ST. MICHAEL’S CLUB
St. Michael’s Club, 38 Grosvenor Gardens, London, was an ideal hostel
for priests, as it was open only to men in Holy Orders. Before the war
it had been the city residence of Lady Lovat. But shortly after the
commencement of hostilities it had been rented from her by the Duchess
of Norfolk and very kindly given over as a club for priests.
Though there were many chaplains in the building when I arrived, I was
lucky enough to secure an airy room. I actually felt like a boy as I
took off my haversack and flung it on the bed, after the hall porter
had left the room. It seemed so good to think that for fourteen days
the danger of being shot or blown up by shell was very remote. Then
there were many friends and brother priests in the house, and outside
the door was London, and in London there were lots of bookshops, and to
a booklover this meant bliss. The cathedral was but ten minutes’ walk
from the club, but we had our own little chapel in the building, and
the chaplains had the privilege of saying Mass there.
In the smoking-room, which was on the ground floor, there were many
large and deep-cushioned armchairs that were very comfortable. There
was a big open fire-place and whenever the weather was damp or gloomy
outside in the London streets a bright fire burned in it; one could
count on there being a fire very often. Sometimes in the evenings it
would be very quiet in the great wide room, as the priests sat around
reading the evening papers, the only sounds being the occasional
crackle of a newspaper, as it was turned, and the purring of the fire.
From outside could be heard faintly the dull roar of the city, made up
of a medley of sounds: the rumbling of great elephantine busses that
bumped along the streets; the whir of hundreds of taxis spinning along
over the pavement, the rattle of wagons and squeaking of innumerable
horns. Now and then the house would shake very slightly, though
perceptibly, as far below the basement the cars of the underground
railway whizzed through the tubes.
I stayed at the club for four or five days and enjoyed very much the
time spent there. Bishop Fallon, a Canadian prelate, whose diocese was
London, Ontario, was staying at the club. He had but recently returned
from a visit to the Canadian soldiers at the front and was soon to go
to Rome. I met there, also, the chaplain-general to the New York state
forces, Monsignor James N. Connolly. He was a most lovable man and I
enjoyed talking to him in the evening. He was vicar-general to the
Catholic chaplain-bishop. He gave me his address, Hotel Castiglione,
Paris, and told me to call on him if I ever visited that city.
Staying at the club were Irish, English, Scotch, American, Australian,
New Zealand and Canadian priests. And of all the chaplains I found the
Americans the finest. They were lovable, friendly, broad-minded men;
one needed only to be in the room a few seconds till he was on speaking
terms with the American priest. There was a certain friendliness about
him that was irresistible. “I’m Father Whalen, from Dubuque, Father,”
or, “I’m Father Joyce from naval headquarters in London, Father,” or,
“I’m Father Waring from New York City, Father,” would greet you on
meeting for the first time one of these priests. Whereas an English
priest would look at you coldly, and perhaps say in a chilly voice:
“Good-evening, Father.”
Father Knox came up from Bramshott and invited me down. He said he
had a surprise for me. I wondered what it was. Shortly after seeing
Father Knox I received an invitation to spend a few days at Anthony
Place, Hindhead, Surrey, the country home of Agnes and Egerton Castle,
co-authors of many books. Hindhead was only about three miles from
Bramshott. I had visited Anthony Place while there. I promised Father
Knox to visit Bramshott from Hindhead.