I have just had a short letter from Lady Jarvis telling me that Mrs
Housman is going to be a nun. I have not set eyes on her since Housmans
funeral, and have only heard of her, and that not much, from time to
time from Lady Jarvis.
I confess I am completely bewildered, and I hope you won't be shocked if
I tell you that I' can't help thinking it rather _selfish_. Do as I
will, I cannot see any possible reason for her taking such a step. Mrs
Housman seems to me the last person in the world who ought to be a nun.
Whether it will make her happy or not, I am afraid there is no doubt
that she will be causing a lot of intense misery. George is worse than
ever. He hasn't in the least got over it, and he never will, I feel
sure. He knows what has happened, but he can't even bring himself to
talk about it. I think he must have known of it for some time. In any
case he hasn't for one moment emerged from the real fog of gloom and
misery that has wrapped him up ever since Christmas.
What is so extraordinary is that just before Christmas he was in radiant
spirits after all those months of sadness!
I can't see that it _can_ be right, however good the motive, to destroy
and shatter someone's life!
His life _is_ destroyed, shattered and shipwrecked! We must just face
that.
I tried to think that we had always been wrong and that my first
impressions were right, that she had never really cared for him. But I
know this is not true. You will forgive me saying that I think your
religion has a terribly hard and cruel side. Nobody appreciates more
than I do all its good points, and nobody knows better than I do what a
lot of good is often done by Catholics. But it is just this sort of
thing that makes one _revolt_.
I was reading Boswell last night before going to bed, and I came across
this sentence: "Madam," Dr Johnson said, to a nun in a convent, "you are
here not from love of virtue, but from fear of vice." Even this is not a
satisfactory explanation in Mrs Housmans case. It is obvious that she
had nothing to fear from vice. I can't help thinking she has been the
victim of an inexorable system and of a training which bends the human
mind into a twisted shape that can never be altered or put straight.
Frankly, I think it is _more_ than sad, I think it is positively
_wicked_; not on her part, but on the part of those who have led her to
take such a mistaken view of ordinary human duty. After all, even if she
wants to be a nun, isn't it her duty to stay in the world? Isn't it a
more difficult duty? What is one's duty to one's neighbour? Forgive me
for saying all this. You know in my case that it isn't inspired by
prejudice.
It is cruel to think that most probably George will never get over this,
and that she has sacrificed the certain happiness of two human beings
and the chance of doing any amount of good in the world. What for? For
nothing as far as I can see that can't be much better done by people far
more fitted to that kind of vocation. I am too sad to write any more.
Yrs.
G.
_From the Diary of Godfrey Mellor_
_Thursday, March_ 1_st_.
I dined alone with Cunninghame at his flat last night. He had heard the
news about Mrs Housman. He was greatly upset about it, and thought it
very selfish. I said I believed the step was not irrevocable, as one had
to stay some time in a convent before taking final vows.
He said: "That is just what I want to talk about, just what I want to
know. How long must one stay exactly?"
I said I did not know, but I could find out. He said I want you to find
out all about it as soon as possible. A., he said, was in a dreadful
state. He had dined with him last night. He had said very little;
nothing personal, not a word about what he felt about it, but he had
asked him, Cunninghame, whether he knew what the rules were about taking
the veil.
C. said he did not believe Mrs Housman would take an irrevocable
decision. He had told A. he would find out all about it. I could of
course ask Riley, but I don't know whether he would know.
I decided I would apply to Father Stanway, the priest I met at Carbis
Bay, for information. I wrote to him, saying I wished to consult him on
a matter, and suggested going down to Cornwall on Saturday and spending
Sunday at Carbis Bay.
_Friday, March_ 2_nd_.
Received a telegram from Father Stanway, saying that he will not be in
Cornwall this week-end, but in London, where he will be staying four or
five days; and suggesting our meeting on Sunday afternoon. I sent him a
telegram asking him to luncheon on Sunday.
_Sunday, March_ 4_th._
Father Stanway came to luncheon with me at the Club, and we talked of
the topics of the day. After luncheon I suggested a walk in the park.
We went for a walk in Kensington Gardens. I asked him first for the
information about the nuns. He said, as far as he could say off-hand, it
entailed six months' postulancy, two years' "Habit and White Veil,"
three years' _simple_ vows of profession; and then solemn perpetual
vows. But he said he could write to a convent and get it quite accurate
for me. In any case he knew it was a matter of five years.
I then said I would like, if he did not mind, to have his opinion on a
case which I had come across. He said he would be pleased to listen.
I then told him the whole Housman story as a skeleton case, not
mentioning names, and calling the people X. and Y. Very possibly he knew
who I was talking about, almost certainly I think, although he never
betrayed this for a moment. I felt the knowledge, if there were
knowledge, would be as safe as though given in the confessional. I told
him everything, including a detailed account of Housman's death which
Cunninghame had given me. I referred to Housman as X., to Mrs Housman as
Mrs X. and to A. as Y.
I then asked him if he thought Mrs X. was justified in taking such a
step, and whether it would not be nobler, a more unselfish course, to
remain in the world and to make Y. happy.
I asked him whether, in his opinion, people would be justified in
calling Mrs X.'s step, were it to turn out to be irrevocable, a
_selfish_ act.
And, thirdly, I asked if in the case of Mrs X. changing her mind she
would be allowed by the Church to marry Y.
Father Stanway said if I wished to understand the question I must try
and turn my mind round, as it were, and start from the point of view
that what the world considers all-important the Church considers of no
importance _if it interferes with what God thinks important_. He said I
must start by remembering that Mrs X.'s conduct proceeded from that
idea--what was important in the eyes of God: she believed in God
_practically_ and not merely theoretically. This belief was the cardinal
fact and the compass of her life. He added that this did not mean the
Church was unsympathetic. No one understood human nature as well as she
did, nobody met it as she did at every point. That was why she helped it
to rise superior to its weakness and to do what it saw to be really
best. He said it was no disgrace to be weak, and vows helped one to do
what might be difficult without them.
Then he said that if Mrs X. felt she was called to the religious life,
this vocation was the result of supernatural Grace; that she would not
be thinking of what was delightful or convenient to her, but of what was
pleasing and honourable to God. She was bound to follow the appointment
of God, if she felt certain that was His appointment, rather than her
own desire, and before anything she desired.
Here I said the objection made (and I quoted Cunninghame without
mentioning him) was that her desire might be for the calm and security
of the religious life; but might it not be her duty, possibly a more
difficult, a more unselfish and less pleasant duty, to stay in the world
and not to shatter the happiness of another human being?
Father Stanway then said it was very easy to delude oneself in most
things, but not in following a religious vocation. One might in _not_
following it. It would be easy to pretend to oneself one was staying in
the world for someone else's sake. One's merely earthly happiness was
not a reason for _not_ following a vocation, nor was anyone else's,
because the religious life belonged not to things temporal but to things
eternal. However, if it were her duty to remain in the world she would
feel no call to leave the world. It was impossible for a human being to
gauge the vocation of another human being. A vocation was a
"categorical imperative" to the soul, and there was no mistaking its
presence. Mrs X. would know for certain after she had spent some time in
the Convent, she probably knew already, whether or no what she felt was
a vocation or not. Nobody else could judge, though her Director might
help her to decide. He would certainly not allow her to stay if he felt
she had no vocation.
I said: "So, if after she has lived through her first period, or any
period of probation, she feels uncertain as to her vocation, there would
be no objection to her leaving the religious life, and marrying Y.?
Would the Church then allow her to marry Y., and allow her to go back to
the world, knowing she would in all probability marry Y.?"
Father Stanway said: "Of course, and the Church would allow her to marry
Y. now."