Dominican Convent, saying that he thinks he will be received this week,
very short but affectionate. He says he won't attempt to say all that is
in his mind. I replied, saying that I could not wish, knowing how he
felt, the he should do otherwise--and I blessed him in a form of words."
It, may be frankly said that however much we regretted his choice, we
none of us had the slightest wish to fetter it, or to discourage Hugh
from following his true and conscientious convictions. One must
recognise that the sunshine and the rain of God fall in different ways
and at different times upon those who desire to find Him. I do not
wholly understand in my mind how Hugh came to make the change, but
Carlyle speaks truly when he says that there is one moral and spiritual
law for all, which is that whatever is honestly incredible to a man that
he may only at his direst peril profess or pretend to believe. And I
understand in my heart that Hugh had hitherto felt like one out on the
hillside, with wind and mist about him, and with whispers and voices
calling out of the mist; and that here he found a fold and a comradeship
such as he desired to find, and was never in any doubt again. And I am
sure that he soon began to feel the tranquillity which comes from having
taken, after much restlessness and anxiety, a hard course and made a
painful choice.
At first, however, he was deeply conscious of the strain through which
he had passed. He wrote to me in answer to the letter mentioned above:
_Sept. 23_, '03.
... Thank you so very much for your letter. It was delightful to
get it. I can't tell you what happiness it has been through
everything to know that you, as well as the others, felt as you
did: and now your letter comes to confirm it.
There is surprisingly little to say about myself; since you ask--
I have nothing more than the deepest possible conviction--no
emotionalism or sense of relief or anything of the kind.
As regards my plans--they too are tolerably vague.... All the
first week I was with the Dominicans--who, I imagine, will be my
final destination after two or three years.
... I imagine that I shall begin to read Theology again, in view
of future Ordination: and either I shall go to Rome at the
beginning of November; or possibly to Prior Park, near Bath--a
school, where I shall teach an hour a day, and read Theology.
* * * * *
Mamma and I are meeting in London next week. She really has been
good to me beyond all words. Her patience and kindness have been
unimaginable.
Well--this is a dreary and egotistical letter. But you asked me to
write about myself.
* * * * *
Well--I must thank you again for your extreme kindness--I really
am grateful: though I am always dumb about such things when I meet
people.
* * * * *
I remember taking a walk with Provost Hornby at Eton at this date. My
diary says:
"_October_ 1903.--We talked of Hugh. The Provost was very kind and wise.
He said, 'Such a change is a testimony of sincerity and earnestness'; he
went on to tell a story which Jowett told him of Dr. Johnson, who said,
when a husband and wife of his acquaintance went over to Rome, 'God
bless them both.' At the end of the walk he said to me, 'When you write
to your brother, remember me very kindly to him, and give him, as a
message from me, what Johnson said.' This I thought was beautiful--more
than courteous."
I sent this message to Hugh, who was deeply touched by it, and wrote the
Provost an affectionate and grateful letter.
Soon after this he went out to Rome to prepare himself for the Orders
which he received nine months later. My mother went to see him off. As
the train went out of the station, and Hugh was lost to view, my mother
turned round and saw Bishop Wilkinson, one of our dearest friends,
waiting for her. She had told him before that Hugh was leaving by that
train, and had asked him to bear both herself and Hugh in mind. He had
not intruded on the parting, but now he drew my mother's hand into his
arm and said, "If Hugh's father, when he was here on earth, would--and
he would--have always wished him to follow his conscience, how much more
in Paradise!" and then he went away without another word.
XII
CAMBRIDGE AGAIN
Hugh went to the College of San Silvestro in Rome, and there he found
many friends. He said that on first joining the Catholic Church, he felt
like a lost dog; he wrote to me:
Rome, _Nov. 26_, '03.
* * * * *
My own news is almost impossible to tell, as everything is simply
bewildering: in about five years from now I shall know how I felt;
but at present I feel nothing but discomfort; I hate foreign
countries and foreign people, and am finding more every day how
hopelessly insular I am: because of course, under the
circumstances, this is the proper place for me to be: but it is a
kind of dentist's chair.
* * * * *
But he soon parted once and for all with his sense of isolation; while
the splendours of Rome, the sense of history and state and world-wide
dominion, profoundly impressed his imagination. He was deeply inspired,
too, by the sight of simple and and unashamed piety among the common
folk, which appeared to him to put the colder and more cautious religion
of England to shame. Perhaps he did not allow sufficiently for the
temperamental differences between the two nations, but at any rate he
was comforted and reassured.
I do not know much of his doings at this time; I was hard at work at
Windsor on the Queen's letters, and settling into a new life at
Cambridge; but I realised that he was building up happiness fast. One
little touch of his perennial humour comes back to my mind. He was
describing to me some ceremony performed by a very old and absent-minded
ecclesiastic, and how two priests stood behind him to see that he
omitted nothing, "With the look in their eyes," said Hugh, "that you
can see in the eyes of a terrier who is standing with ears pricked at
the mouth of a burrow, and a rabbit preparing to bolt from within."
He came back a priest, and before long he settled at Cambridge, living
with Monsignor Barnes at Llandaff House. Monsignor Barnes was an old
Eton contemporary and friend of my own, who had begun by going to
Woolwich as a cadet; then he had taken orders in the Church of England,
and then had joined the Church of Rome, and was put in charge of the
Roman Catholic undergraduates at Cambridge. Llandaff House is a big,
rather mysterious mansion in the main street of Cambridge, opposite the
University Arms Hotel. It was built by the famous Bishop Watson of
Llandaff, who held a professorship at Cambridge in conjunction with his
bishopric, and never resided in his diocese at all. The front rooms of
the big, two-gabled house are mostly shops; the back of the house
remains a stately little residence, with a chapel, a garden with some
fine trees, and opens on to the extensive and quiet park of Downing
College.
Hugh had a room which looked out on to the street, where he did his
writing. From that date my real friendship with him began, if I may use
the word. Before that, the difference in our ages, and the fact that I
was a very busy schoolmaster only paying occasional visits to home, had
prevented our seeing very much of each other in anything like equal
comradeship. But at the beginning of 1905 I went into residence at
Magdalene as a Fellow, and Hugh was often in and out, while I was made
very welcome at Llandaff House. Hugh had a small income of his own, and
he began to supplement it by writing. His needs and tastes were all
entirely simple. He seems to me, remembering him, to have looked
extremely youthful in those days, smaller in some ways than he did
later. He moved very rapidly; his health was good and his activity
great. He made friends at several of the colleges, he belonged to the
Pitt Club, and he used to attend meetings of an undergraduates' debating
club--the Decemviri--to which he had himself belonged. One of the
members of that time has since told me that he was the only older man he
had ever known who really mixed with undergraduates and debated with
them on absolutely equal terms. But indeed, so far as looks went, though
he was now thirty-four, he might almost have been an undergraduate
himself.
We arranged always to walk together on Sunday afternoons. As an old
member of King's College, I had a key of the garden there in the Backs,
and a pass-key of the college gates, which were locked on Sunday during
the chapel service. We always went and walked about that beautiful
garden with its winding paths, or sat out in the bowling-green. Then we
generally let ourselves into the college grounds, and went up to the
south porch of the chapel, where we could hear the service proceeding
within. I can remember Hugh saying, as the Psalms came to an end
"Anglican double chants--how comfortable and delicious, and how entirely
irreligious!"
We talked very freely and openly of all that was in our minds, and
sometimes even argued on religion. He used to tell me that I was much
nearer to his form of faith than most Anglicans, and I can remember his
saying that the misery of being an Anglican was that it was all so
rational--you had to make up your mind on every single point. "Why not,"
he said, "make it up on one point--the authority of the Church, and have
done with it?" "Because I can't be dictated to on points in which I feel
I have a right to an opinion." "Ah, that isn't a faith!" "No, only a
faith in reason." At which he would shrug his shoulders, and smile. Once
I remember his exhibiting very strong emotion. I had spoken of the
worship of the Virgin, and said something that seemed to him to be in a
spirit of levity. He stopped and turned quite pale. "Ah, don't say
that!" he said; "I feel as if you had said something cynical about
someone very dear to me, and far more than that. Please promise not to
speak of it again."
It was in these days that I first perceived the extraordinary charm of
both mind and manner that he possessed. In old days he had been amusing
and argumentative enough, but he was often silent and absorbed. I think
his charm had been developed by his new experiences, and by the number
of strangers he had been brought into contact with; he had learned an
eager and winning sort of courtesy, which grew and increased every year.
On one point we wholly and entirely agreed--namely, in thinking rudeness
of any kind to be not a mannerism, but a deadly sin. "I find injustice
or offensiveness to myself or anyone else," he once wrote, "the hardest
of all things to forgive." We concurred in detesting the habit of
licensing oneself to speak one's mind, and the unpleasant English trait
of confusing sincerity with frank brutality. There is a sort of
Englishman who thinks he has a right, if he feels cross or contemptuous,
to lay bare his mood without reference to his companion's feelings; and
this seemed to us both the ugliest of phenomena.
[Illustration: _Photo by Russell & Sons_
ROBERT HUGH BENSON
IN 1907. AGED 35]
Hugh saw a good deal of academic society in a quiet way--Cambridge is a
hospitable place. I remember the consternation which was caused by his
fainting away suddenly after a Feast at King's. He had been wedged into
a corner, in front of a very hot fire, by a determined talker, and
suddenly collapsed. I was fetched out to see him and found him stretched
on a form in the Hall vestibule, being kindly cared for by the Master of
a College, who was an eminent surgeon and a professor. Again I remember
that we entered the room together when dining with a hospitable Master,
and were introduced to a guest, to his bewilderment, as "Mr. Benson" and
"Father Benson." "I must explain," said our host, "that Father Benson is
not Mr. Benson's father!" "I should have imagined that he might be his
son!" said the guest.
After Hugh had lived at Llandaff House for a year he accepted a curacy
at the Roman Catholic church at Cambridge. I do not know how this came
about. A priest can be ordained "to a bishop," in which case he has to
go where he is sent, or "on his patrimony," which gives him a degree of
independence. Hugh had been ordained "on his patrimony," but he was
advised to take up ministerial work. He accordingly moved into the
Catholic rectory, a big, red-brick house, with a great cedar in front of
it, which adjoins the church. He had a large sitting-room, looking out
at the back over trees and gardens, with a tiny bedroom adjoining. He
had now the command of more money, and the fitting up of his rooms was a
great delight to him; he bought some fine old oak furniture, and fitted
the walls with green hangings, above which he set the horns of deer,
which he had at various times stalked and shot--he was always a keen
sportsman. I told him it was too secular an ornament, but he would not
hear me.
Canon Scott, the rector, the kindest and most hospitable of men,
welcomed me to the rectory, and I was often there; and our Sunday walks
continued. Hugh became known at once as the best preacher in Cambridge,
and great congregations flocked to hear him. I do not think he had much
pastoral work to do; but now a complication ensued. A good many
undergraduates used to go to hear him, ask to see him, discuss religious
problems with him. Moreover, before he left the Anglican communion, Hugh
had conducted a mission at Cambridge, with the result that several of
his hearers became Roman Catholics. A certain amount of orthodox alarm
was felt and expressed at the new and attractive religious element which
his sermons provided, and eventually representations were made to one
that I should use my influence with Hugh that he should leave Cambridge.
This I totally declined to do, and suggested that the right way to meet
it was to get an Anglican preacher to Cambridge of persuasive eloquence
and force. I did eventually speak to Hugh about it, and he was
indignant. He said: "I have not attempted, and shall not attempt, any
sort of proselytisation of undergraduates--I do not think it fair, or
even prudent. I have never started the subject of religion on any
occasion with any undergraduate. But I must preach what I believe; and,
of course, if undergraduates consult me, I shall tell them what I think
and why I think it." This rule he strictly adhered to; and I do not know
of any converts that he made.
Moreover, it was at this time that strangers, attracted by his sermons
and his books, began to consult him by letter, and seek interviews with
him. In this relation he showed himself, I have reason to know,
extraordinarily kind, sympathetic, and straightforward. He wrote fully
and as often as he was consulted; he saw an ever-increasing number of
inquirers. He used to groan over the amount of time he had to spend in
letters and interviews, and he used to say that it often happened that
the people least worth helping took up the most time. He always gave his
very best; but the people who most vexed him were those engaged in
religious inquiry, not out of any profound need, but simply for the
emotional luxury; and who argued round and round in a circle for the
pleasure of being sympathised with. Hugh was very clear and practical in
his counsels, and he was, I used to think, like a wise and even stern
physician, never influenced by sentiment. It was always interesting to
discuss a "case" with him. I do not mean that he discussed his cases
with me, but I used to ask him how to deal with some intellectual or
moral problem, and his insight seemed to me wonderfully shrewd,
sensible, and clear. He had a masterly analysis, and a power of seeing
alternatives and contingencies which always aroused my admiration. He
was less interested in the personal element than in the psychological;
and I used to feel that his strength lay in dealing with a case
scientifically and technically. Sometimes he had desperate, tragic, and
even alarming cases to deal with; and here his fearlessness and
toughness stood him in good stead. He never shrank appalled before any
moral enormity. He told me once of a series of interviews he had with a
man, not a Catholic, who appealed to him for help in the last extremity
of moral degradation. He became aware at last that the man was insane,
but he spared no pains to rescue him.
When he first began this work he had a wave of deep unhappiness; the
responsibility of the priesthood so overwhelmed him that for a time, I
have learned, he used to pray night after night, that he might die in
his sleep, if it were possible. I saw and guessed nothing of this, but I
think it was a mood of exhaustion, because he never exhibited anything
but an eager and animated interest in life.
One of his pleasures while he was at Cambridge and ever after was the
writing, staging, and rehearsing of little mystery-plays and sacred
scenes for the children of St. Mary's Convent at Cambridge and for the
choir boys of Westminster Cathedral. These he thoroughly enjoyed; he
always loved the companionship of children, and had exactly the right
way with them, treating them seriously, paternally, with a brisk
authority, and never sentimentally. They were beautiful and moving
little dramas, reverently performed. Unhappily I never saw one of them.
Even now I remember with a stab of regret that he came to stay with me
at Cambridge for one of these, and besought me to go with him. But I was
shy and busy, and though I could easily have arranged to go, I did not
and he went off alone. "Can't you really manage it?" he said.
"Pray-a-do!" But I was obdurate, and it gives me pain now to think that
I churlishly refused, though it is a false pathos to dwell on such
things, and both foolish and wrong to credit the dead with remembering
trifling grievances.
But I do not think that his time at the Catholic rectory was a really
very happy one. He needed more freedom; he became gradually aware that
his work lay in the direction of writing, of lecturing, of preaching,
and of advising. He took his own measure and knew his own strength. "I
have _no_ pastoral gift," he once said to me very emphatically. "I am
not the man to _prop_," he once wrote; "I can kindle sometimes, but not
support. People come to me and pass on." Nor was he at ease in the
social atmosphere of Cambridge--it seemed to him bleak, dry,
complacently intellectual, unimaginative. He felt himself what the law
describes as "a suspected person," with vague designs on the spiritual
life of the place.
At first, he was not rich enough to live the sort of life he desired;
but he began to receive larger incomes from his books, and to see that
it would soon be in his power to make a home for himself. It was then
that our rambles in search of possible houses began, while at the same
time he curtailed his own personal expenditure to the lowest limits,
till his wardrobe became conspicuous for its antiquity. This, however,
he was wholly indifferent about; his aim was to put together a
sufficient sum to buy a small house in the country, and there to settle
"for ever," as he used to say. "A small Perpendicular chapel and a
white-washed cottage next door is what I want just now," he wrote about
this time. "It must be in a sweet and secret place--preferably in
Cornwall." Or again, "I want and mean--if it is permitted--to live in a
small cottage in the country; to say mass and office, and to write
books. I think that is honestly my highest ideal. I hate fuss and
officialdom and backbiting--I wish to be at peace with God and man."
This was his dream. The house at Hare Street was the result.
XIII
HARE STREET
I have no doubt at all that Hugh's seven years at Hare Street were the
happiest of his life. He generally had some companion living there--Mr.
Gabriel Pippet, who did much skilful designing and artistic work with
and for him; Dr. Sessions, who managed his household affairs and acted
as a much needed secretary; Father Watt, who was in charge of the
Hormead Mission. At one time he had the care of a little boy, Ken
Lindsay, which was, I think, the greatest joy he ever had. He was a most
winning and affectionate child, and Hugh's love of children was very
great. He taught Ken, played with him, told him stories. Among his
papers are little touching trifles which testify to his love of the
child--a withered flower, or some leaves in an envelope, "flower which
Ken gave me," "leaves with which Ken tried to make a crown," and there
are broken toys of Ken's put away, and little games and pictures which
Hugh contrived for his pleasure, memories of happy days and hours. He
used to talk about Ken and tell stories about his sayings and doings,
and for a time Ken's presence gave a sense of home about Hare Street,
and filled a part of Hugh's heart as nothing else did. It was a pleasure
to see them together; Hugh's whole voice and bearing changed when Ken
was with him, but he did not spoil him in the least or indulge him
foolishly. I remember sitting with Hugh once when Ken was playing about,
and how Hugh followed him with his eyes or listened to Ken's confidences
and discoveries. But circumstances arose which made it necessary that
Ken should go, and the loss of him was a great grief to Hugh--though
even so, I admired the way in which he accepted the necessity. He always
loved what he had got, but did not miss it if he lost it.
[Illustration: AT HARE STREET, 1909
Mr. J. Reeman. Ken. R. H. Benson.]
He made friends, too, with the people of the village, put his chapel at
their disposal for daily use, and had a Christmas festival there for
them. He formed pleasant acquaintances with his country neighbours, and
used to go to fish or shoot with them, or occasionally to dine out. He
bought and restored a cottage which bordered on his garden, and built
another house in a paddock beyond his orchard, both of which were let to
friends. Thus it was not a solitary life at all.
He had in his mind for a long time a scheme which he intended to carry
out as soon as he had more leisure,--for it must be remembered that much
of his lecturing and occasional writing was undertaken simply to earn
money to enable him to accomplish his purposes. This was to found a
community of like-minded people, who desired more opportunity for quiet
devotion and meditation, for solitary work and contemplation, than the
life of the world could afford them. Sometimes he designed a joint
establishment, sometimes small separate houses; but the essence of it
all was solitude, cheered by sympathy and enough friendly companionship
to avoid morbidity. At one time he planned a boys' home, in connection
with the work of his friend Mr. Norman Potter, at another a home of rest
for troubled and invalided people, at another a community for poor and
sensitive people, who "if they could get away from squalor and conflict,
would blow like flowers." With his love of precise detail, he drew up
time-tables, so many hours for devotion and meditation, so many for work
and exercise, so many for sociability.
But gradually his engagements increased so that he was constantly away,
preaching and lecturing; and thus he was seldom at home for more than
two or three days at a time. Thrice he went to Rome to preach courses of
sermons, and thrice he went to America, where he made many friends.
Until latterly he used to go away for holidays of various kinds, a motor
tour in France, a trip to Switzerland, where he climbed mountains; and
he often went to stay with Lord Kenmare at Killarney, where he stalked
deer, shot and fished, and lived an out-of-door life. I remember his
describing to me an incident on one of those visits, how he was
returning from a deer-stalk, in the roughest clothes, when he saw a
little group of people in a by-lane, and presently a message arrived to
say that there was a dying woman by the roadside, and could he go to
her. He went in haste, heard her confession, and gave her absolution,
while the bystanders withdrew to a distance, that no word might be
overheard, and stood bareheaded till the end came.