rid of it on any terms. He established himself there
with great expedition, and set to work to renovate the place. At a later
date he bought the adjacent cottage, and the paddock in which he built
the other house, and he also purchased some outlying fields, one a
charming spot on the road to Buntingford, with some fine old trees,
where he had an idea of building a church.
Everything in the little domain took shape under his skilful hand and
ingenious brain. He made most of the tapestries in the house with his
own fingers, working with his friend Mr. Gabriel Pippet the artist. He
carved much of the panelling--he was extraordinarily clever with his
hands. He painted many of the pictures which hang on the walls, he
catalogued the library; he worked day after day in the garden, weeding,
rowing, and planting. In all this he had the advantage of the skill,
capacity, and invention of his factotum and friend, Mr. Joseph Reeman,
who could turn his hand to anything and everything with equal energy and
taste; and so the whole place grew and expanded in his hands, until
there is hardly a detail, indoors or out-of-doors, which does not show
some trace of his fancy and his touch.
There were some strange old traditions about the house; it was said to
be haunted, and more than one of his guests had inexplicable experiences
there. It was also said that there was a hidden treasure concealed in or
about it. That treasure Hugh certainly discovered, in the delight which
he took in restoring, adorning, and laying it all out. It was a source
of constant joy to him in his life. And there, in the midst of it all,
his body lies.
II
CHILDHOOD
I very well remember the sudden appearance of Hugh in the nursery world,
and being conducted into a secluded dressing-room, adjacent to the
nursery, where the tiny creature lay, lost in contented dreams, in a
big, white-draped, white-hooded cradle. It was just a rather pleasing
and exciting event to us children, not particularly wonderful or
remarkable. It was at Wellington College that he was born, in the
Master's Lodge, in a sunny bedroom, in the south-east corner of the
house; one of its windows looking to the south front of the college and
the chapel with its slender spire; the other window looking over the
garden and a waste of heather beyond, to the fir-crowned hill of
Ambarrow. My father had been Headmaster for twelve years and was
nearing the end of his time there; and I was myself nine years old, and
shortly to go to a private school, where my elder brother Martin already
was. My two sisters, Nelly and Maggie, were respectively eight and six,
and my brother, Fred, was four--six in all.
And by a freak of memory I recollect, too, that at breakfast on the
following morning my father--half-shyly, half-proudly, I
thought--announced the fact of Hugh's birth to the boys whom he had
asked in, as his custom was, to breakfast, and how they offered
embarrassed congratulations, not being sure, I suppose, exactly what the
right phrase was.
Then came the christening, which took place at Sandhurst Church, a mile
or two away, to which we walked by the pine-clad hill of Edgebarrow and
the heathery moorland known as Cock-a-Dobbie. Mr. Parsons was the
clergyman--a little handsome old man, like an abbé, with a clear-cut
face and thick white hair. I am afraid that the ceremony had no
religious significance for me at that time, but I was deeply
interested, thought it rather cruel, and was shocked at Hugh's
indecorous outcry. He was called Robert, an old family name, and Hugh,
in honour of St. Hugh of Lincoln, where my father was a Prebendary, and
because he was born on the day before St. Hugh's Feast. And then I
really remember nothing more of him for a time, except for a scene in
the nursery on some wet afternoon when the baby--Robin as he was at
first called--insisted on being included in some game of tents made by
pinning shawls over the tops of chairs, he being then, as always,
perfectly clear what his wishes were, and equally clear that they were
worth attending to and carrying out.
[Illustration: _Photo by Hills & Saunders_
THE MASTER'S LODGE, WELLINGTON COLLEGE, 1868
The room to the left of the porch is the study. In the room above it
Hugh was born.]
Then I vividly recall how in 1875, when we were all returning _en
famille_ from a long summer holiday spent at Torquay in a pleasant house
lent us in Meadfoot Bay, we all travelled together in a third-class
carriage; how it fell to my lot to have the amusing of Hugh, and how
difficult he was to amuse, because he wished to look out of the window
the whole time, and to make remarks on everything. But at Lincoln I
hardly remember anything of him at all, because I was at school with my
elder brother, and only came back for the holidays; and we two had
moreover a little sanctum of our own, a small sitting-room named Bec by
my father, who had a taste for pleasant traditions, after Anthony Bec,
the warlike Bishop of Durham, who had once been Chancellor of Lincoln.
Here we arranged our collections and attended to our own concerns,
hardly having anything to do with the nursery life, except to go to tea
there and to play games in the evening. The one thing I do remember is
that Hugh would under no circumstances and for no considerations ever
consent to go into a room in the dark by himself, being extremely
imaginative and nervous; and that on one occasion when he was asked what
he expected to befall him, he said with a shudder and a stammer: "To
fall over a mangled corpse, squish! into a pool of gore!"
When he was between four and five years old, at Lincoln, one of his
godfathers, Mr. Penny, an old friend and colleague of my father's at
Wellington College, came to stay at the Chancery, and brought Hugh a
Bible. My mother was sitting with Mr. Penny in the drawing-room after
luncheon, when Hugh, in a little black velvet suit, his flaxen hair
brushed till it gleamed with radiance, his face the picture of
innocence, bearing the Bible, a very image of early piety, entered the
room, and going up to his godfather, said with his little stammer:
"Tha-a-ank you, Godpapa, for this beautiful Bible! will you read me some
of it?"
Mr. Penny beamed with delight, and took the Bible. My mother rose to
leave the room, feeling almost unworthy of being present at so sacred an
interview, but as she reached the door, she heard Mr. Penny say: "And
what shall I read about?" "The De-e-evil!" said Hugh without the least
hesitation. My mother closed the door and came back.
There was one member of our family circle for whom Hugh did undoubtedly
cherish a very deep and tender affection from the time when his
affections first awoke--this was for the beloved Beth, the old family
nurse. Beth became nurse-maid to my grandmother, Mrs. Sidgwick, as a
young girl; and the first of her nurslings, whom she tended through an
attack of smallpox, catching the complaint herself, was my uncle,
William Sidgwick, still alive as a vigorous octogenarian. Henry
Sidgwick, Arthur Sidgwick, and my mother were all under Beth's care.
Then she came on with my mother to Wellington College and nursed us all
with the simplest and sweetest goodness and devotion. For Hugh, as the
last of her "children," she had the tenderest love, and lavished her
care, and indeed her money, on him. When we were all dispersed for a
time after my father's death, Beth went to her Yorkshire relations, and
pined away in separation from her dear ones. Hugh returned alone and
earlier than the rest, and Beth could bear it no longer, but came up
from Yorkshire just to get a glimpse of Hugh at a station in London as
he passed through, had a few words with him and a kiss, and gave him
some little presents which she thought he might like, returning to
Yorkshire tired out but comforted. I have always thought that little
journey one of the most touching and beautiful acts of love and service
I have ever heard of. She was nearly eighty at the time.
[Illustration: _Photo by R. Slingsby, Lincoln_
ROBERT HUGH BENSON AND BETH
AT THE CHANCERY, LINCOLN
IN 1876. AGED 5]
In early days she watched over Hugh, did anything and everything for
him; when he got older she used to delight to wait on him, to pack and
unpack for him, to call him in the mornings, and secretly to purchase
clothes and toilet articles to replace anything worn out or lost. In
later days the thought that he was coming home used to make her radiant
for days before. She used to come tapping at my door before dinner, and
sit down for a little talk. "I know what you are thinking about, Beth!"
"What is it, dear?" "Why, about Hugh, of course! You don't care for
anyone else when he is coming." "No, don't say that, dear--but I _am_
pleased to think that Master Hugh is coming home for a bit--I hope he
won't be very tired!" And she used to smooth down her apron with her
toil-worn hands and beam to herself at the prospect. He always went and
sat with her for a little in the evenings, in her room full of all the
old nursery treasures, and imitated her smilingly. "Nay, now, child!
I've spoken, and that is enough!" he used to say, while she laughed for
delight. She used to say farewell to him with tears, and wave her
handkerchief at the window till the carriage was out of sight. Even in
her last long illness, as she faded out of life, at over ninety years of
age, she was made perfectly happy by the thought that he was in the
house, and only sorry that she could not look after his things.
Beth had had but little education; she could read a little in a
well-known book, but writing was always a slow and difficult business;
but she used slowly to compile a little letter from time to time to
Hugh, and I find the following put away among the papers of his Eton
days and schoolboy correspondence:
Addington Park,
[? _Nov._ 1887] _Tuesday._
Dearest,--One line to tell you I am sending your Box
to-morrow Wednesday. I hope you will get it before tea-time. I
know you will like something for tea, you can keep your cake for
your Birthday. I shall think about you on Friday. Everybody has
gone away, so I had no one to write for me. I thought you would
not mind me writing to you.--Dearest love from your dear
Beth.
The dear Beth lived wholly in love and service; she loved just as she
worked, endlessly and ungrudgingly; wherever Beth is, she will find
service to render and children to love; and I cannot think that she has
not found the way to her darling, and he to her.
III
TRURO
We all went off again to Truro in 1877, when my father was made Bishop.
The tradition was that as the train, leaving Lincoln, drew up after five
minutes at the first small station on the line, perhaps Navenby, a
little voice in the corner said: "Is this Truro?" A journey by train was
for many years a great difficulty for Hugh, as it always made him ill,
owing to the motion of the carriage.
At Truro he becomes a much more definite figure in my recollections. He
was a delicately made, light-haired, blue-eyed child, looking rather
angelic in a velvet suit, and with small, neat feet, of which he was
supposed to be unduly aware. He had at that time all sorts of odd
tricks, winkings and twitchings; and one very aggravating habit, in
walking, of putting his feet together suddenly, stopping and looking
down at them, while he muttered to himself the mystic formula, "Knuck,
Nunks." But one thing about him was very distinct indeed, that he was
entirely impervious to the public opinion of the nursery, and could
neither be ridiculed nor cajoled out of continuing to do anything he
chose to do. He did not care the least what was said, nor had he any
morbid fears, as I certainly had as a child, of being disliked or mocked
at. He went his own way, knew what he wanted to do, and did it.
My recollections of him are mainly of his extreme love of argument and
the adroitness with which he conducted it. He did not intend to be put
upon as the youngest, and it was supposed that if he was ever told to do
anything, he always replied: "Why shouldn't Fred?" He invented an
ingenious device which he once, and once only, practised with success,
of goading my brother Fred by petty shafts of domestic insult into
pursuing him, bent on vengeance. Hugh had prepared some small pieces of
folded paper with a view to this contingency, and as Fred gave chase,
Hugh flung two of his papers on the ground, being sure that Fred would
stop to examine them. The ruse was quite successful, and while Fred was
opening the papers, Hugh sought sanctuary in the nursery. Sometimes my
sisters were deputed to do a lesson with him. My elder sister Nelly had
a motherly instinct, and enjoyed a small responsibility. She would
explain a rule of arithmetic to Hugh. He would assume an expression of
despair: "I don't understand a word of it--you go so quick." Then it
would be explained again: "Now do you understand?" "Of course I
understand _that_." "Very well, do a sum." The sum would begin: "Oh,
don't push me--don't come so near--I don't like having my face blown
on." Presently my sister with angelic patience would show him a
mistake. "Oh, don't interfere--you make it all mixed up in my head."
Then he would be let alone for a little. Then he would put the slate
down with an expression of despair and resignation; if my sister took no
notice he would say: "I thought Mamma told you to help me in my sums?
How can I understand without having it explained to me?" It was
impossible to get the last word; indeed he used to give my sister
Maggie, when she taught him, what he called "Temper-tickets," at the end
of the lesson; and on one occasion, when he was to repeat a Sunday
collect to her, he was at last reported to my mother, as being wholly
intractable. This was deeply resented; and after my sister had gone to
bed, a small piece of paper was pushed in beneath her door, on which was
written: "The most unhappiest Sunday I ever spent in my life. Whose
fault?"
Again, when Maggie had found him extremely cross and tiresome one
morning in the lessons she was taking, she discovered, when Hugh at
last escaped, a piece of paper on the schoolroom table, on which he had
written
"Passionate Magey
Toodle Ha! Ha!
The old gose."
There was another story of how he was asked to write out a list of the
things he wanted, with a view to a birthday that was coming. The list
ended:
"A little compenshion goat, and
A tiny-winy train, and
A nice little pen."
The diminutives were evidently intended to give the requirements a
modest air. As for "compenshion," he had asked what some nursery animal
was made of, a fracture having displayed a sort of tough fibrous
plaster. He was told that it was made of "a composition."
We used to play many rhyming games at that time; and Hugh at the age of
eight wrote a poem about a swarm of gnats dancing in the sun, which
ended:
"And when they see their comrades laid
In thousands round the garden glade,
They know they were not really made
To live for evermore."
In one of these games, each player wrote a question which was to be
answered by some other player in a poem; Hugh, who had been talked to
about the necessity of overcoming some besetting sin in Lent, wrote with
perfect good faith as his question, "What is your sin for Lent?"
As a child, and always throughout his life, he was absolutely free from
any touch of priggishness or precocious piety. He complained once to my
sister that when he was taken out walks by his elders, he heard about
nothing but "poetry and civilisation." In a friendly little memoir of
him, which I have been sent, I find the following passage: "In his early
childhood, when reason was just beginning to ponder over the meaning of
things, he was so won to enthusiastic admiration of the heroes and
heroines of the Catholic Church that he decided he would probe for
himself the Catholic claims, and the child would say to the father,
'Father, if there be such a sacrament as Penance, can I go?' And the
good Archbishop, being evasive in his answers, the young boy found
himself emerging more and more in a woeful Nemesis of faith." It would
be literally _impossible_, I think, to construct a story less
characteristic both of Hugh's own attitude of mind as well as of the
atmosphere of our family and household life than this!
He was always very sensitive to pain and discomfort. On one occasion,
when his hair was going to be cut, he said to my mother: "Mayn't I have
chloroform for it?"
And my mother has described to me a journey which she once took with him
abroad when he was a small boy. He was very ill on the crossing, and
they had only just time to catch the train. She had some luncheon with
her, but he said that the very mention of food made him sick. She
suggested that she should sit at the far end of the carriage and eat her
own lunch, while he shut his eyes; but he said that the mere sound of
crumpled paper made him ill, and then that the very idea that there was
food in the carriage upset him; so that my mother had to get out on the
first stop and bolt her food on the platform.
One feat of Hugh's I well remember. Sir James McGarel Hogg, afterwards
Lord Magheramorne, was at the time member for Truro. He was a stately
and kindly old gentleman, pale-faced and white-bearded, with formal and
dignified manners. He was lunching with us one day, and gave his arm to
my mother to conduct her to the dining-room. Hugh, for some reason best
known to himself, selected that day to secrete himself in the
dining-room beforehand, and burst out upon Sir James with a wild howl,
intended to create consternation. Neither then nor ever was he
embarrassed by inconvenient shyness.
The Bishop's house at Truro, Lis Escop, had been the rectory of the rich
living of Kenwyn; it was bought for the see and added to. It was a
charming house about a mile out of Truro above a sequestered valley,
with a far-off view of the little town lying among hills, with the smoke
going up, and the gleaming waters of the estuary enfolded in the uplands
beyond. The house had some acres of pasture-land about it and some fine
trees; with a big garden and shrubberies, an orchard and a wood. We were
all very happy there, save for the shadow of my eldest brother's death
as a Winchester boy in 1878. I was an Eton boy myself and thus was only
there in the holidays; we lived a very quiet life, with few visitors;
and my recollection of the time there is one of endless games and
schemes and amusements. We had writing games and drawing games, and
acted little plays.
We children had a mysterious secret society, with titles and offices and
ceremonies: an old alcoved arbour in the garden, with a seat running
round it, and rough panelling behind, was the chapter-house of the
order. There were robes and initiations and a book of proceedings. Hugh
held the undistinguished office of Servitor, and his duties were mainly
those of a kind of acolyte. I think he somewhat enjoyed the meetings,
though the difficulty was always to discover any purpose for which the
society existed. There were subscriptions and salaries; and to his
latest day it delighted him to talk of the society, and to point out
that his salary had never equalled his subscription.
There were three or four young clergy, Arthur Mason, now Canon of
Canterbury, G. H. Whitaker, since Canon of Hereford, John Reeve, late
Rector of Lambeth, G. H. S. Walpole, now Bishop of Edinburgh, who had
come down with my father, and they were much in the house. My father
Himself was full of energy and hopefulness, and loved Cornwall with an
almost romantic love. But in all of this Hugh was too young to take much
part. Apart from school hours he was a quick, bright, clever child,
wanting to take his part in everything. My brother Fred and I were away
at school, or later at the University; and the home circle, except for
the holidays, consisted of my father and mother, my two sisters, and
Hugh. My father had been really prostrated with grief at the death of my
eldest brother, who was a boy of quite extraordinary promise and
maturity of mind. My father was of a deeply affectionate and at the same
time anxious disposition; he loved family life, but he had an almost
tremulous sense of his parental responsibility. I have never known
anyone in my life whose personality was so strongly marked as my
father's. He had a superhuman activity, and cared about everything to
which he put his hand with an intensity and an enthusiasm that was
almost overwhelming. At the same time he was extremely sensitive; and
this affected him in a curious way. A careless word from one of us, some
tiny instance of childish selfishness or lack of affection, might
distress him out of all proportion. He would brood over such things,
make himself unhappy, and at the same time feel it his duty to correct
what he felt to be a dangerous tendency. He could not think lightly of
a trifle or deal with it lightly; and he would appeal, I now think, to
motives more exalted than the occasion justified. A little heedless
utterance would be met by him not by a half-humourous word, but by a
grave and solemn remonstrance. We feared his displeasure very much, but
we could never be quite sure what would provoke it. If he was in a
cheerful mood, he might pass over with a laugh or an ironical word what
in a sad or anxious mood would evoke an indignant and weighty censure. I
was much with him at this time, and was growing to understand him
better; but even so, I could hardly say that I was at ease in his
presence. I did not talk of the things that were in my mind, but of the
things which I thought would please him; and when he was pleased, his
delight was evident and richly rewarding.
But in these days he began to have a peculiar and touching affection for
Hugh, and hoped that he would prove the beloved companion of his age.
Hugh used to trot about with him, spudding up weeds from the lawn. He
used, when at home, to take Hugh's Latin lessons, and threw himself into
the congenial task of teaching with all his force and interest. Yet I
have often heard Hugh say that these lessons were seldom free from a
sense of strain. He never knew what he might not be expected to know or
to respond to with eager interest. My father had a habit, in teaching,
of over-emphasising minute details and nuances of words, insisting upon
derivations and tenses, packing into language a mass of suggestions and
associations which could never have entered into the mind of the writer.
Language ought to be treated sympathetically, as the not over-precise
expression of human emotion and wonder; but my father made it of a
half-scientific, half-fanciful analysis. This might prove suggestive and
enriching to more mature minds. But Hugh once said to me that he used to
feel day after day like a small china mug being filled out of a
waterfall. Moreover Hugh's mind was lively and imaginative, but fitful
and impatient; and the process both daunted and wearied him.
I have lately been looking through a number of letters from my father to
Hugh in his schooldays. Reading between the lines, and knowing the
passionate affection in the background, these are beautiful and pathetic
documents. But they are over-full of advice, suggestion, criticism,
anxious inquiries about work and religion, thought and character. This
was all a part of the strain and tension at which my father lived. He
was so absorbed in his work, found life such a tremendous business, was
so deeply in earnest, that he could not relax, could not often enjoy a
perfectly idle, leisurely, amused mood. Hugh himself was the exact
opposite. He could work, in later days, with fierce concentration and
immense energy; but he also could enjoy, almost more than anyone I have
ever seen, rambling, inconsequent, easy talk, consisting of stories,
arguments, and ideas just as they came into his head; this had no
counterpart in my father, who was always purposeful.
But it was a happy time at Truro for Hugh. Speaking generally, I should
call him in those days a quick, inventive, active-minded child, entirely
unsentimental; he was fond of trying his hand at various things, but he
was impatient and volatile, would never take trouble, and as a
consequence never did anything well. One would never have supposed, in
those early days, that he was going to be so hard a worker, and still
less such a worker as he afterwards became, who perfected his gifts by
such continuous, prolonged, and constantly renewed labour. I recollect
his giving a little conjuring entertainment as a boy, but he had
practised none of his tricks, and the result was a fiasco, which had to
be covered up by lavish and undeserved applause; a little later, too, at
Addington, he gave an exhibition of marionettes, which illustrated
historical scenes. The puppets were dressed by Beth, our old nurse, and
my sisters, and Hugh was the showman behind the scenes. The little
curtains were drawn up for a tableau which was supposed to represent an
episode in the life of Thomas à Becket. Hugh's voice enunciated, "Scene,
an a-arid waste!" Then came a silence, and then Hugh was heard to say to
his assistant in a loud, agitated whisper, "Where is the Archbishop?"
But the puppet had been mislaid, and he had to go on to the next
tableau. The most remarkable thing about him was a real independence of
character, with an entire disregard of other people's opinion. What he
liked, what he felt, what he decided, was the important thing to him,
and so long as he could get his way, I do not think that he troubled his
head about what other people might think or wish; he did not want to
earn good opinions, nor did he care for disapproval or approval; people
in fact were to him at that time more or less favourable channels for
him to follow his own designs, more or less stubborn obstacles to his
attaining his wishes. He was not at all a sensitive or shrinking child.
He was quite capable of holding his own, full of spirit and fearless,
though quiet enough, and not in the least interfering, except when his
rights were menaced.
IV
BOYHOOD