bedroom, where I slept profoundly, out of utter weariness. Then I went
down to the Bishop's House again at nine o'clock. By daylight Manchester
had a grim and sinister air. It was raining softly and the air was heavy
with smoke. The Bishop's House stood in what was evidently a poor
quarter, full of mean houses and factories, all of red brick, smeared
and stained with soot. The house itself appeared like a great college,
with paved corridors, dark arches, and many doors. There was a lighted
room like a sacristy, and a faint scent of incense drifted in from the
door which led into the church. Upstairs, in a huge throne-room with a
gilded chair of state and long, bare tables, I met the doctors--Dr.
Bradley, a Catholic, and Professor Murray, a famous Manchester
physician, in khaki uniform, both most gentle and kind. Canon Sharrock
joined us, a tall, robust man, with a beautiful tenderness of manner and
a brotherly air. They gave me a better report, but could not disguise
from me that things were very critical. It was pneumonia of a very
grave kind which had supervened on a condition of overwork and
exhaustion. I see now that they had very little hope of recovery, but I
did not wholly perceive it then.
Then I went with the Canon to the end of the room. I saw two iron
cylinders on the table with brass fittings, and somehow knew that they
contained oxygen.
The Canon knocked, and Hugh's voice said, clearly and resonantly, "Come
in." I found him in bed, in a big library, the Bishop's own room. There
were few signs of illness except a steam-kettle and a few bottles; a
nurse was in the adjoining room. He was unable to speak very much, as
his throat troubled him; but he was full of humour and brightness. I
told him such news as I could think of. He knew that I was very busy,
but was pleased that I had come to see him. He said that he felt really
better, and that I should be able to go back the next day. He said a few
words about a will he had made, but added, "Mind, I don't think I am
going to die! I did yesterday, but I feel really better. This is only
by way of precaution." We talked about a friend of mine in Manchester, a
militant Protestant. "Yes," said Hugh, "he spoke of me the other day as
a 'hell-hound'--not very tactful!" He said that he could not sleep for
long together, but that he did not feel tired--only bored. I was told I
must not stay long with him. He said once or twice, "It's awfully good
of you to have come."
[Illustration: _Photo by Lofthouse, Crosbie & Co._
BISHOP'S HOUSE, SALFORD
The Church on the left is the transept of St. John's Cathedral, Salford,
where Hugh preached his last sermon. The room in which he died was the
Bishop's Library. One of its windows is visible on the first floor to
the left of the porch.]
I went away after a little, feeling very much reassured. He did not give
the impression of being gravely ill at all, he was so entirely himself.
I wrote a few letters and then returned, while he ate his luncheon, a
baked apple--but this was painful to him and he soon desisted. He talked
again a little, with the same liveliness, but as he began to be drowsy,
I left him again.
Dr. Bradley soon came to me, and confessed he felt anxious. "It may be a
long and critical business," he said. "If he can maintain his strength
like this for several days, he may turn the corner--he is a difficult
patient. He is not afraid, but he is excitable, and is always asking for
relief and suggesting remedies." I said something about summoning the
others. "On no account," he said. "It would give him the one impression
we must try to avoid--much depends upon his own hopefulness."
I went back to my hotel, slumbered over a book, went in for a little to
the cathedral service, and came back about five o'clock. The nurse was
not in the room at the moment. Hugh said a few words to me, but had a
sudden attack of faintness. I gave him a little whisky at his own
request, the doctor was fetched, and there followed a very anxious hour,
while various remedies were tried, and eventually oxygen revived him. He
laid his head down on the pillow, smiled at me, and said, "Oh, what
bliss! I feel absolutely comfortable--it's wonderful."
The doctor beckoned me out, and told me that I had better move my things
across to the house and sleep there. "I don't like the look of things
at all," he said; "your place is certainly here." He added that we had
better wait until the morning before deciding whether the others should
be sent for. I moved my things in, and had supper with the priests, who
were very kind to me. They talked much about Hugh, of his gaiety and
humour; and I saw that he had given his best to these friends of his,
and lived with them in brotherly simplicity.
I did not then think he was going to die, and I certainly expected no
sudden change. I ought, no doubt, to have realised that the doctors had
done their best to prepare me for his death; but the mind has an
instinctive way of holding out the shield of hope against such fears.
I was told at this time that he was to be left quiet, so I merely
slipped in at ten o'clock. Hugh was drowsy and resting quietly; he just
gave me a nod and a smile.
The one thing which made me anxious, on thinking over our interviews in
the course of the day was this--that he seemed to have a preoccupation
in his mind, though he had spoken cheerfully enough about various
matters. It did not seem either a fear or an anxiety. It was rather that
he knew that he might die, I now believe, and that he desired to live,
and was thinking about all the things he had to do and wished to do, and
that his trains of thought continually ended in the thought--"Perhaps I
may not live to do them." He wished too, I thought, to reassure himself,
and was pleased at feeling better, and at seeing that I thought him
better than I had expected. He was a sensitive patient, the doctor said,
and often suggested means of keeping up his strength. But he showed no
fear at any time, though he seemed like one who was facing a foe; like a
soldier in the trenches with an enemy opposite him whom he could not
quite discern.
However, I went off to bed, feeling suddenly very tired--I had been for
thirty-six hours almost without sleep, and it seemed to me as if whole
days had passed since I left Cambridge. My room was far away, a little
plain cell in a distant corridor high up. I slept a little; when
suddenly, through the glass window above my door, I saw the gleam of a
light, and became aware that someone was rapidly drawing near in the
corridor. In a moment Canon Sharrock tapped and entered. He said "Mr.
Benson, your brother is sinking fast--he has asked for you; he said, 'Is
my brother anywhere near at hand?' and when I said yes, that you were in
the house, he said, 'Thank God!' Do not lose any time; I will leave the
nurse on the stairs to light you." He went out, and I put on a few
things and went down the great dark arches of the staircase, with a
glimmering light below, and through the throne-room with the nurse. When
I came in I saw Hugh sitting up in bed; they had put a chair beside him,
covered with cushions, for him to lean against. He was pale and
breathing very fast, with the nurse sponging his brow. Canon Sharrock
was standing at the foot of the bed, with his stole on, reading the
last prayers from a little book. When I entered, Hugh fixed his eyes on
me with a strange smile, with something triumphant in it, and said in a
clear, natural voice, "Arthur, this is the end!" I knelt down near the
bed. He looked at me, and I knew somehow that we understood each other
well, that he wanted no word or demonstration, but was just glad I was
with him. The prayers began again. Hugh crossed himself faintly once or
twice, made a response or two. Then he said: "I beg your pardon--one
moment--my love to them all." The big room was brightly lit; something
on the hearth boiled over, and the nurse went across the room. Hugh said
to me: "You will make certain I am dead, won't you?" I said "Yes," and
then the prayers went on. Suddenly he said to the nurse: "Nurse, is it
any good my resisting death--making any effort?" The nurse said: "No,
Monsignor; just be as quiet as you can." He closed his eyes at this, and
his breath came quicker. Presently he opened his eyes again and looked
at me, and said in a low voice: "Arthur, don't look at me! Nurse, stand
between my brother and me!" He moved his hand to indicate where she
should stand. I knew well what was in his mind; we had talked not long
before of the shock of certain sights, and how a dreadful experience
could pierce through the reason and wound the inner spirit; and I knew
that he wished to spare me the pain of seeing him die. Once or twice he
drew up his hands as though trying to draw breath, and sighed a little;
but there was no struggle or apparent pain. He spoke once more and said:
"I commit my soul to God, to Mary, and to Joseph." The nurse had her
hand upon his pulse, and presently laid his hand down, saying: "It is
all over." He looked very pale and boyish then, with wide open eyes and
parted lips. I kissed his hand, which was warm and firm, and went out
with Canon Sharrock, who said to me: "It was wonderful! I have seen many
people die, but no one ever so easily and quickly."
It was wonderful indeed! It seemed to me then, in that moment, strange
rather than sad. He had been _himself_ to the very end, no diminution of
vigour, no yielding, no humiliation, with all his old courtesy and
thoughtfulness and collectedness, and at the same time, I felt, with a
real adventurousness--that is the only word I can use. I recognised that
we were only the spectators, and that he was in command of the scene. He
had made haste to die, and he had gone, as he was always used to do,
straight from one finished task to another that waited for him. It was
not like an end; it was as though he had turned a corner, and was
passing on, out of sight but still unquestionably there. It seemed to me
like the death of a soldier or a knight, in its calmness of courage, its
splendid facing of the last extremity, its magnificent determination to
experience, open-eyed and vigilant, the dark crossing.
[Illustration: THE CALVARY AT HARE STREET, 1913
The grave is to the left of the mound.]
XVII
BURIAL
We had thought that he should be buried at Manchester; but a paper of
directions was found saying that he wished to be buried at Hare Street,
in his own orchard, at the foot of his Calvary. My mother arrived on the
Monday evening, and in the course of Tuesday we saw his body for the
last time, in biretta and cassock, with a rosary in his hands. He looked
strangely young, like a statue carved in alabaster, with no trace of
pain or weariness about him, simply asleep.
His coffin was taken to the midnight train by the clergy of the Salford
Cathedral and from Buntingford station by my brother Fred to his own
little chapel, where it rested all the Thursday. On the Friday the
Cardinal came down, with Canons from Westminster and the choir. A
solemn Requiem was sung. The Cardinal consecrated a grave, and he was
laid there, in the sight of a large concourse of mourners. It was very
wonderful to see them. There were many friends and neighbours, but there
were also many others, unknown to me and even to each other, whom Hugh
had helped and comforted in different ways, and whose deep and visible
grief testified to the sorrow of their loss and to the loyalty of their
affection.
I spent some strange solitary days at Hare Street in the week which
followed, going over from Cambridge and returning, working through
papers and letters. There were all Hugh's manuscripts and notes, his
books of sermons, all the written evidences of his ceaseless energy. It
was an astonishing record of diligence and patient effort. It seemed
impossible to believe that in a life of perpetual travelling and endless
engagements he yet had been able to accomplish all this mass of work.
His correspondence too--though he had evidently destroyed all private
spiritual confidences--was of wide and varied range, and it was
difficult to grasp that it yet represented the work of so comparatively
few years. The accumulation also of little, unknown, unnamed gifts was
very great, while the letters of grief and sympathy which I received
from friends of his, whose very names were unknown to me, showed how
intricate and wide his personal relations had been. And yet he had
carried all this burden very lightly and easily. I realised how
wonderful his power must have been of storing away in his mind the
secrets of many hearts, always ready to serve them, and yet able to
concentrate himself upon any work of his own.
In his directions he spoke of his great desire to keep his house and
chapel as much as possible in their present state. "I have spent an
immense amount of time and care on these things," he said. It seemed
that he had nearly realised his wish, by careful economy, to live at
Hare Street quietly and without anxiety, even if his powers had failed
him; and it was strange to walk as I did, one day when I had nearly
finished my task, round about the whole garden, which had been so
tangled and weed-choked a wilderness, and the house at first so ruinous
and bare, and to realise that it was all complete and perfect, a setting
of order and peace. How insecure and frail the beautiful hopes of
permanence and quiet enjoyment all seemed! I passed over the smooth
lawn, under the leafless limes, through the yew-tree walk to the
orchard, where the grave lay, with the fading wreaths, and little paths
trodden in the grass; by the hazel hedge and the rose-garden, and the
ranked vegetable rows with their dying flower-borders; into the chapel
with its fantasy of ornament, where the lamp burned before the shrine;
through the house, with its silent panelled rooms all so finely ordered,
all prepared for daily use and tranquil delight. It seemed impossible
that he should not be returning soon in joyful haste, as he used to
return, pleased to show his new designs and additions. But I could not
think of him as having any shadow of regret about it all, or as coming
back, a pathetic _revenant_, to the scene of his eager inventiveness.
That was never his way, to brood over what had been done. It was always
the new, the untouched, the untried, that he was in search of. Hugh
never wished that he had done otherwise, nor did he indulge in the
passion of the past, or in the half-sad, half-luxurious retrospect of
the days that are no more. "Ah," I could fancy him saying, "that was all
delightful while it lasted--it was the greatest fun in the world! But
now!"--and I knew as well in my heart and mind as if he had come behind
me and spoken to me, that he was moving rapturously in some new
experience of life and beauty. He loved indeed to speak of old days, to
recall them vividly and ecstatically, as though they were actually
present to him; and I could think of him as even delighting to go over
with me those last hours of his life that we spent together, not with
any shadow of dread or shrinking, but just as it pleased Odysseus to
tell the tale of how he sped down the whirlpool, with death beneath and
death above, facing it all, taking it all in, not cherishing any
delusion of hope, and yet enjoying it as an adventure of real experience
which it was good to have tasted even so.
And when I came to look at some of his letters, and saw the sweet and
generous things which he had said of myself in the old days, his
gratitude for trifling kindnesses and gifts which I had myself
forgotten, I felt a touch of sorrow for a moment that I had not been
even nearer to him than I was, and more in his enlivening company; and I
remembered how, when he arrived to see me, he would come lightly in, say
a word of greeting, and plunge into talk of all that we were doing; and
then I felt that I must not think of him unworthily, as having any
grievance or shadow of concern about my many negligences and coldnesses:
but that we were bound by ties of lasting love and trust, and shared a
treasure of dear memories and kindnesses; and that I might leave his
spirit in its newly found activities, take up my own task in the light
of his vivid example, and look forward to a day when we might be again
together, sharing recollection and purpose alike, as cheerfully and
gladly as we had done in the good days that were gone, with all the
added joy of the new dawn, and with the old understanding made more
perfect.
XVIII
PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS
Hugh was always youthful-looking for his age, light and quick in
movement, intent but never deliberate, passing very rapidly from one
thing to another, impatient of boredom and dullness, always desiring to
do a thing that very minute. He was fair of complexion, with grey-blue
eyes and a shock head of light hair, little brushed, and uncut often too
long. He was careless of appearances, and wore clothes by preference of
great shabbiness. He told me in 1909 that he had only bought one suit in
the last five years. I have seen him, when gardening at Hare Street,
wear a pair of shoes such as might have been picked up in a ditch after
a tramp's encampment. At the same time he took a pleasure of a boyish
kind in robes of state. He liked his Monsignor's purple, his red-edged
cassock and crimson cincture, as a soldier likes his uniform. He was in
no way ascetic; and though he could be and often seemed to be wholly
indifferent to food, yet he was amused by culinary experiments, and
collected simple savoury recipes for household use. He was by far the
quickest eater I have ever seen. He was a great smoker of cheap
cigarettes. They were a natural sedative for his highly strung
temperament. I do not, think he realised how much he smoked, and he
undoubtedly smoked too much for several years.
He was always quick, prompt, and decisive. He had an extraordinary
presence of mind in the face of danger. My sister remembers how he was
once strolling with her, in his cassock, in a lane near Tremans, when a
motor came down the road at a great pace, and Roddy, the collie, trotted
out in front of it, with his back turned to the car, unconscious of
danger. Hugh took a leap, ran up hill, snatched Roddy up just in front
of the wheels, and fell with him against the hedge on the opposite side
of the road.
He liked a degree of comfort, and took great pleasure in having
beautiful things about him. "I do not believe that lovely things should
be stamped upon," he once wrote to a friend who was urging the dangers
of a strong sense of beauty; adding, "should they not rather be led in
chains?" Yet his taste was not at all severe, and he valued things for
their associations and interest as much as he did for their beauty. He
had a great accumulation of curious, pretty, and interesting things at
Hare Street, and took a real pleasure in possession. At the same time he
was not in the least dependent on such things, and could be perfectly
happy in bare and ugly rooms. There was no touch of luxuriousness about
him, and the adornment of his house was one of the games that he played.
One of his latest amusements was to equip and catalogue his library. He
was never very much of a reader, except for a specific purpose. He read
the books that came in his way, but he had no technical knowledge of
English literature. There were many English classics which he never
looked into, and he made no attempt to follow modern developments. But
he read books so quickly that he was acquainted more or less with a wide
range of authors. At the same time he never wasted any time in reading
books which did not interest him, and he knew by a sort of intuition the
kind of books he cared about.
He was of late years one of the liveliest and most refreshing of
talkers. As a boy and a young man he was rather silent than otherwise in
the family circle, but latterly it was just the opposite. He talked
about anything that was in his mind, but at the same time he did not
wish to keep the talk in his own hands, and had an eager and delighted
recognition of his companion's thoughts and ideas.
His sense of humour was unfailing, and when he laughed, he laughed with
the whole of himself, loudly and contagiously, abandoning himself with
tears in his eyes to helpless paroxysms of mirth. There was never the
smallest touch of affectation or priggishness about his attitude, and he
had none of the cautious and uneasy reverence which is apt to overshadow
men of piety. He was intensely amused by the humorous side of the people
and the institutions which he loved. Here are two slight illustrations
which come back to my mind. He told me these two stories in one day at
Tremans. One was that of a well-known Anglican Bishop who attended a
gathering of clergy, and in his valedictory speech said that they would
expect him to make some allusion to the fact that one who had attended
their last meeting was no longer of the Anglican communion, having
joined the Church of Rome. They would all, he said, regret the step
which he had thought fit to take; but they must not forget the serious
fall their poor friend had had from his bicycle not long before, which
had undoubtedly affected gravely his mental powers. Then he told me of
an unsatisfactory novice in a religious house who had been expelled from
the community for serious faults. His own account of it was that the
reason why he was expelled was that he used to fall asleep at
meditation, and snore so loud that he awoke the elder brethren.
Though Hugh held things sacred, he did not hold them inconveniently
sacred, and it did not affect their sacredness if they had also a
humorous side to them. He had no temptation to be easily shocked, and
though he hated all impure suggestiveness, he could be amused by what
may be called broad humour. I always felt him to be totally free from
prudishness, and it seemed to me that he drew the line in exactly the
right place between things that might be funny and unrefined, and things
which were merely coarse and gross. The fact was that he had a perfectly
simple manliness about him, and an infallible tact, which was wholly
unaffected, as to the limits of decorum. The result was that one could
talk to him with the utmost plainness and directness. His was not a
cloistered and secluded temperament. He knew the world, and had no fear
of it or shrinking from it.
He dearly loved an argument, and could be both provoking and incisive.
He was vehement, and hated dogmatic statements with which he did not
agree. When he argued, he used a good deal of gesture, waving his hands
as though to clear the air, emphasising what he said with little sweeps
and openings of his hands, sometimes covering his face and leaning
forwards, as if to gain time for the onset. His arguments were not so
much clear as ingenious, and I never knew anyone who could defend a poor
case so vigorously. When he was strained and tired, he would argue more
tenaciously, and employ fantastic illustrations with great skill; but it
always blew over very quickly, and as a rule he was good-tempered and
reasonable enough. But he liked best a rapid and various interchange of
talk. He was bored by slow-moving and solemn minds, but could extract a
secret joy from pompous utterances, while nothing delighted him more
than a full description of the exact talk and behaviour of affected and
absurd people.
His little stammer was a very characteristic part of his manner. It was
much more marked when he was a boy and a young man, and it varied much
with his bodily health. I believe that it never affected him when
preaching or speaking in public, though he was occasionally nervous
about its doing so. It was not, so to speak, a long and leisurely
stammer, as was the case with my uncle, Henry Sidgwick, the little toss
of whose head as he disengaged a troublesome word, after long dallying
with a difficult consonant, added a touch of _friandise_ to his talk.
Hugh's stammer was rather like a vain attempt to leap over an obstacle,
and showed itself as a simple hesitation rather than as a repetition. He
used, after a slight pause, to bring out a word with a deliberate
emphasis, but it never appeared to suspend the thread of his talk. I
remember an occasion, as a young man, when he took sherry, contrary to
his wont, through some dinner-party; and when asked why he had done
this, he said that it happened to be the only liquid the name of which
he was able to pronounce on that evening. He used to feel humiliated by
it, and I have heard him say, "I'm sorry--I'm stammering badly
to-night!" but it would never have been very noticeable, if he had not
attended to it. It is clear, however, from some of his letters that he
felt it to be a real disability in talk, and even fancied that it made
him absurd, though as a matter of fact the little outward dart of his
head, as he forced the recalcitrant word out, was a gesture which his
friends both knew and loved.