Gosscommon wd have shaken his
hand at my pleasure in hearing
this. When I held a fairy sweet
little white pink & an eriognonum[?]
between my fingers & said “I never
held any flowers so beautiful”
the Irate who had picked them
& presented said gallantly “I
am the luckiest of men”. O Goss!
Little Duncan does not come, tho’
I keep in the garden talking
with the flowers, while Michael
is away at St. Peter’s & the
Raff & Grib sleep, – talking to
alkanets[?] transfixed & tossed by bees,
finged[?] pinks – oh, so many flowers! –
that I may be ready to welcome
the Elf Man shd he come.
But he is too much of a poet to
spoil the perfect meeting with
one in a house where he & I had
been ( I believe, inadvertantly )
insulted.
At night during Benediction Mr Yapp
bows his Eastern head before his
Western God’s unveiling, & the
devoutness expressed is of solidity
that makes his head into the
likeness of a Bronze noble with
endurance of passion.
That dear, mysterious head!
One understood even death on the
Cross for it.
Notebook 23, Page Image 262; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 126v; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-262.jpg
[E.C.]
Monday July 13th
We heard on Saturday night that the
Archbishop had delayed the
Confirmation for a ‘Trust’ Committee
till Tuesday – these Archbishops
& bishops! Fortunately for us
our nice Mrs Thom can just
give us the extra night – for
Monday had been surely settled
& we had arranged to start for
Ireland on Tuesday.
Michael grows a little sick
with Confirmation delayed.
Fr Gray is to dine with us – in
habitual rain we drive to get
lilies for our Lady’s Altar to present –
lilies & fruit for the dinner.
The lilies for St. Peter’s Lady Altar
we take, & Fr Gray loaves[?] a man,
quivering with interest that Michael
Field is in the house to show us
his Chardin, his Dining Room.
He talk of Scottish Catholic worthies
& himself shows the thistle all
round his roses the rose-bower
of his presence.
In the afternoon I call on the Raff-
Grib. – an intimate call. He speaks
most encouragingly about Conversion.
To be the real thing, to be safe from
modern, the Flood must cover
all one’s Earth, every mountain
-top must go under; one’s whole
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[E.C.]
nature must be submerged. Then gradually
the waters fall – The Earth is the same
but covered with mud & strewage;
these after another while are
rich vineyards & the Earth returns
to her beauty.
The Raff lives submerged three
years – Many of the periodicals
he most valued & values have
three years missing as record of
the Flood. Like us, like Verlaine
too, he could not read. Shakspeare
was vain – all save Wordsworth
& Crashaw. Then the flood sank –
he read Henry V – behold, it sang
true with Catholic sound.
Soon he took up everything –
but with changed evaluation
– often with new interest. He
discussed the Catholic wisdom
hidden in Göthe[?].
I must not be sad that I cannot
write, that I cannot read – I
have not been under the waters
two years yet.
This confidence was⟨is⟩ most mercifully
given – some times I feel so darkly
submerged. This friendship on
the good little Raff’s part is an
Act of Hope in my intention. It
moves my spirit to a gratitude
tenderly felt.
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[E.C.]
When I reach the Presbytery there is a
fire – mossy couches[?] swelling
round it & the Fr pouring out
a rosy tea. I join only to hear
Michael has not made her
Confession for tomorrow. Naughty
Michael! And Blakies waiting
to see us. I break away from
that green & red heat of the
parlour & drive post haste to
Thistle. Blakie is disappointed
& furious. He had got cigarettes &
a beautiful tea ready, & now he
can give me but a bare
five minutes to say he will
print ‘Queen Mariamne’ for £16.
I placate him winningly[?]
& we part, arranging to visit at
2 o’clock Tuesday.
We [????] receive the Little Father to
a dreadful scurvy dinner –
the fowl is like white wood
in strips, the sweets are
two apothegms on the Middle-Class,
the grapes are arctic, white foxes
have guarded them under icebergs
& they bring their climate to the
stomach[?] The little Father ascetic
by discipline has the judgment
of the diner-out from Park Lane.
We will avenge this dinner at
Paragon!
Most of the talk is of the cloistered life
Fr Gray says Fay treats him with elaborate
respect continued 8 pages on
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[K.B.]
Letter to Fr Gray
My dear Father – A Novena[?]-sermons[?]
&?[?] Maturin. I was glad as at the sacrifice
to Moloch – to dream by[?] [????]humanities[?]
in outside voices
–It was dark with me & no[?] day of Pentecost,
a little thickening of the cloud[?] All . . . .
Can you understand? I am perfectly
at rest in the Sacrifice, the Sacrament.
How turn from the Incarnate God –
to[?] when one cannot draw man[?] save
by the Holy Ghost – [????] another Invocation”.
Fr.[?] Vincent – unless his silence is to help,
refuses help. He has refused to help me to[?]
a Confessor. He spoke of a newfound wis-
-dom & Counsel. I should be super-
-naturally guided
So, in the Confession, I got into the [????]
box – the Carmelite Church, White flowers
– the crowded City Church where sinners
are absolved as swiftly as pigs are
killed at Chicago – where I could not
speak really, & only[?] a deep horror seized
me of unreality
Meanwhile, by a secret path. I was
assured. I had prayed that Confirmation[?]
wd. convince me of sin. A day or two ago
Z mentioned to me a circumstance – told[?]
me how action of mine had led a man
already shrived – to seek Confession a second
time – & of the great sympathy of the Confessor.
– I see this sin as a herse struck out
against the horizon – not that in itself
the act was much – not at all. It is Michael’s
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[K.B.]
marvellous power of provocation[?].
However, there it is – & by petition granted.
– ⟨am⟩ Such comfort to me from the blessed
book of Hebrews. “For the earth which
drinketh in the Rain that cometh off
upon it receiveth blessing from God.
Who through faith & patience inherit the
promises.
So I fall back on patience, & not troubling[?]. But you will help me, Father, in regard to a
Confessor? Fr. Larkin a Dominican –
( a lady of mine, a tertiary ) found him –
well – she went again – Do you know
him
I leave the Confessional weeping – not at
all for my sins, but because practically
I am [????] “Go away, you nice, ⟨fat⟩, little,
lamb & frisk”.
The darkness, the wrong, the alienation
– no bitterness – save the bitterness of the
patient – who has a mortal trouble with
his eyes. & is sent away – much patted
on the cheek by physicians who simply
he sees perfectly.
Father, what a comfort is S t Thomas!
“Every intelligence naturally desires
the Vision of the Divine Substance,
But a natural desire cannot be in
vain. Any & every created
intelligence then can arrive at
the Vision of the Divine Substance,
& inferiority of nature is no impediment
Are you not thankful I was not
stricken of St Thomas before Confirmation
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[K.B.]
I must have had him along with St Anselm
Of realised good in that Sacrament
– My Intercessers, the Holy Rood.
I am there, & there at peace.
Michael.
A little much-needed Cat’s cradle
--------.
….It still seems to me we did not
see each other: But the next
moment we should have seen
each other. Dear Miss [????] finds
me unappreciative . . . “ There are
more things in Heaven & earth than[?] are
dreamed of in her philosophy. And
you surely must know where – but let
Hamlet, misquoted speak[?] –
“Since my clean Soul was mistress of her
choice”
I am half-dying of the feeble air in
Ireland.
………
Z., unconsciously, is determined to
keep one a little lower than the angels. –
everyday a little lower still!
 I took off my
hat, & back the warm seeking hands
feel my cheeks & my head – that she might
know all about me”
“Fine Hat” was the judgment. Apparently,
[????] God’s ministers ]25 that of the Final
Day also!
Father, a great wave sprayed over the
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[K.B.]
blessed Albert[?] “in my [????]” But I had
defended the precious little Scarlet
Book with tissue-paper, & it was the
tissue-paper in [????] Mass that re
-ceived the wave!
Michael.
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[E.C.]
Ireland26 interpolated.
Sunday St. Anne’s Day – July 26 th
The ordination of Priests at the
Jesuit College, Milltown.
From a side-altar the Bread of Life
is brought to us.
Friends in the futile taudriness[?]
of the world begin to arrive, &
the bells of the Masses at the
side-altars break out on their
footfall constantly.
A long vesting[?] of the Crabbed-
looking Archbishop . . . while
the 16, who are to receive the
most awful gifts a mortal
may receive, kneel with their
candles. The faces will under a
discipline of 15 or 17 years, & under
a force of emotion we have felt
gathering in the air round the
walls & roofs opposite to us, for
the last week till it has
communicated a stress of pain
to our spirits, have the fixity
of clouds that are continent
of lightning & thunder. There is
a matter-of-factness in their
continence of thunder-clouds –
detail becomes obvious when
doom is close on operation.
Faces of victims! Not one like
the faces of other men – only the
young heads, spite of the superficial
cropping, like the heads their
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[E.C.]
Mothers bore into the world.
Heads to be dedicated that must
must[?]⟨be⟩ very dear to the Mothers
who endured a Sacrament
as victims when they bore
these sons into the world.
A moment that thrills, as when
each ordinand, as a trees
rustles forth its breeze, murmurs
“Adsum”
Then to see them fall on the Earth
-timber filled before a
Litany of Prayer to the
Commities of Heaven –
and the roar of “Ora pro nobis”
Young lions roar so for meat
These young fellows roar, as they,
for help in their supernatural
life, the life that is the starvation
of their powers of love & war
& the manifold activities
of their sex.
Like a lion’s roar, theirs
comes from deeps, upward – as
from the belly of the sea,
from caves of strong mountain
-ranges.
Then there is silence & the
ordinands kneel. That silence
is not from belong below like
the sound : it is from above –
it settles, as before snow
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[E.C.]
there is a settling aloft that
falls a miracle of peace on
what is soon to be covered
with the whiteness of heaven.
Then snow –
Now, quiet hands of the Archbishop
& of many priests on the
heads of the Six-teen.
I miss a little of the ceremony . . .
Now the hands of all are to
be anointed & bound – I
watched the white imprisonment
of those hands that are to bring
us the blessings by which alone
we live the Supernatural life.
Bandaged as if for wounds, these
hands with the oil on their each
palms – hands of slaves to
God, the happiest hands of
bone & flesh that they work
& fall to dust – working,
God’s mysteries here, to be
renewed in the immortal life
the hands of priests forever.
Then the stole lifted from the
shoulder, & made a joke for the
neck ( that stole that is the sign
to penitents of redemptive bearing
of their sins ) – then the chasuble
of Love before & behind their bodies
giving them the protection of
their Supernatural Office of
Mercy.
Wonderfully unique to hear the
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[E.C.]
words of the Canon spoken aloud,
after the ordinands have each
offered their lit candles to the
Archbishop.
Yes – we may not speak aloud
the mystery till our little
flame of personal life is
given up & blown out.
The Archbishop takes the
Candle, hands it to a server
– & it is quenched.
But the words of the Central
Silence by wh : we live are
spoken aloud for all to
hear by those who are
themselves the Offertorium.
We listen – we may : victims
are permission to ordinary
human nature : the Victim
of all Men, the God-Victim,
is the allowance of the
Beatific Vision. No marvel
then that we may have
the beatific hearing of the
Canon, from these young
lips of just-devoted priests
after the order of Melchisedek.
Beatific hearing! – after
There has been Silence –
There will be Silence –
But we have heard Hoc est
Corpus Meum once.
Then there will be silence again –
till another ordination blesses our
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[E.C.]
Ears with the transcendant novelty
of the Holy of Holies audible to
worshippers.
It is arresting as a sight to watch
the Fr Rector give the Precious
Blood in the Chalice to his young
priests – Fr Findlay has a face
packed with virtue, with quality
as a priest.
At last the power of the Keys – the
soul of all the other more
heart-attaching gifts, the
thumping fiat of heaven
into ecstatic flesh & blood, the
ratification by force of
wondrous mercies.
The Mass closes tamely – one
yearns for a Te Deum.
Archbishops & Bishops disrobe as
if they belonged to worldly[?] society
– & yet they have no mirror!
The big-headed cross-looking
Archbishop is gone . . .
A break in discipline!
The consecrated sons stand before
their Mothers & give the Virgin
blessing of their hands to those
who made them. And the really
devout Mothers look up as
if to children adopted by another –
& that other the Creator ⟨& mystery⟩ of
all – there are tears of separation
& tears of joy – of joy that is
veneration, such adorable joy
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[E.C.]
to a Mother. Our turn comes – we
press to the rails for as many
Virgin blessings as possible.
The young hands wave like
new-born limbs – I feel
the air move above me; my
hat is pressed down – hands
opened to the infinite; bi-valve
shells of Grace, wide before
me, wait my Kiss.
Sweet indeed to touch with one’s
lips with revering love, hands
that are allowed to touch
& handle the mysteries of God’s
inconceivable Love.
–
After lunch – Benediction at the
Convent. How the white angular
veils befit chastity – “threaten
the profane”. But the singing
of the Virginal voices is
but a rill, that the voice
of one celebate priest almost
obliterates.
Woman becomes in expressive
without maternity; man’s
continence, being the withholding
of power, is resonant & grows
characteristic.
Fr Wheeler, Amy’s Jesuit Confessor, is
present at Tea – His eyes brilliant,
useful, enjoying as blackberries
a ’top of an autumn hedge –
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[E.C.]
So tactful is to find he has
omitted his particular exam
of conscience when he finds
Amy has not said her prayers
– over wh : omission she is
over-scrupulous.
He is charming[?] to us – full
of sly fun at our Paganism;
he says he will bring over
Fr Russell of the Dublin
Review, the sponsor of many
(minor) poets to see us in
the evening. After a
Benediction given by one of
the Newly-Ordained, with
his Te Deum for all, – such
a solemnly slow Benediction –
old Fr Russell comes comes
with the benignant Jesuit under
twilight. He is plain aristocratic
– like a Whig of Literature – giving
to all he says of it a social bias
of the very old times. He makes
an event of meeting us, though
he has only read reviews of
us!! He speaks of Lady this & that –
of Lionel Johnson, the broad of
poetesses, Fr Tabb Meynell &
others with the gentle persistency
he has learnt from his Breviary!
July 27th
We heard at the College a fledgling
Mass. It so touched us! The slowness
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[E.C.]
& emphasis – F r Wheeler, an attentive
Mentor looming gray & broad[?]
over the new celebrant-youngster.
Consecration, at the Little Elevation,
at the Cominxtio!
I am the first lay-being on
whose lips this one-day Father
lays the Bread of Life ( F r Buckley
of San Francisco ). He feeds all
those, who are to follow him
into the priesthood, round the
altar where they settle like
a flock of rooks in a field
of seed – then he is before
me stiff & reverent, with
the Gift of Life heedfully given.
Most touching the seriousness
of deliberation in contrast with
the later seriousness of Velocity!
This afternoon two new priests came
to bless us & have there just-
anointed hands kissed. They are
jubilant as young birds promoted
to the grass & worms.
What adaptation! Oh, we shall
easily become used to our change
in the other life! These young
men are no longer scholastics –
they are priests. And their joy
is of God & of youth & of
the responsibility of that union.
How they bless!
One, a Dutchman, is simple
& sparkling as a stream
about wooded rocks – There
are rocks, but verdant, &
the sweet light of ⟨the⟩ scene
is heart-easing – a sweet
creature, spontaneous[?] & personal,
– very sweet, glancing something
almost elemental from
his eyes, yet discipline
not far off & helping the effect.
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[blank]
Notebook 23, Page Image 279; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 135r; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-279.jpg
[E.C.]
Continued ⟨from⟩ 8 sheets back.
Edinburgh
Fr Gray’s Visit.
Also Fay opens the drawer of a [????]
to show some trifle, only that he
may learn if his visitor will notice
the Henri Deux frame above.
The tax of this method is
annihilating.
“Then, Michael to be confirmed at
eleven tomorrow!”
And he leaves us, his smile
open, as if a lid had been
taken off it.
Tuesday July 14th
The Day of Michael’s Chrism.
And, of course for Michael the rain is
over & gone.
The Mass of St. Bonaventura –
The Gospel “Vos estis lux mundi . . . non
potest civitas abscondi supra montem
posita” timely for a Confirmation
– one who hears the prayer that
“Spiritus sanctus in eis[?]p[?] super-
veniens, templum gloriae suae
dignanter inhabitando perficiat”
Prayers in St. Peter’s for the coming
event – Vincent’s prayers, the Vineyard’s
prayers & many others by altars
& in Convents were all offered
yesterday, through the Archbishop’s fault
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[E.C.]
Michael wearing his ‘beige’ veil
& ‘beige’ edged ruff & gray scarf –
gray as the hat under the veil –
looks temperately solemn, &
at heart has obedience &
some sadness from checked
faith & persuance of the
Holy Spirit.
The Castle crag[?] ramparts are
set on a hill today to be
seen – their forked jag almost
giving a sense of movement
on the clear air. We give it
a military salute.
At the Presbytery we want in
the green-bank chairs, while
we talk of Darley ( that little
wonder The Phoenix & the next
wonder of The Bee ) – we talk of
Dominicans . . . . at last in
the quietest voice, most ⟨like⟩ the
voice that summons you to
the Doctor or the Dentist Fr Gray
pronounces “Now let Michael
come & be confirmed”. His hand
is on his bag, & we walk away
to the near house of the Archbishop,
leaving our cab behind.
On the way he & I talk of Juniper –
its grayness, its stretching attitude
of growth, its berries grayer than
the grayest ripe grapes . . . Yes, we
talk Juniper . . . a pleasing young
Woman in green coat, black hat & veil
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[E.C.]
like Michael, only with a tentative
hold of the hat, stands by a gate &
waits up[?] us – the lady who is to
be Michael’s comrade-in-arms –
a young thing whose husband
is in opposition to her on the
question of religion.
Then we meet Miss MacDonald
the impressive godmother to both
& swiftly we are in his Grace’s
[????]. There kneels the Grib
& at the last moment of all
the Raff crawls in.
Gladly Fr Gray serves His Grace.
I realise in the calm flat
eyes, the slight dome[?] of the
forehead[?], the precise look due
to Catholic discipline
Humantistic style there is
something of the Renaissance
Coin in Father Gray. He moves
decorous & joyous round the old
Archbishop. Most Archbishops
are not apples on the tree of
Life, but pears on the oldest
Tree in the Garden – so this;
he has a pearlike appearance,
ripe, not lovely, withered in rubescence[?]
with a certain smallness in
his dignity. His robes, his mitre
are enough to make me disown
my Confirmation as out of form.
And how different our first
Confessors serving the site – Michael’s
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[E.C.]
all willingness polished with
smiling – mine all submission
with averseness from the Superior;
a rebel, but anxious as a
head-boy in the Company of
an uncertain Master.
Michael looks so ‘finished’ –
the world art, multiciplity
of spiritual & emotional experience
have moulted[?] every aspect
of her face & body ; her young
companion-in-arms looks so
fresh & crude & straight
& strong-tinted & happy.
Once Fr Gray ( out of order, through
care for this really delicate young
thing ) pushes a chair for her
to rest on – the Archbishop indicates[?]
Michael shd sit, & she casts a
wild look back at a falb-
stool. An instant, & the capable
Godmother brings up a chair.
I pray & pray till the last
moment.
As soon as the rite is over, Fr
Gray asks us to see the Archbishop
at his express wish. We all
kiss the ring & benignantly
he waves to seats & then
says to Michael “Well, it has
been a very nice little function”
Does Michael reply –
The little Comrade-in-arms smiles
with eyes & teeth “It has indeed”.
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[E.C.]
His Grace makes conversation
with the Raff & Grib & the
distinguished Godmother & with
me on St. Andrews. I think
he esteems me as mysteriously
involved in the Confirmation.
What a fearful thing is ‘made’
conversation – a thing without
any feast or birthday, a
monster on the air!
Then with decision, in wh :
Roman & Park Lane training
Each assist, Father Gray kneels
& says ‘Adieu’ on the ring.
We say ‘Goodbye’ – & we
are walking back to St. Peter’s, in
company with the Comrade-in-arms.
Fr Gray joins us –
“Michael confirmed’ . . . .
And he goes on with me. I am
moved to speak of my confirmation
intimately. He says “Michael
has robustness, [????] some-
thing to strike on. She has
makes echoes, reverberations –
you with your health, have
nothing to strike on, I should
think!” “Only not much – only my
sins & that is rather dismal.”
We drive the young thing, happy,
she says, as on no other day of
her life back to the small home
where the protesting ‘hubby’ of
awaits her – a mist-pall to drop
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[E.C.]
on a rising lark. Sweet young
thing! Our prayers enter her
door, through wh : she is afraid
to ask us to enter.
Next discipline – we drive to
see Miss Young, who lived once
where St. Peter’s stands.
She is like one last bit of
flower on a dusty autumn
-plant. Her faith is rose-pink –
she smiles unseasonably
amid the filth of her dwelling
-house, filth of unsound
mind, & the smell of many
dogs & puppies where no
windows are open. But
at every evening Angelus
she will pray for us.
Returning to 7, Atholl Crescent
I [????] am reaching the stairs
when I turn at a noise to see
Michael fallen across the door-
step – the polished strip of bronze
having betrayed her.
To fall like that, & after the
Sacrament. I am grieved for
her, my Michael. In the bedroom
she has a “jolly attack of hysteria”
as she names the scourge.
After that her courage springs up.
Blakie cannot see us – he had forgotten
a public meeting at 2.
Michael has a last ½[?] hour at the
presbytery trying to win[?] the
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[E.C.]
priest to allow the poet in himself
as well. She proposes they that
he & she should write a little play
together for his children to act.
He would be “handicapped” – but
when I drive up & we insist on
taking him to his appointment
in George Street, he looks sunned
– his face is welcoming not
only to me, but to something
impalpable.
He looks also with admiration
at the hat of heliotrope wings
put on by me for the Irate
Sculptor – Then we must
part. His voice to Michael is
moving in its tenderness, the
stamp of the Keys in its
warmth, “God bless you &
keep you safe”. With kind eyes
full of blueness as full seas,
he says affectionately to me
“God bless you” – & we have
parted & are on the way to the
Irate Sculptor. Alas, he is sleepy
– the atmosphere is stultifying,
for Michael is sleepy too, also
uncommunicative.
But there is a space of life⟨revival⟩. He has
done a bust of Lady Margaret
Sackville. How delicately the
pride of life exults in her! As Michael
says “How she has molted back to
the winds of Heaven. I do not want
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[E.C.]
to read her works – I want to see this
lovely creature : not that this will
give pleasure to Lady Margaret
Sackville. Let her suffer – as we
poets must, from being so much
more than our works!!! ”
Wednesday
Last Mass – & then we say that
goodbye of looking for the last time
& of praying from still lips that
is the only Farewell to a
Priest in his Church.
Michael says “I feel the cold flat
of a sword against my heart
when friends disappear out of my
life & do not speak”.
Carefully we are sent off from
Edinburgh by our good Scotch
landlord.
A journey – dull.
Chester – rain, & the one welcome
we [????] can have of home ( except
the sweet earthly one of Grove House )
the Altar of the [????] Sacrifice
extending to us its adorable
gift. We go straight to that
home in the Franciscan Monastery –
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[E.C.]
All in Michael’s writing interpolated
[K.B.]
Aug 7th From Grove House – I cross to
the Jesuit College & to Fr Peter Finlay.
What steps, polish – wide open-door –
efficient welcome!
Yes, he is at home; and my wits
scuttle to the door to get out of their[?]s[?] home.
– In a few moments he enters
the parlour – as if a sword should
come & lay a steel, flat ear against
one’s lips.
No faltering words of introduction
All well[?] – I begin :
“Father I was confirmed about a fort-
-night ago . . Holy Catholics expected
me to feel that I had received the
sevenfold gifts, & I was puzzled, because
I felt no difference –”
“No wonder you were puzzled. The
whole Catholic Church is puzzled.
There are 2 schools. Duns Scotus affirms
there are not the so called 7-fold gifts –
– nothing but activities of the Holy
Ghost, moral Virtues . .
It would have been impossible
you should feel them : to feel them
would be natural, & they are super-
-natural”. – “But good Catholics
have affirmed they did feel these
gifts”.
“Then they felt them with the
nerves & with the imagination”
. . . . . . He continues
“When one practices music – some-
-thing remains of music from
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[K.B.]
the daily practice . . . Some music
remains with one’s fingers. This
is what we call the habit of virtue.
the gift of the Holy Ghost is super-
-natural & cannot be apprehended
of Nature”.
“Then I may be content to - - - ”
“You may be content.”
Arrangements for Confession – then
I open a difficulty.
“ Father, I am taught without
baptism there cannot be Salvation – ”
A reluctant: No.
“Yet I am sharply taken up, if I
suggest that my Protestant friends –
let us speak of the unbaptised,
Quakers – are in danger, or cannot
be saved.”
– “You know the letter of the Hebrews ” ’ –
“It has recently been my comfort”.
– “that God is, & is a remunerator
of those[?] who believe in Him”.
Whoever believes this, & is in
Good Faith, goes to Heaven.”
“ Unbaptised?”
“ – The Jew who rejects baptism, the
pagan who cannot understand[?]
it, if, both of them believe in God,
are saved, & go to Heaven.
A[?] the danger to non-Catholics is that
they may not make good or perfect
contrition” –
“I own[?]⟨knew⟩I knew very little of the life
of contrition – before I became a Catholic”.
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[K.B.]
“Just so” – there is the danger. Without
full contrition there cannot be
forgiveness. Heretics sometimes do
not attain to that contrition that
ensures God’s forgiveness – then they are
in grievous peril – ” –
Father, if the unbaptised can be
saved, if even those who reject baptism
can be saved, why does the Church
maintain that an unbaptised
infant can never see Heaven?”
“– A little Quaker Baby has no
hope of Heaven. It has never been
the friend of God.”
By baptism Faith, Hope, & Charity are
conferred – the child becomes a heretic –
– & has all family priveleges . . . ”
If we are brought near to Christ – or ever
“Called” – we must believe all He
tells us : everything he [????] us believe.
If, ⟨uncalled,⟩ we, whole-heartedly, reject – say [?] baptism –
& yet are seekers after God, & believe
that he is, & is a rewarder of them that
seek Him we are saved.
– A man may not believe in the
Trinity, may not believe in the Incar-
-nation, & yet may go to Heaven” –
“Father, it was in adoration of the
Trinity, in adoration of the Incar-
-nation I came into the Church –
– the Catholic Church is founded
on the Trinity”.
“Yes, you have received the grace to
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[K.B.]
see these things – to your Salvation
( this[?] girl was ] 27 – they are essential.
– Yes, you say you have been able
to bear a trial that has come upon
you suddenly – in a different Spirit,[?]
that I can understand, –
through a supernatural gift.
[E.C.]
Of a Meeting with a Friend
My change of faith was confided, after
the first words of explanation &
understanding between us, to that
warm silence of friendship wh :, like
all noble silence, blesses in the
way of Mercy, twice-blessing each
friend who keeps it.
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[E.C.]
Journey to Ireland
Rainy – stormy. No hills of Wales,
no magic flats of Anglsea.
The ports ordered to be shut, but
we prevail against suffocation
& a waves spits at a rare[?]
leather-covered book of the
blessed Albert’s, lent by F r Gray.
In billows of wind we approach
Dublin Bay. . . . No Amy to meet
us! – checked by the weather.
My heart has damp vault-walls.
But John is kind & in his weird
way helpful. . . . The sun
visits the old gardens & the new
gardens along our interminable
way to Grove House. The dear old
place is overgrown with its trees
& looks dark, spirit-loading[?];
& the close air depresses, though
Amy & the dogs are sweetness
about the “perron” of granite &
jasmine.
Fatigue! I have never been so
to the bottom of the well
of weariness – all its mass
of water of Lethe standing
over brain & body.
To drag oneself to Clarendon St.
next morning ( Friday the 17 th ) – just
a day late for its great Feast-day of
Our Lady of Mt Carmel! The Cavernous
Church! And beautiful Brother
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[E.C.]
Joachim has lost the sw[?] nimbleness
& sweep of his plasticity; & the
sharpness of the bronze features
has sunk & destroyed the
sensation of life that penetrated
the eyes fixed on them
with judgment last year.
One year in this cavern &
under religious discipline –
the pride of this wonderful
beauty is broken.
I sleep & pace the garden & its
rains & we read our Office.
On Saturday, renewed, we
not only go to Clarendon St. on
the wings of the tram, but
to White Friars also to hear
Fr Basil Maturin preach for
the Novena after the Feast of
our Lady of M t Carmel.
As St Paul was a Potent Pharasee
become Christian, Maturin is a
potent Protestant become Catholic –
both wereare penetrated with
novel truth, yet the Old Man
now & then is erected.
Maturin is deliberate & waits
till his audience is squeezed
by his silence of all noise.
The sermon is a closely-woven
exposition of the way in wh :
God has always kept the
Channels of His Revelation
separate from the world by means
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[E.C.]
of specially chosen men, simply or
in groups – men with the choice
set on them that makes them
consecrated & priests.
On Sunday we go to the densely
packed Church & hear another Sermon
– much less cogent . . . a
Confirmation begins & we have
to creep out before the Mass
is continued.
On Monday we speak to a
Lady, whose noble magnitude
of body & face, in serene
light of health, spiritual &
physical, has attracted me.
Most very stout people who
are nice, are so as Trophies
of the Comfortable : this lady is
a Trophy of Vigour ; she is
a building, new-washed
with the freshness of the bath,
as with a morning-rain, that
brings roses out of her substance,
as rain will bring rose-colour
out of a stone façade.
She is huge, serene – she wd
like to live on earth forever ; she
makes the tram a sojourn in
⟨excellent⟩ climate ; she is a good Catholic –
& she tells me about beautiful
brother Joachim – really Joseph.
The boy, for , so she calls him,
is a most artistic worker in
bronze, & gave up more than £3
a week, & the art he loved to
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[E.C.]
be a Carmelite. He loves trumpet –
likes as I do, & always asks
for lilies – always lilies. He is
very holy ; he is fading as his
brother did before him in the
outrageous air of sunk[?] old
Clarendon Street. In the Spring
he made & offered two bronze
vases to the altar. I knew
he belonged to our world,
beautiful Brother Joseph, who
knows how to stand & kneel
& step as men did in the
Renaissance, when each one
was a subject in the realm
of Beauty & conscious of his
citizenship in hearing & gait.
So goes the week from Monday 20th
to Saturday July 25th – Early
Mass in the Cavern Church, a
glimpse at our giant lady of
health, with ⟨her⟩ Carmelite gossip
like a breeze, & the serenity of
a summer-holiday-sky in
her eyes – the quaint breakfast,
every one ⟨showing[?]⟩ angles or vapours[?], never
quite human . . . . off to White
Friars for Mass & Novena sermons
– the last being on Friday : sleep
in the wide open country-house –
Tea drawing us, like evening
in Lesbos, together – a visit to
the little village-church, made
lovely by Little One : quaint dinner
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[E.C.]
– pacings in the beloved garden, the
flowers ardent at the edge of
the vegetables in the almost
sunken light that puts noon
to shame as an enlightener of
flowers – oh, the laudnum
– poppy, white as globed & frig
fringed moon-clouds, stagnant
with night! – or we pace
by the field & see the moon herself
through trees, a little moon
embossed by a sycamore.
The evening air flows round
& round the field through the
groves of trees – in the dark
distance one sees the trees as
if motionless, yet one hears
their motion ripple against
one’s ears.
I have never heard leaves so
clear-toned in their multitude.
The sermon on Monday, being the Feast of
the Prophet Elias, Founder of the
Carmelite Order, was on the power
of great souls to influence others –
as Elias dropped his cloak on
Eli’s lus[?].28
On Wednesday Maturin was exhilerating
on Sacrafice – that all we suffer
in the meanest circumstances
can be made divine if we will
take it & make it an oblation.
He sketched the scene of Christ’s
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[E.C.]
death : there was only one thing
that made it sublime the Will
of one Man, who being God, yet
offered His manhood wholly
to God ; offered his death of
a criminal as the supreme
Sacrifice of humity humanity.
I have written of July 26th & the
Ordination of the Priests –
At White Friars I see a breezy[?]
Father come from his confessional
to listen to Maturin, with a
pleased look – that look of
heather at gold August. I
choose to go to his Confessional
on Thursday morning – July 25 th
He hurries me till I come
to a point he considers veritable
matter – then, prompt , as
a Schoolmaster’s advice to a
scholar, he counsels “If ever
an improper thought comes to
the imagination fix it at once
in a picture from our Lord’s
Life – a picture, mind! . . . best of
all on the Agony of the Garden.
As I leave he says with a broad
smile “The preacher is a Convert
like you & has brought gt. grace
to the Church”.
This Confessor is disastrous to Michael
The moor & grouse in his spiritual
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[E.C.]
character revolt.
All this time Vincent has been
silent as if dead – Fay has been
silent as if dead – The Famous
is silent & Goss to whom I
wh wrote, asking about
Benedictine Converts on our
way home.
We go to Benediction & to
Sunday Mass at the Jesuits’
private chapel.
 It is touching to
hear them sing the virile hymns
of St Thomas – such sap in the
strong rhythms.
Prisoners of the Lord! The black
forms come & go at the dictation
of a bell. Very continent is their
devotion – nothing before them
but the high altar. So men
worship in secret.
⟨Letter from Fay – Mary has been using an Elixir ⟩
⟨of youth.⟩
And the next week from Monday 27th
to Monday Aug. 3rd is much the
same as before. We visit the poor
Clare’s Collations[?] – & hear Sister Mary
Magdalen’s energetic hum out of
obscurity. She discovers Michael
is a little lonely spiritually just
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[E.C.]
now & suggests that Fr Peter Findlay,
– the gt. Jesuit Theologian, will
be back the following week &
would see her.
We hear of a morning[?] about the
Sister of our Lady – She was to have
been a Carmel[]ite29 nun & when
the day was fixed, she suddenly
was felled by cruel spine-
complaint.
Such sufferers are forging for
us, who one day may suffer,
the armour we can put
on – they are in the glow
& torture of the forges – their
patience is enduring silver
mail.
A little English Lady, sensitive &
with a gift for making photography
oracular – a message on
scattered films, like the
sibyl’s leaves – gets me as a
Dryad in the shadowy gleam
of the old acacia-tree. I look
rather as I did in youth –
something yet to be in the
burthened but unfulfilled
picture. It is an intimate photograph
&, alas, it tells nothing of
my Catholicity – except in
relation to the elements &
to imaginings. But it encourages
one to see that something-to-be
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[E.C.]
looming like the young springtide of
youth itself.
She fails with me on the ‘Perron’.
She has done a bold picture of
Amy at the side of the tree, the
field beyond. MrsNoon[?] said of
it “It does not look like you, but
like a Saint came down from
heaven . Oh dear!” And she
hums like a bee over the
bitter miracle – for the photograph
is Amy amid the pain of
her life, resting against what
here is of the Wood of the Cross
in her destiny.
On the Saturday John drives us to
the 3 Franciscan churches for the
Portiuncula – a trial to me, that
wd⟨have⟩ been stiff if I had tried bending
it. What a work these Franciscan
Fathers enter! – The streets rubbish
heaps of rags that have under them
creatures distracted as no insects
are – without any order, but the
net of Faith that binds their welter.
The children – happy as insects,
confident & uncontrolled save
by their instinct & their stroll into
the church! But what dirt, what
starvation! I saw a babe I shall
never forget – it sat, a little skull
& cross-bones in the dust & yet it
was a baby & was carrying out its
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[E.C.]
dream of play over its bit of filth
dress – the white sticks of its
little leg-bones.
O beate Francisce!
We drive back through the Castle –
a grim Roman sense of a power
that dominates & is quiet –
asserts authority over this
lax Dublin – I just feel it
as if I were near an Enchanter’s
Tower . . . And I am struck
by the entire secrecy of
England’s dominions. Conolly[?]
one knows nothing of it.
On Sunday I correct the
proofs of Queen Mariamne
now fast arriving.
Fay did the corrections – we
scarcely throw the type out.
In Scotland I had a sudden
illumination that this & most
of our old plays must be by
the author of Borgia – There
is a looking for Christian work
from Michael Field where he is
known in the Church, & his
fresh-published work must be
of the mighty Change in his
life. So Signor di Borgia shall
give Queen Mariamne as a sister
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[E.C.]
to Borgia – & then he shall die
– & all his other plays be collected
Posthumously, & given ⟨to the world⟩ by a
friend ( M.F. ) & Tommy Sturge
Moore to the world.
We have passed from the
life to which these plays
belong – from the impetus that
is their beauty, their vigour – at
least, for a time we are parted
from them & the point of view
of “that hidden eye” that
was their light is changed.
So the Signor shall die – but
his works be stablished[?]
upon him.
On Saturday I think I will try my
lady’s praised Confessor . . . In the
dark I catch very black orbs
& a lax voice saying mild &
admirable things – I grow
enfeebled with the certainty
it is the Confessor who caused
me such revolt last year.
Monday Aug. 3rd to Monday Aug. 10th
Our lady comes in silk as a
Tent to visit Grove House. She
is amazed at its deep country &
deep ⟨18⟩⟨th⟩-century loveliness, though
she loves new houses & bathrooms.
With others, she appears a little
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[E.C.]
obvious & Michael turns sick
of her – rather Michael idealizing
of the good grand creature
turns like butter – naughty
Michael!
But she relents next morning –
St. Dominic’s Day.
We go to the Priory for 11 o’clock
Mass & a Jesuit praises
the lovely habit of the children
of Dominic, & the Christ-
likeness of their Father in
God – He preaches the Saint
& his Dogs[?] of the Lord for a
full hour, & we hear it
like a favourable attack
of Contagion.
In the evening we drive to
the sea at Sandymount –
we tread the sands, & tread
down[?] the cockle-holes, &
see the dogs rush up to their
throats in salt-water. The
hills hang on an autumn
sky – blue spreading water
& blueness in the air over
It. How fresh to breathe!
And we have to wait at a
railway-crossing with a manure
-cart, a hay-cart topped with
children, a jaunting-car with
a capering poney – & a motor
belching oil!
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[E.C.]
Wednesday[?] 30Thursday. Aug. 5 th –
We find on our breakfast-table
the long-delayed note to Michael
from Vincent.
She had written at last.
“My dear Father,
All is not well between us.
The angels are all gone
away from the ladder : only
the rungs remain. Why
is this?
Your Child Maria-Johannes ”
(fragmentary recollection) Joannes
–
He replies :
My dear Child,
I cannot say why the rungs of your ladder
have been unangeled[?]. Perhaps your
eyes are held & you see only the grosser
that sting your eyes to vision. I
doubt it[?] the angels have winged their
flight. God’s will crucifies them
sweetly in the wood of your ladder.
Even were they fled, the blessings
wd not have fled with them. The
rungs are there. The Mystery of the
ladder He alone can unfold who
sits upon the ladder.
I hope Henry & you are filling your shuttle
with treads[?] from the seamless robe. What
a fine web you will weave! But it
seems a sacrilege almost to touch &
still more to unravel the dear texture
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[E.C.]
woven by our Lady with full ritual
of Mother’s song.
God bless you – & her most who
has most need.
Pray for me.
&c
He has idealised the meaning
of the Angels & not seen or been
willing to see they were the
messengers between him & her –
not between God & her.
We walk glad of a letter in
the garden, suddenly dreamy &
hectic with autumn-flowers.
I think we go into town for
fruit & flowers as a gift to little
Pussy – It is so nice to give
gifts when one has received
of one’s desire . . .
At lunch a letter at an unusual
hour – from Emily . . .
Michael reads on, steadily,
with tramp of breath.
What is it?
“My beloved Michael,
I don’t know how to tell you the
news, but I don’t want you to
learn from the papers. Our dear
Father is leaving us. He is elected
Prior at Leicester & goes on Thursday.
We will pray for each other.
He said I must be a hound &
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[E.C.]
not a lap-dog of God.”
The blow falls on us now, but
more on the future – that smash
on what we cannot yet feel is
a tremendous prophetic experience
of sorrow.
Yes – we love him, our great
Welcomer of Poets into the
Church – What will life be
without his humour of imagination
– his edifying of guidance by
laughter & smile – the gush
of life from his presence.
He is so frank to the poet in
us each : an idealist he is
to humble to hide himself
from idealists. He is the only
creature of our world in the
World of the Church.
Blankness & anguish check
tears – our loss! Our last freedom!
O Vincent!
We go down to the little Village
Church – on the altar-cloth
below the August Presence is
written “Behold I am with
you all the Days”. . My heart
grows strong again, even against
the beloved Vincent. He is not
with us all the days – did he
die for us? O Master of the
issues of life & of every Day while
Time is, bowed before thee, I
can weep & yield my self-willed sorrow
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[E.C.]
to Thy resolutions for me – for us.
I leave the little Church softened –
the future is further off, now
I have dwelt at the altar
of ⟨the⟩ Perpetual Presence of
my God.
At the same time comes a
joy to Michael – an intimation
that this choice of Vincent
as Prior will give him
the freedom we have known
he panted for. It may remove
Satan⟨Temptation⟩ further from him
– our Vincent, with the head
of that Son of the Morning
Lucifer – & the eyes of a
Dove hidden in the Cave
of Christ’s Cleft Heart.
And by the evening post comes
a poor little letter from
Gosscommon – offending me by
the lack of elementary trust
shown in the sentence “I am
going away next Wednesday,
& shall not be back until
September 13”. The mean
mysteriousness in any creature
that has Irish blood, the
‘closeness’ of a subject race, makes
me contemptuous.
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[K.B.]
( Interruption of an extract from Michael’s letter
to Father Grey – Aug. 19 th )
I am as a tide-pool overbrimmed by a
great spring-tide. Jesuit Benedictions
– all male[?] voices. Sisters of Charity with
their too thin trebles – the allure of the
Carmelites & Colations[?] – the balmy[?]
atmosphere of the Sisters of Charity,
sermons, witnessings, voices,
experience. And through it all,
a secret smile – “Dominus regit me” –
& a wonder is it not the king’s will,
to keep me a simple piper in His pastures
____
_______________________________________
[E.C.]
Thursday August 6th
Such a beautiful day for Vincent
to go forth! We drop a tear
at Terce, when we read out
“ Cantabiles mihi erant justificationes
tuae in loco peregrinationis meae.”
He told us in the White Room at
Paragon that as he took the vow
of Profession these words filled
his soul. Oh, may he go to
Leicester, with singing as he
travels!
And it is the Feast of the Transfiguration
– the Feast of Supernatural Joy given
to support the worst of sorrows
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[E.C.]
before it fell on human nature –
the gift of prophecy as Providence –
imaginative preparation
vouchsafed by the holiest
kindness. And Vincent preached
so wonderfully on the
revelation of Mount Tabor.
What a radiant Office!
On Friday⟨Saturday.⟩ August 7th Michael goes
over to MillTown College & interviews
FrFindlay[?], that sharp two-edged
Sword of the Church. The easy
entrance to Paradise the Church
gives to those who in good faith
deny her Sacraments, we must
pursue with such hardship,
disintegrates my sense of
justice – It takes me more than
a week to see that though those
outside the Church receive the
penny as we inside – never
the less they have not had the
unique experience that must
alter the flavour of bliss forever
of having lived with Christ
under the conditions of this
Incarnation as He died that
we might be able to live :
that Love-way, as Browning
would say sing, had been
lost by them to all eternity.
And together with this loss
they had attained [????] conditions
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[E.C.]
of invariable peril, while ⟨we⟩ had
been called to conditions of
safe service. They had might
never have chanced to be
hired[?] & never have won the
reward . . . but been vagabonds
with no sweet laws of work
keeping their days sheltered.
The Jesuit College has cruel
benches that torture every
limb – My back has a cry
of anguish on Sunday.
Yet I venture Benediction, &
there I meet the eyes of my
God from behind the veiling
element – I kneel detected
in every small & hateful
iniquity : I realise I have made
the Office a vain offering to Christ
through pride, impatience, hasty
words to my Love when we
read in choro. So many times
I have given what I see, now,
was rejected. I feel like the
Woman of Samaria under those
eyes. To have such exposure is
to be penetrated by healing grace
as if with a shining lancet.
Deo gratias!
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[E.C.]
The Week from Monday 10 to Monday 17th
On Monday 10th we visit our Lady’s Invalid
Sister on her parlour water-bed.
The resolute face might manage
a dairy – but the eyes in
their exhileration tell of
the awful disease of the
spine. She is absolutely uncomplaining
– remorseless to herself & therefore
hard through herself on others
who cannot reach her detachment
– she inflicts the cloister on
more worldly minds – the cloister
that, as a home, has been denied
her. Tea is made from a grand
Queen Anne set. There is a
Chippendale table rescued from
a steward in the hall – no other
objects of beauty.
It is a great privelege to bring
interest to such suffering, & to
feel it grasp hard on to one’s
sympathy.
Emily has written –
“I went to Holy Communion at
his Mass at 7 ; he was in choir
during the 7.30 Mass. Then he left
the Church. I have not seen
him since” – Oh, these partings
where no kindness can be –
save of mutual prayer!
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[E.C.]
Thursday Aug. 13th
Suddenly we make up our minds
to go to late Mass at the
Dominican Priory & seek Fr Larkin’s
Box. As he comes come down
to it, I see a man, like an
older, riper Gosscommon, austere
& saintly & limited, finely
made, with the the added grace
of sweet, convinced eyes.
He is most helpful over the
chastening of cynical moods.
Briefly, he told me to ‘offer’ what
in others distressed me, remembering
I was not responsible for them
but God whose children they
were, & then to let my judgment
fall back on myself.
He fervantly asked me to pray for
him – “not once, every day in
your prayers”. I felt the pure
stability of this Confessor as a
great comfort.
ThuFriday Aug 14th
A fast day; in a household a
Review day for Satan’s armaments.[?]
. . . . We go to a 3 o’clock Benediction
at Clarendon St. – To Receive the
Divine Eternal Blessing of Him
who died one earthly day at
3 o’clock! The hour pierces me.
And then I meditate on the
seamless Love that dies every
-day for us, takes Death as its
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[E.C.]
Sacrament at the altar for
our sakes – & bears the
anguish of stooping the Divinity
to Dust while there is
a man in the Earth . .
One reels before the inconceivable
devotion of God – No wonder
the Sacrifice of the Mass is
the Absolute Revelation
of the Divine, the consummate
Mystery wanting to all
human effort to reach
God by religions. They all
offer their sacrifices & adoration
to Him – in the Sacrifice
of the Mass He offers His
sacrifice & adoration to His own
Divine Majesty as God &
for us as our priest, – laying
on our holocasts the holocast
of Himself, the Receiver of our
gifts, that Divine Love may
accept them purified & made
divine by Love’s exchange
in divine kind, transfiguring
the exchange. Oh, I cannot
put it – I adore, & give, give
from the three-barred[?]
treasuries of my heart.
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[E.C.]
Sat. The Assumption of our Blessed Lady.
A Mass at the University Church,
after the rejoicing Little Hours –
on the breakfast-table this :
“Filiola, missam, cujus honorarium
nihi transmisisti [????], quanprimum
conficiam. Exercitia spiritualia io[?]
diernum hac perago. Hand[?] omnino
gaudium est Jerusalem lampadibus
percurrere. Tibi nihil scripsi,
reputans de te Deo quam tibi de
te loqui melius esse. Domum redeam
hodie, cras e solitudine & gratuis
oasi – egrediens. Domi ero Sep. 1.
beatusque te atque Heniricum
expectabo. Vale. VM’Nabb O.P.
Scribas “ Holy Cross Priory, Wellingon St.
Leicester. ”
This in response to Michael’s last
week’s letters & demand as his
Child to see him on our[?] way
home. To see him before the
Church’s Autumn is more[?] not
begun! We take the Comfort
from our Lady’s bright hands.
It is impossible to believe this
feast-day is not Sunday. The
hours go by in their sun. The
old house seems half-slumbering[?].
At night the Jesuits sing with a
harsh fervour the Salve, Regina – each
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[E.C.]
seems to be thinking of the
Mother who bore him & of
the Elect[?] among women he
might⟨may⟩ never claim – & both
yearnings cried⟨cry⟩ together to
the Virgin-Mother of their
Virgin Master of the whose
name each bears.
Monday 17th to Monday 24 th
Amy & I visit the Carmelite Nuns
at St. Joseph’s – asking for Mother
Josephine. Outside the enclosure
there is the dreariness of the
rejected – long grass, untended
trees; the cows grazing where
the suburbs raggedly overlook
the precincts of the Convent.
The door shuts automatically
behind one, & after a word with
a lay sister who only shows
her mouth & chin, another door
opens & shuts, & we are in the
Reception-Room, bare, with 2 good
old tables by the wall & on the
wall dear old Carmelite nuns
who in the days of proscription had
to be dames & teach the
young idea. Behind the shutter[?] & veil
an affectionate old voice, then
with the hope that St Joseph
would not mind, the barriers
fall from sight of the old lady – & then
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[E.C.]
she is, delicate behind the grating
as an old shell – the infinite
beauty of the sea frayed by its
own infinite discipline, no longer
crisp & smoothe, but worn
away yet shining with the
infinite spell of that sea, that
had spent it.
Something silken about
the shine of the old lady – a
quality of light very tender :
& the old eyes blue as an
old saint’s can be after 50
years’ murmuring – blue as
tarnished[?] enamel from the
crypt of a buried shrine.
Rev. Mother is brought. She is
not so old – a convert, founded
on passion for St Theresa, one
feels in her the same largeness
of her model.
She weeps with joy that there
are Converts on each side of
the grille. Dear old sister
Mother Josephine keeps swaying
with pointed hands toward her
Superior asking permission to
fetch in little gifts “Anything
you like, my dear; they are dear
friends of mine already”. And
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[E.C.]
the fifty-years’ flower of a
Convert disappears.
I must have a scapular –
“Why you’re not a little Catholic
at all!” she ejaculates.
I must fetch you a scapular
& make you a Christian”.
“I don’t think you need trouble
to do what God has done”
says Mother Superior emphatically –
A scapular cannot be found
Then on a second permitted
visit the old Lady brings a
Crucifix – a Jubilee gift – she
sways it toward me, then
check herself & murmurs
“No; I must give it to Mrs
Ryan. She has the Cross.”
All about outside & by our hearth
are old women with dissatisfied
eyes peering about for grains
of earthly happiness amid
the debris of age : here in
this Convent we have seen
old women august amid
infirmity, even decrepitude,
sweet with the silver lights
or the penetrating gleams
of the heavenly life they are
pursuing & are close upon now.
How beautiful is old age
that sees its God on the pier-head
of the haven where a new life
begins!
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[E.C.]
Tuesday 18th
Another letter from Fay –
“I am delighted to think that you
are publishing again.  After a
wild scrall about the Elixir
& its inventor an unfrocked
priest . . . I think Mariamne reads
well in print . . . I like the
notion of the paper cover”.
He has seen my portrait under the
acacia –
“I do not come for the photograph. On
principle I mislike photographs
done in the open, unlike one’s past
or future, which have romantic
charm. They affect one as unwelcome
sidelights into one’s present. I have
never allowed photographs of myself
done in the open. Like a picture
or statue any real work of art
requires a carefully chosen light”.
Wednesday 19th
An old Jesuit Father, rosy, with the
idealism of worldliness his dream
apart from his office, sits by as
we dine, refusing all but coffee.
He thinks he has no spoon, the maid
brings one, & lays it on the top of the
other “Oh, oh! She thinks I am a
secular & there will be a ceremony
at Mill Town Church.” How pleased
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[E.C.]
he is she laughs! – He smiles like
a wedding-favour – then puts
it by with ⟨all⟩ dignity as if the
pages of his Breviary closed
over a memento.
Delightful old Father – rubicund,
formal, making excuses to the
world for the “ridiculous hours”
he must keep, & with-al
fixing on one eyes as
blue & terribly observant
as a child’s.
Next day a more distinguished
Father, round, rosy also, but
impulsive through his
training, tarries with the
tram-conductor as we seat
ourselves in the tram. At
last settling by me he chuckles
“We were looking at that young
lady sitting astride her horse.
I have heard of it in the
Parks, but ⟨have⟩ never seen such
a thing before. Quite a novelty”
He glitters mellowly. “But
I hope it won’t become Common”
he adds with an amicable
emphasis. He considers himself
a bit of an authority on my[?]
literature, & at any rate I
could speak frankly to him
in such terms as we of the
Arts use for these[?] things of
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[E.C.]
our dream & practice as are
hidden from nearly all
people, & from every Catholic
I have listened to, except
the great Vincent, who is
flawed in the understanding
of Art here & there.
We have tried to reach the
mountains – but we have
delayed too long. On the
Anniversary of our darling
Mother one’s death, the cold
rains gather, as they did
nineteen years ago. The days
clear up mostly into blue
strength for noon, but scowl
at sunset & break into
torrents at nightfall.
The dry grass becomes very
softly green & ready for the
fineness of dew September
lays over it.
I did not for an instant forget
on the 19th Wednesday – the fearful
& blessed day last year when I
confessed my most infamous
of sins that fear & shame had
choked out of my deep-black
life-confession, to that old
Saint, who was so remorseless
& so tender. Alas, I am far,
far away yet from the Penance
of loving much he imposed
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[E.C.]
on my life throughout its course
in expiation.
To love much! – I hope he
prays for me, the abject stranger
he punished & pitied – assuring
to me hope of complete
restitution before God, if
my will were His.
I have such a sense of
waiting – as one season
of the year waits for a
coming fulness of the next.
If I could but love, & be
one with the adorable
Spirit of Christ. But, as
the gt. Protestant sang out
of the Truth that might be
in his blindness –
“They also serve who only stand & wait”
I am willing to remain
at pause till the future is
clear in divine light – so
to remain, praying for strength
to be humble, pure & loving.
On Friday I confess to FrLarkin[?]
again. He seems to think I
have exposed my week’s
failures, negligences[?] & offences
in such a way that a
homily need not suppliment
an effect of God’s Charitable
Grace. I am sorry to pine in
vain for a word from one of
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[E.C.]
human race heard encouragingly
under the divine voice of
the Sacrament.
Yesterday Saturday – We receive
from Fay his dragon-phoenix.
“I enclose the devise for the book;
it is quite as rubbishy[?] as the
last, & looks like a trade-mark
for Awake’s[?] Elixir or hair-
restorer. The Painter.”
Of course it is lively with energetic
control of design – tail & wing
& plumed skull single in their
determination as expressing
a whole of intense fabulousness.
Fay says again of ‘Mariamne’
“I think it reads excellently & is
of a fine texture & temper throughout”
He suggest an Argument –
kindly trying to draw one up;
also that we sh d use this[?]
rubbishy paper as in Borgia &
the yellow paper.” Part of the
success ( of surprise ) of the last
was due to the foreign format”.
Sunday
Such a penetrating Benediction
– the Adoro, the Salve Regenia; & I am
gently but directly warned I must
be more ascetic & diligent this
week. Ent beloren[?] sollst du!
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[E.C.]
Monday St Bartholomew.
A meditation during the Offertorium.
Christ has borne the agony of
Time as well as its limit Death
“Let this Hour pass from me”
An Hour like that some time
in the life of everyone comes
has to be faced. Time knits
all its bones & muscles into
a fist – a single hour – &
a blow will fall.  The infinite Agony
of only this one Agony!
One’s soul falls prostrate –
Deus meus, Amator meus!
In the afternoon I take Michael to see the
Carmelite mothers. Dear old
Mother Geneviève bubbles love
as a bee-hive the honey-song.
In the old body there is a
supernatural creature, an
angel with the “Kennst du
das Land” of Paradise. By
birthright, as an instinct she
is full of the celestial climate –
a Seraphic Child of the New
Jerusalem, though far away[?]
behind her convent bars.
The other Mother is no longer
Mother Superior. “She has had
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[E.C.]
her
So the old Darling, who kept bending
to her with folded hands a week
ago, now flippantly announces,[?]
Authority in the Church!
And the Ex-Mother Superior
to whom the benignity of power
was becoming, looks shorn
of fleece, & become a very[?]
unadorned old sheep, depressed
& submissive. She tells me
of the Rule.
Michael says of the old Lady that
she feels as if she were looking
at an old, illuminated Book,
while she found⟨finds⟩ herself a
page of modern[?] paper.
As a child this old saint
loved Christ. “I loved everyone
& it seemed as if everyone
loved me” – & having forgotten
humility a moment she
bows her head.
At her Confirmation she was to
take the name of St. Genevieve – “such
a duckie Saint!” Then the little
girl who was passionately fond of
necklaces winced at her choice
under the thought that S t. Genevieve
wd not wear necklaces. Of course
Satan took the hint, & a lovely amber
necklace was given her as a present.
Bent over it with delight, she went
to her Mama & said “ Will you
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[E.C.]
Keep it for me”. Mama ( delighted
with the sacrifice ) put it high
up on a side[?] of the wardrobe.
It was never asked for nor
restored, but often the little
feet went on tiptoe that
the delicious amber might
come into sight, there out
of reach on the wardrobe.
The story comes with tears
& laughter – There is April in
this tiny tract of memory.
At the village Church I pray
Christ to recall that I am
burdened with the season of
the year; & the season of life, when
youth is gone as a bodily state
is a burthen also – & by His
Agony under the advance of
Time I pray Him to help & give
me that cure for secular
torture, the sublime “Never the less
not my will, but Thine be done”.
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[blank]
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[blank]
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[E.C.]
Amy & Johnnie are gone to
Donegal . . I had cried so that
our friend the profound Susan
asked me if I had inflammation
of the eyes & I had to say the
disease was Parting with a
sister. She was tenderly
reserved after that & let me
recover – till we return to our[?]
empty breakfast table. “Certainly
man does not live by bread alone.
There was the bread in all
its kinds – toast & twist & burly
loaf.
Johnnie was not there[?] objecting
to every reasonable request & so
imaginatively good to the un-
reasonable. We missed Johnnie
& we swallowed heavy morsel.
The silence when we returned
was of death, & the dogs were denied
to us, probably because they were
sobbing somewhere alone.
Now we have accepted –
and we resume life in this
noble Student-house, & Henry
copies ‘Fregit[?]’ with Pussy’s corrections
& Michael begins “Sisters” –
We have not even looked on the red
cow[?]” . . . And packing must begin.
And Michael says “In packing I
am a Contemplative.
It has never hurt so much
separating – I have to remember
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[E.C.]
this : everyday we meet at the
Adorable Sacrifice – that is
what binds up the wounds
of parting : day after day
we four are together & the
same Hand feeds us, & we
drink the same wine of Life
& hear the same words.
No wonder unity is likened to
the precious oil of the High
Priest – when it is intimate it
is consecrated.
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Of the last days in Ireland & the Journey
to Leicester by & by: Of the sight
of our White Eagle clothed droopingly
in his wings & banished
into the desert-provinces,
chained to the Holly Cross
Priory – of that by & bye –
I go on now to the afternoon
of Sep. 3rd. I am waiting in
a parlour with old black chairs
& portraits made into old portraits
by time, not their own mellowness.
Through the window I catch the
Square⟨garden⟩ enclosure of the Monastery
buildings, torn with the rains –
yet full of the daisied floweriness
of autumn, bossed with
French marigolds. And I
am waiting for Vincent.
He enters – a white suddenness
of motion … Yes, his entrance is
like Mephisto’s, not in calm,
like Gabriel’s. We shake hands
& as usual sit on each side the
little Table. There is no shyness
between us – anymore than between
the powers of colloquy in one’s
own mind. So strange! Before
this Dominican I feel nothing
of the hedge of personality that
forbids one in another person –
& forgetting one’s own as a familiar
thing one reaches a condition
universal & abstract & exhilarating
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[E.C.]
as the action & re-action of
elements.
I tell him I am happy⟨happier⟩
since my Confirmation, for I
feel more urgently the call
of the old Vocation to be made
the new one. And I explain
about the many mellow plays
in the old spirit of inspiration
awaiting the press, & how we
feel they are out of date to ourselves
now, & must therefore be
printed anonymously. This
seems to give pain to the historic
bias of his mind; but, being
assured that ultimately they
will be brought back to their
author, he is less opposed, &
sees ⟨how⟩ they confuse present history
beyond recognition. Then he[?]
speaks of our work[?] & of how he
prays that the things of the
faith that have never been
sung before may be sung
by us . . “Oh, Father!” “Yes –
it seems almost sacrilege to
pray for it . . . , & perhaps it cannot
be done here on Earth” &
with a low laugh he buries
his head in the folds of his
sleeves – then raises it &
goes on with audacity that
pleads to God “The Shames
that lie in the Summa[?] . . .
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[E.C.]
if they could be expressed in Song –
the subsistance in the one
Nature of God of His Persons;
or The Incarnation – the dramatic
movement of God into death
& sorrow for His Love’s sake.
But perhaps it cannot be
done . . .It were a great
Song if it could.”
This word of the Incarnation brings
me to the point of an interview
& I ask if there is not error,
mental[?] sin in my contempt
for fact in the Supernatural
Scheme of Religion. I always
see the whole of our faith, as
a Conception of God’s perfectly
Supernatural, independent of
scientific truth – having the
truth of inherent creative
revelation. To be quite honest,
it would not interrupt my
faith if Christ did not rise
in phenomenal earnest, de
facto, using fact scientifically.
If a supernatural truth could
not be believed as a phenomenal
event I should not forsake
the supernatural Conception
& its eternal validity.
“ I understand . . . I have felt
like you; our minds work in
just the same way. I see
the whole reality of God’s
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[E.C.]
scheme that it has attained
perfect self-expression in
a sublime symbolism.
But you are right – there is
great danger in this.
You have been saying what
would shock many to[?] the
depths. I who understand
your soul know you are
sincerely putting forward
the tendency that biases your
mind as mine. We have to
remember that a symbol is a
relation – it is that wh : shows
itself forth something by being
other & yet resembling. A
symbol to enter into relation
with the supernatural must
have a fundamentum . .
There is the Res, the signum
& the fundamentum.
The Incarnation of God has
made fact the fundamentum
of our symbolic Relation to
the Supernatural; & this
fundamentum we must not
care[?] to ignore. That there should
be scientific accuracy in
the account of the fact is
not necessary – the number of
the loaves & fishes in the Miracle
of loaves & fishes, the number
of people wo partook &c –
but the fact that the Miracle
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[E.C.]
took place, is the possibility of its
relation to Supernatural Truth
as manifesting the Blessed
Sacrament.
So Vincent advices that as on
the side of fact my mind
lies open to scepticism, I
should not read any works
of criticism, or consider the
question of discrepancies &[?]c [?]–[?] but
humbly dwell on the record
of Christ’s Incarnate life. It
will grow more & more essential
& unfold new & striking
symbolic suggestion. He specifies
St. John leaving it to St Peter to
be chief witness of what had
taken place in Christ’s Tomb, &
noting when he entered that
the head piece of Christ’s garment
– the visible Church, was laid
away by itself.
Then Vincent speaks of St. John.
He was an idealist – a son of
Thunder. Now the Boanerges in
him swoops down on the world
with the Logos” . . . Vincent
stretches his long white-sleeved
arms & bows as if over a
universe . . . “Think of that beginning
– the word that was before Creation
making descent on men! But
John knew that it was ⟨to be⟩with men
He pulled himself together, & he
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[E.C.]
made his Gospel a record of
discussion & discourse, & for
every event he chose the
salient detail that marked
it out. None of the other Gospels
have the the[?] wealth of detail
given relentlessly by John.
And the teaching of the Eternal
Word is always brought down[?]
to practice “He that loveth me
keepeth my Commandment”
We must seek to be like St. John,
& not let the zeal we have for
God’s Scheme make us
contemptuous of its realization
among men. We must quietly
follow the records of the Incarnation
& obey the Commands of
our divine Lover who came
down to Earth for us.
Then, speaking of this dread of
the material side of our
Faith, an impulse seizes me
to speak of myself to this
Comprehending Spirit, so soon
to become in the Priory Church
my Confessor. I have long suffered
under the sense he has
esteemed me to be what
I never have been good.
I tell him I do not want
to make a general Confession –
indeed a holy Saint bound[?]
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[E.C.]
me never to make one of my
life before I was a Catholic.
Even in the hour of death –
but he must know broadly
the truth if he is to be of
help to me.
As I speak of the ancient
wrong, of the wild giving
& wild penances-in-vain the
face opposite mine fixes with
the gravity of the Sacrament of
Penance as the late hours
of the day with evening.
I shall always see it in
its sombre clement abstraction.
My own face felt like texture
with a wind beating it to
& fro. I did not cry, but every
nerve flapped.
“ You have known Christ’s
Redeeming Love – Thank God,
thank God! ”
My relief he no longer misjudges
me to my advantage! And
he fully sees the necessity
of candour. Immediately
he speaks of all the Apostles
– sinners, traitors to their
Lord, chosen to reveal Him.
And he brings out what a
good & sincere Confession St.
Peter must have made, that each
lie & the circumstance of each
lie is so poignantly sharp.
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[E.C.]
A cab comes for me . . .
“Father, tell the man to go away –
I will pay him at the hotel.
Ask him to send another in
a quarter of an hour” – & I
murmur of Confession.
He seems to think I shall
have endless penance in
the suffering my Art will
give me
We speak further of symbolism –
He tells me of how St Thomas
unites the Elements symbolically
with the Emotions, most
specially the Host with
the sense of strength, the
Cup with Joy, & he is almost
startled that I have prayed
at the Elevation[?] to have
strength to be humble, pure,
& loving, & for to have joy in
humility, chastity &
Love. He quotes
“ Dedit fragi[li]bus corporis ferculum,
Dedit et tristibus sanguinis poculum ”
I feel I must rise. He says it is
a temptation to talk of these
things with me – He & Fr
Norbert[?] talk of them far too
long.
He gives me a long-heart- shadowing[?]
time of preparation in[?] the
Church. I am not sure if he
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[E.C.]
has entered his box at the
bottom of the Church. Twice
my voice startles me by
asking ‘ Are you there, Father’.
And there is silence –
as if “ God did not say a
word ” to my claim for
his Sacrament of death.
When he comes my Confession
is short – his words of
homily briefer “ You must
love, till you forget every-
-thing else, forget your sins;
till you are what the
Holy Ghost Himself is a
subsisting, personal Loving”
With a fine sense that he is
dealing with the terrible
things of sin he says “ Go
in peace – Pray for you me ” in
English, not in Latin as
to Michael. It might seem
“et toutle reste est littérature”
not to speak⟨had he spoken⟩ the phrases
in ⟨anything but the⟩ vernacular in the
neighbourhood of old mortal
sins.
Almost as soon as I get back to
the Wyvern, he comes – in black
skull cap. Michael having provided
cakes, wishes ascetically to bar
him from a cake “ I shall take a
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[E.C.]
cake he says firmly.
How converse moves
along with the oil of gladness,
– that unity when people
understand each others’ minds!
He takes⟨talks⟩ of Bently who made
his Cathedral far bigger inside
than out – of the sisters
of Naz Bethany . . . How he laughs
when speaking of Martha he
says “the church honours her”;
I reply “ As a Semi-Double ” . . .
of St. Joseph holy reticence
under the husband’s typical
tragedy . . . what thunder there
must have been in that
silence – the sound of its own
awfulness!
He talks on till he has to run
. . . we are “ so tempting to
talk to of these things ” – he
could talk on & on . .
We kneel for his brief blessing –
look farewell into the crucified
face – He is gone, begging us
to pray for his nonconformists.
At Benediction he says the
glorious Mysteries & reads a
Homily on Poverty of Spirit –
He does not give, but with us
receives the Benediction.
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[E.C.]
A brief survey of our Return
A dreadful crossing of the ocean – almost
delirious with extremity . . . The
weary pilgrimaging in the little ‘special’
train to Leicester, casting sparks over
wayside stations with unbelievable
names. The Wyvern utterly
commercial[?] & kind . . . The 7.30 Mass –
the gt. Prior in the dank[?] provincial Church
with one or two Fathers . . . The Lay Brothers
that look like Pariah dogs – 2 poor
overworked fellows housed in
dens! – Then the meeting in the
dirty room. Michael left with
Vincent, while I stroll round the museum
of long-ago local bones . . .
Then the burst of a thunder-storm –
swells of lightning amid gray rain,
& Michael in Holy Cross Church at
Confession!
After that, my time with Vincent – two
of the hours of my life. How we
talked, as if we were children of the
new Earth unfettered, supremely
intimate. His hopes for us are terrible;
he is afraid of them as he confidently
utters them . . It was not in the least hard
to tell that grave face the birth of one’s
soul . . . And at last that desolate
yet sublime parting with the friend
who is a priest – the prayers for
each other before the altar; no look, no
word of earthly parting & farewell.
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[E.C.]
The journey to Cromer through an England
to make one howl – only[?] we recited the
Office. We get out of train – put our 7
boxes into cloak-room – think of
taking a cab to drive round, hear the
fare will be 5/- an hour! Refuse!
We hate the look of the place, country,
sea, the extortion, the wild air of
empty pleasure-seeking in the poor folk
taking the thing impossible to us – holiday.
Is there a tram to any spot known
to us? Yes – Peterboro’. So there & then
we remove the 7 packages after
only 5 minutes’ rest in cloak-room.
The sturdy English porter admires
decision & helps the madcaps. The guard
in a wonder at such distinguished
volition puts us (3rd) into 1st Class.
Through the rain, & the cows of
old England we reach Peterboro’ . . . We
can go on & reach London at 8. We
have had no meal all day – but we
go on, forgetting our boxes will descend
without us. We seem as much to be
driven home supernaturally as
Adam & Eve were driven into the
Earth from Eden. We suspect[?] Vincent’s
prayers – He had manifestly
anathematised Cromer, for some
reason. At King’s X, long agitating
bother over lost boxes. Rain in sheets.
Every hotel full. We are turned away
from 6 or 7. In desperation we drive
to Waterloo on our way to wake up
the shuddering[?] Maxwell in Paragon.
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[K.B.]
Sunday of the Congress
Beloved Emily,
And the Martyrs’ blood on
the altar to-day is His blood. How
much more precious now it is
dishonoured. – I was rebuked so
sharply in my prayers This morn,
– & later with St. Peter – to put up my sword.
But really how nice it would be
if these who seek the young child’s
life were dead!
I think of our dear Lord as
like that dear Babe held up &d
safely by the policeman[?]“[?] He trusts
Himself to us so – & I grew to love
Him softly – with the tenderness,
the compassion with wh : one must
love a babe in peril in the crowds[?] –
Emily, we spent a great day
together.
Have you seen the clear head
to-day? Was it nice, & shining & white
–Speak to me of how this grief is
borne – of the helps[?] that issue from
it.
to us I feel there will be such
blessing, but to our people?
Michael
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[K.B.]
Beloved –
I have just returned from
the Vineyard to comfort Him, to be
with Him – to speak to Him of how
infinitely more dear He is to us now –
“despised & rejected.”
– I went to kneel down before
Him as He passed in the street.
– then Emily met me & told of the
[????]: for ever &[?] hours we
waited for the⟨Papal[?]⟩ Benediction [ Render[?]
of benediction then[?] Johnnie. ] – &
singing sometimes ‘Ave, Ave, Ave
Maria”, & that beautiful hymn –
Faith of our Fathers’”.
– In that crowd[?] I became
Catholic in my feeling for “Sweet
Sacrament divine”. I did not
see the white figure on the balcony
of the Cathedral, yet I was blest.
In audition solo tute creelitur[?]
It was a great crowd[?]
I turned sick, when the ambulance
set up by me with their stretchers
& flasks[?] As the hours went on,
I got used, I got used to the little
ambulance whistle[?]. towards
the end, we sang the Salutaris
Hostia[?]. Where I was, there was
no Protestant singing the Arch-
angel wd have lent me his trumpet
to disperse these Scrubs[?].
So the[?] Government will[?] have
to go, & there will be great times[?],
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[K.B.]
& some martyrs. It is glorious
Vincent’s dear, shining head
we saw, floating on the top of the
crowd – It was grand &c, &c –
[E.C.]
Jesuit Fr Wheeler writes from
Mill Town Park to Amy on
her West Coast “ The birds
flew away from Grove House
today, & the air is silent
of their singing”
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[E.C.]
Continued from 3 pages back
By chance we ask at a little hotel in
Duk[?] York Rd if we can have a
room. There is one – a bare attic
( It is all Vincent’s prayers! )
Food at last & a bed!
Next day – Friday . Sep . 4 . –
we go forth to Mass at Maiden
Lane amid[?] a quash[?] of Covent
Garden drags[?] & vociferations[?].
Such a sacred little Church!

Before one the old darkness of an
altar beloved through persecutions,
seven bright little lamps! in front
of the To the Cathedral after breakfast –
2 Masses, Terce, Sext & None in
a side-chapel, the great building in
a state of preparation for the Congress.
One Mass was black, one a lovely
green Mass wh : we made for Paragon
& our life there. Visibly we smiled
when one of the clerics forgot his
Alleluia & “Creation’s chorus stopped”.
He was jogged as we joy[?] each other.
Vespers & Compline during the
wet afternoon & a short Benediction
to end our holiday.
Home to[?] the marigold persistancy
of the Maxwell’s eyes of love –
& to confusion & days of hard
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[E.C.]
work . . The Vineyard Altar deformed
by tasteless flowers; the Paragon
garden grass & the few last
flowers of desolation.
By Sunday the lily-hedge restored
to the altar. Lilies ( rose melponome[?] )
in the Sun Room. Emily comes
on Monday to hear about Vincent.
A novice has told her he will
not use a mirror, but turns
to the wall to shave. But⟨However⟩ he
does see himself with joy in
the eyes & faces of others – I
have seen his joy.
We see FrBarrett[?] – he gives
us confiding, cordial welcome
through his general bitterness
of spirit. 31The sensitive face
has something of the ridged
beauty of bronze, since
some of his people have wished
him removed & he has suffered
among them. We are[?] the first
people who have wished him a long
holiday – but he doesn’t care
what people say, with the Bishop’s
Consent as his guarantee. It is
very sad for a priest to harbour the
unforgotten injury offered by
some of his people so wantonly
to him.
We have prayed for relief from the
domestic misery of the Spring in
Paragon. Two young maids appear
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[E.C.]
friends – one Catholic, one Protestant –
they have good faces. As an
act of faith we engage them,
Jane & Josephine.
Miss Maxwell of the blackest
eyes leaves us . . .
Albert the boy leaves us – &
has not eaten well for
days because of the parting –
Albert’s mother leaves us.
This is on Wed. 9th & on the
10th Michael & I have to be at
the Vineyard before seven to
receive the earliest possible
Holy Communion, that Michael
may get into the Cathedral
for the 1st solemn High Mass.
She is far from the altar, but
in the full light of the lovely
September day she keeps her
eyes on the Road – that figure
of operative patience & fulfilment
of suffering Love hung over
the dusk space midmost[?]
of the spaciousness of the vast
building. What rest[?]! Her eyes
have found themselves a
nitch[?], where they may build their
joy & be at rest.
And when all the pangs of
Legate & Cardinals & Archbishops
& bishops is gone from sight,
the Cathedral clergy return
& chant[?] in they their daily
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[E.C.]
humbleness the hours of the Office.
Friday11th
Mrs Schiller, most generously, lets us
have her tickets as hostess to
a bishop in the Archbishop’s
reserved places. What a
scene it is as the Procession
deploys & spreads over the
Sanctuary – a vintage of
bishops . . . what purple!
And the black of the Benedictines
& the white of the dazzling
surplices & the gold of the
celebrant’s robes, – a gold that
glowed & emitted no light
or sparkle to cheapen its
magnificence. I have never
been so close to such a scene.
And all this pomp cast
down, mantling the choir
before the lifted Host . . . Holy,
holy, holy! The colour poured
out before the white disk
of the Blessed Sacrament, &
crusting[?] the benches sumptuously[?]
with its obeisance.
Driving to our club, we see
troops of the childish Fathers
watching the Horse-guards.
I am violently ill at the Club –
but off again with our valued
tickets to the solemn Benediction –
So noble the fountains of candles
under Bently’s baldicchinio\\\! And
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[E.C.]
the German Music is sung, as
if its genesis began the
interpretation – this is how
anything great should be
interpreted – The O Salutaris
of Bach, the motet ( ‘ave Maria’ )
of Brahms, The Tantum Ergo[?]
of Bach.
Satuday Septermber 1232
Vincent’s Challenge
Again the early Communion – this
time we are able to stay for a
whole Mass. In quaint Vincent
Square, Westminster, we meet
Emily – she has the exaltation
throughout her of having been
to Vincent’s Mass – tho’ to her
wild sorrow she was not united
to him in the Holy Communion.
A little crowd gathers at the door
of the Horticultural Hall where
there is a Rose Show and a
sectional meeting of the Congress.
I feel the massed weight of shoulders
round me . . . it presses[?] panic into
one’s flesh. And Emily has no
plan about meeting Michael
in the perilous streets tomorrow –
no plan for common safety. I
turn into stricken misery of
terror over my Love – am
sullen to Emily, & feel a
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[E.C.]
blasphemous sullenness toward the
Procession of our Blessed Lord, that
entails such danger & such
suffering – what an un-
-imaginative worm to be
thinking of my little snake-
like wriggles in the clay
with such issues deploying on
the air of Heaven. Shame!
I am pushed into the arms of
the policeman opening the
door. To his ‘Don’t push, don’t
push – there’s plenty of time
& of room!” I reply the
truth humbly “I don’t push –
I am pushed”.
We have airy places in front
of the platform.
Emily whispers “He is here, talking
to . . .” She shows me Vincent
in his clerical cloth, swishing
as with the flashes of a
sworded Cherub on some
lady of Hampstead. W.
He knows we are there – it slips
out, a secret betrayed by his
spiritual adumbration – a
power that expresses, without
the senses being used immediately.
He will neither look nor move[?]
toward us, nor speak with us –
but passes away, till suddenly
we see him speaking with
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[E.C.]
sardonic unction to a confrère
on the platform. Then he sits
alone in the solitude of that
ecclesiastical platform while
a Jesuit Father reads a dull,
but unforgettably instructive
paper on Benediction as the
laymen’s own service, developed
from Saluts to our Lady, &
as much a Lay Compline
as the scapular[?] is a miniature
religious habit for the lay world,
& the Rosary a miniature
Psalter. FrThurston[?] ended by
pleading that there should be
more variety in the Service – the
people should be taught to sing
more of the great hymns of the
Church.
I watch Vincent –
The subtle imaginative face is
like an appearance of cloud
among[?] the solid fabrics of
flesh that are the faces of
the bishops & others round it.
There are shining planes of
suffering & patience in its
lustre; there are dents of darkness
where the Powers of the Enemy
ambush in the cloud-valley
valleys. It is a face startlingly
like Dante’s in configuration –
the powerful nose, flattened
as if by an adversary’s fist;
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[E.C.]
the full-curved lips, yet slanting
inward, waves sucked by a
passionate whirlpool from their
natural saliency – the hollow
cheek – turning the record of
today into a scripture on
old parchment of the tomb;
the brow burthened – the
eyes . . . well, those belong
wholly to Vincent – They are
troubled, abstract, sensitive
withal to everything fine
& beautiful & holy they rest
upon. His eyes & their effect
on the brow & temples make
his face that of a saint,
while the enemy prowls
round other parts of his
face & leaps up every now
& then in his smile, assaulting
one’s veneration as it leaps
up to linger & hide again.
He has no mirror, but he is
far too imaginative, &, being
imaginative, too personal
not to be conscious in many
of his expressions & the modes
of his eyes & lips & head.
At last he begins his paper on
Eucharistic literature. There is
profound & awful relation between
literature & Revelation – all
expressed in The Word – Logos, wh :
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[E.C.]
Confess in[?] Literature – the Art of
Words – a singular grace of
association with the profoundest
mystery of Genesis.
This being so, we should expect
that a vast literature had
gathered round the perpetual
Incarnation of the Divine
Word in the Eucharistic Sacrament.
And the father spoke⟨speaks⟩ of Philosophy
– I was⟨am⟩ too wearied to grasp
the movement of his thought
here, & a little disappointed that
he does not dwell more on the
“imperial” St. Thomas.
Then he passes to theology
– again I have missed the
idea that was the life of
this portion . . .
He reads very fast & attachingly –
people could not escape
him, could not help growing
fresh in attention & in
reception. His hand trembles
the papers – the face look eds
humane in its loftimindedness.
He comes to Poetry. As yet
there has been no Dramatic
Poetry or Epic poetry in honour
of the Church’s mysteries
The Logos that swooped
Singing to Earth in the Incarnation
& drew the voice of thunders[?]
after It as It descended to
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[E.C.]
the Spirits below, has not ⟨yet⟩ captured
the highest expressions of
poetry – Drama & Epic.
As Vincent says this, from
under the lashes of his
eyelids, as from under eaves[?],
he launches toward my eyes
& in our direction a most
marvellously-pinioned
Challenge. It stirs forth &
instantly beats its pulses
in my heart. It was is not
a glance, a broad thing
of stream – it was⟨is⟩ a
living flight through the
air. When I looked⟨look⟩ at him
there is[?] a smile is just
heating wing on⟨round⟩ his mouth
– a dove that circles the
cleft. To hear this challenge,
to see it thrown down to us
before an European assembly,
& the princes & rulers of the
Universal Church – it
magnifies us almost un-
-bearably. And Vincent continues
that perhaps it is impossible
– as Epic & Drama dwell
together in the inspired Gospels.
Lyric poetry has laid a great
sheaf of praise before the Bread
of Life. ( Again he does not
mention the incomparable
St Thomas ). Then he adds his
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[E.C.]
thought & challenge to lyrical
poetry. It has been static
in aim – to stand & objectively
adore the Blessed Sacrament.
The new worship of the
Sacred Heart, of the holy
humanity of God, has opened
up the possibility of a dynamic
treatment – Christ Himself
speaking : so we might
have a profounder less
individualistic centrality
than before, & one that
generates divinely rather
than humanly. Only inferior
work has been done as
yet in this Region – but the
welcome that has received
gives hope that genius will
one day express what
the world is now ready for.
The applause is of fullness of
interest – it is not compliment
– applause to bring back Vincent
from banishment.
He sits during futile speeches
& discussion of Fr Thurston’s
paper, his head down – something
sardonically gentle in the darkness
of shadow round the eyes &
in the mouth. His ears till
hear the applause & he upbraids
them. He cannot say “Get thee
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[E.C.]
behind me Satan” to his own
nature, so he smiles at it
with the bitterness of long
years of mortification.
I wonder if we shall say a
word, unto to him – the Haverstock[?]
hill ‘ladies’ & the clergy
press up to him. But, Emily
wishing it, we wait – &
a clearing at last seems
to be made for him to advance.
Our hands join –
“Father, it is better to be here
than at Cromer” – To
Michael he says “Was it
the weather drove you
from Cromer” – “No” –
“Then it was the five shilling
cabs?” – “I am not going
to be made to tell a lie”.
He laughs . . . O Trajan[?]! He
triumphs!
Between our sentences Emily
moans questions “Shall you
stay tonight?” – “Yes, I shall
stay tonight?” – Shall you
be able to give an hour on
Sep…?” – “Yes, I can see
you then” – Father, shall you
be here over Sunday?” – “Yes,
I shall.” So Emily moans –
as one injured for a bandage[?].
We part. “Then, father, you will
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[E.C.]
“I shall” – the eyes meet mine
with a stream of light as out
of a pearl.
The amazing day of the
Congress’ personal message
to us goes by.
And yet I am in dire panic
over Michael – the crowd
threatens such pressure, & if
any attempt were made to
blaspheme God, there would
be bloodshed without doubt.
I sleep on her breast, & will not
allow myself to ask “If it shd
be for the last time!” And I
prepare her scrip & put my card
in the bottom of the bag – wh :
she finds.
The eve[?] of the great event –
the Holy Host to pass through
a few street of London after
the banishment of three autumns! –
The panic, that sees Michael
a crushed heap of blood,
black veil & crimson fuschia
-flowers violent on a crushed
hat! –
Well – I am a ghost at Sunday’s
Low Mass! Jewel says nothing to
his people – the touching[?] Mass
of our Lady’s Sacred Name –
that name of the Patroness of England –
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[E.C.]
is the one call to the great
Procession.
For my High Mass & Exposition
of the Blessed Sacrament
at the Vineyard I have to leave
Michael to start toward
peril alone . . . So discipline
guides life in the Church.
Turning back to her as she stands
at the door in her Episcopal
purple scarf I see Whymmie
again – the radiant explosion
of love that was his light
at window or in doorway.
Chow . . . Michael!
I pray only for Michael at
our Lady Altar . . . Midmost
of my insistancy of prayer
I feel Goscommon, struck
with my face & close[?]. He passes
& kneels near, preparing for
his Mass. His approach is
a blow as if from a sacrificial
hammer. I reel, & go back
to my place, declaring myself
incomprehensible.
Three priests – a solemn High Mass –
– “O Salutaris”, & the Victim-King
raised above the Sacrifice.
I forget Michael. Even, I forget
the sight of Goss; all my
heart’s thought & passion going[?]
to the Lord of Life & to his
Restoration to the multitudes
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[E.C.]
in the Streets . . . Jewel stands in
the pulpit & announces the
Government has forbidden the
carrying of the Host. . . .
I have never known anything
like what happened. It
seemed to me as if winter
fell.
So it remained, & one
loved Him as never before,
with desperate love, bleeding
to make amends – one’s
tenderness of a clot of blood
almost killing one, almost
bringing to me the final
Cold that surpasses winter.
That cruel, feeble Government,
destroyer of all honour &
noble freedom, the right
arm of the God of Armies
destroy it! May it perish as
enemies should in its
own confusion!
My lovely lunch . . . no coffee-cup
to the dearest endangered one!
How I realise what we are
to each other –
“The House is echoless as one were dead”
O little Whymmie! O Little Chow!
By three o’clock I am at the
Vineyard for two hours of read[?]
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[E.C.]
Litanies for England; & the Mighty
Hymns of St. Thomas, & the
trim pliant psalms & the
Te Deum for Him, who
though denied to the streets
will bless His people from
the Balcony of the Cathedral
& the Way of the Cross for
myself as reparation to
Him for my terror of losing
Michael for His sake.

At home I try to write of this
Day – but the surge is not
mastered enough – there is
the effeteness of storm in it
– no Let there be can swim
in such waters.
At last Michael! No blood –
the fuschias beaconing steadily
in an untorn veil. She
is safe, out of terrible crushing –
& hours’ standing among
numbers innumerable. Emily
though a nurse, though used to
all rough conditions, had almost
fainted with the weight of force
& with the panic it generates
she has written “ But the
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[E.C.]
Angels had charge of Michael
who was simply grand. I
am glad he is sheathing the
sword. It is better to pray “Father,
forgive them for they know not
what they do”, and perhaps Our
Dear Lord has had a greater
Triumph in the hearts of His
loving & sorrowing children
than if He had been borne[?]
round in their midst? . . .
In Emily’s letter is a word of
woman’s passionate devotion.
“It was gt. pain to see the last of
our dear Fr yesterday. I heard
his Mass at a side-altar at 6.30 –
Mass of the Exaltation of the Cross –
& as he left the Altar & passed me
the red vestment brushed against
me. We will reckon it among my
joys, as the Presentation was one
of our Lady’s joys, though the
sword was plunged into her
heart.”
This was written on Monday.
Michael brings word that Vincent’s
bare head rocked on the
sway of the multitude as
Orpheus’ on Hebrus.
On Monday I am a phantom
– flesh & blood seem to have
gone out of count[?] with me.
The nerve-strain has spent
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[E.C.]
me. I have to lie low. – I
remember nothing.
As I revive I need the delayed
Sacrament of Penance. So I
wait after the Benediction on
Thursday 17th of Sep. . . . .
But, stay . . . I do remember!
On Tuesday the Famous Little
Fellow comes from Oxford – almost
from the Continent ( Hamburg
& Copenhagen ) as we hope
to bless Paragon with
Jane & Josephine inside! But an
ignorant maid at the old
Parsonage has rejected Michael’s
letter to the little Father;
it is returned a dirty heap, &
in amazement sent on to
Miss Grib. for explanation
( of course a devil’s triumph
we both regret ) So the Famous
comes with no vestments, &
the sweet bunches of roses
& rue[?] for the rite[?] are wasted.
He is persuaded to come & stay
on Thursday night. He is
rosy with an outing, as we
say rosy with a meal. All
spirituality appears lost under
the digestion of experience.
He has kept himself easefully
away from the gt.[?] Congress &
has no resonance to its appeal.
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[E.C.]
Instead, he has been browsing
[????] on Religion at Oxford.
He lacks the grateful suavity
of the gentleman at our
effort to retrieve the dinner
at Edinburgh. He is not
witty[?] – scarcely, except now
& then in a turn of language
racy. The visit is a
disappointment.
He rarely smiles at Michael
who has basked in his
smiles. Woe, for the little
Famous!
But he is to return & bless!
On Thursday – the Sigmata of
St Francis – after reading the
Office I have vision of a dramatic
poem – on the Seraph of St. Francis –
the uncreated spirit who has
to take on the Incarnation of
the Cross.
But as yet I have no power
to sing anything I see
or conceive.
And on Thursday night I go
to Benediction & wait for
Confession. Goss moves about
in front of the High Altar, but
does not come near me, though
when I found him out in the
afternoon I had left messages[?]
I wd see him after the Benediction
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[E.C.]
Then I see he is placing trestles
for a coffin . . I whisper to the
Flower-girl & hear that poor[?]
Mr Ware’s body is going to
lie before the Tabernacle
all night . . . I gather he
has had a tragic end & that
the priest was too late for
the last rites but by a short
time.
“I must go now” she says.
“I will go too” I say with
the hurry[?] of panic.
“Oh, my dear do stay . . . You
are not used to this kind
of thing; you are on the wrong
side”. – I go, with the
intrepidity of panic . . .
The sense of an on-coming[?]
corpse . . . the sight of Goss
setting us the brown candles
of the dead . . . my heart ceases
to [????] the life I have
stained[?] & wd renew by
the Sacrament of Death.
I write & say I shall be
in the Church at 10 o’clock next
day unless put off.
When I reach the Church
the coffin & that contained
in it dominate the Vineyard.
Goss does something at the
Altar – then, secure of my
presence, leaves me a little & then
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[E.C.]
marches down to his Confessional.
A dread grace to Confess while
a corpse is in the Church! I
shall never forget how
the sense of it skinned
even sym sincerity alive –
I saw sin as death –
I saw the folly of sin
under the awful reductio
ad absurdum of mortality.
I felt the dust that formed
me & the hollowness of
everything within me & without
that was not supernatural
To Confess – with that Witness,
a dead man, hard by & in
possession of the space of the
Church! It urged the cry “Salve
me, fons pietatis”
What tremor! David in company
with the Sibyll could scarcely
have such effect as poor Mr
Ware’s body.
I thing[?] think the lady made
my Confessor more tender &
lenient than usual – He only
murmured his mournful “Yes”
to all I said, specially about
the Procession – & as homily said
I must not want to do extraordinary
things – the Saints had found often
that daily duties were most potent
ways of getting close to Christ. He
urged mental prayer on wh : all
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[E.C.]
the Saints & founders of orders were
of one mind. He would come &
show me the litany[?] of mental
prayer. He gives me the adoro to
say very slowly, thinking of
St. Thomas’ Conception of
the Central Mystery of our
Faith.
I felt he was pleased with
me, & anxious to build me
up in the time[?] of the Vineyard.
On S the Friday afternoon Miss
Gillow[?] comes in from the funeral.
From her the tragedy. The poor
Ware (of good family each side)
had married an actress, had
become very wild & careless of his
Mother, he being an only child
& still more careless of his
Mother-Church, having drifted
away from her. Sacraments
as from her discipline. He was
found with a bleeding head
on the pavement, his great
wolf-hound, probably having
pulled him down. The grand
dog would not let help approach
the adored Master, & it was
not till his identity was established
& his wife brought that he could
be helped. She called off the
over-zealous wolf-hound. He
revived on Sunday, but then
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[E.C.]
grew weak & convulsed on Monday
morning the nurse found out
he was Catholic & begged
that a priest might be sent for.
The man died at seven : Goss
arrived at 7.15 . . . Too late!
The poor mother arrived during
the morning, in terror for the
son’s soul. She had prayed
constantly for the wild son &
payed⟨paid⟩ for a place in Church
in his name to keep him
unsevered from his faith.
On Saturday I hear that Goss
has been heavily blamed
for giving the poor sinner a
night before the Presence
of his God.
And on Sunday Goss comes
down to the rail to read the
Epistle & Gospel, white almost
as his vestment, the sweet
face austerely deprecating, &
he reads of the Widow of
Nain, the bier laid down
before Christ, the ⟨only⟩ Son given
back to his Mother, & she a
widow, by the mercy of our
Lord. There is tragic appeal
in this quiet, low voice reading
of an action in wh : his the
passionate charity that laid
poor Ware for night before
Christ finds justification.
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[E.C.]
He reads & says no word.
At High Mass – a Solemn Mass
with 3 Priests – Goss again reads
the Widow of Nain, standing
simple & white before the people.
I shall never forget the
intensity of his voice at the
words “And he gave him back
to his mother”.
Then Goss preaches a touching
little sermon on preparing for
death, the end of us all – the
crumbling into dust – by
thinking of it, by putting to
death that death that is
in our power to stamp out, Sin,
by the Sacraments; & by
prayer, especially by prayers
to St. Joseph, whose death
was beatitude – in the arms
of Jesus & the beloved Spouse close.
Goss in preaching gets back
his colour, as he exhorts his
‘dear brethren’ & tells them
that the Apostle said “We come
into the world with nothing & it
is certain we shall carry nothing
out”. But for a little while
Gosscommon looked like his
Master. How one loved him for
his act of desperate mercy.
I fancy he blames himself for
being late.
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[E.C.]
And that trying Famous wrote
on Thursday, he was obliged
to go back to Edinburgh. We
suspected him of idleness
in friendship, & Michael
wrote as much.
He writes back
“1.45 in a good temper
My dear Michael,
It is not right to treat me so.
I took the liberty
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[K.B.]
Feast of St. Michael – Henry celebrating
the Vigil by[?] a stout[?] attack of sickness
I have been to Confession to Gosscommon
– as over against the love expressed
to me[?] – I cannot face the Feast, without
the Sacrament of penance –
– “ [????] you are always on the side of God” –
says Gossc – “it is the side that wins” –
And he grew poetic & very clear on my
great Lord.
Letters from 8 priests on our break-
-fast table. Father Vincent, how he
understands –
We finish[?] the Office : in the after
-noon a Benediction of the bright-god[?]
Kingdom at Isleworth.
How my tongue is taken from me! I am
closed from speech, as in our [????].
Speech opens love new in flowers;
it is not shot forth as arrows.
To-day is the sweet feast of the Angels.
His Rosarymonth[?] too.
We have been trying to make ready
for the Meta[?]-room before the
altar tonight. By[?] considering
the long silence on the way to the
Cross – Stations before the Rosary!
[E.C.]
Michael wrote to Vincent about the Poem in The
Blessed Sacrament” – ‘Father, you have re-adjusted
the verses so creatively, behind them ‘there is
now a trinity of poets!’
She is so glad they are there (in the Universe) among
Vegetable Butter & how to make light Buns.
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[E.C.]
Beloved Painter
Michael is well-content the scapular
shd be kept carefully among the
best shirts for the moment.  In case of accident those who
search will pick you up & take you
to a good address – in other words
to Lonsdowne House. In like manner
those who pick up your soul,
perceiving the scapular, will,
without further scrutiny,
nip you off to Paradise – consider!
Oh, Painter, it is good you like
the coral! Soon I shall have
exhausted Somerby. Already they
say – of some species – none of
a very good colour remain ! ! !
I have to apologise to Somerby
for the hours I detain him.
 “Have you by chance
a coral” & like the sea-man
in your picture, up starts the anxious
Somerby, trembling – with an
offering of coral in his hand.
Painter, yesterday was Rosary
Sunday & to every Faithful
was presented a rose after
Mass – i.e. among the Dominicans.
I went to Haverstock[?] Hill. Alack[?]
I did not receive my rose from
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[E.C.]
the hands of the gt. Dominican. He
was distributing roses among
strangers at Holy Cross.
 Have you
painted any of the gold sun
that has been lying about in
patches[?] us thick[?] as Chinese
white these last days. Around
St Duncan’s well there must
have been nuggets & bars of
gold. Michael.
[K.B.]
St. Theresa’s Day. I write of this
morning’s post.
From Fr Vincent – a clear & intricate
letter – not strong or ending[?].
from Lord Alfred[?] Daughters – the re-
surrect M.S. of Poets.
From Emily – word of a lady – once [????]⟨an⟩
Abbess.
All these souls require strong crying –
– all involve possible doom to each other
I write to Emily – then I pass to the altars –
& so the 5 sorrowful mysteries
I come home & write this hol[?]y beloved
Father.
[ Father Vincent says – If you do not quite
like Rosary during Mass, you like obedience
because you & your Col. Michael are
soldiers both ]
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[K.B.]
My dear Father,
I have overheard my
Col. in talk, regretting rather roughly[?]
what you say about preaching. Of course
he says, unless you answered[?], the most
glorious letters O.P. must be struck
from your name. Of course we
ask you [ The Col. says this ] when you preach;
& it is your business to be busy about
our souls, not your own, when you are
preaching. Let him look to it, he
added, that he does not use the
disabled[?] weapon of a false humility.
My dear Father, I will indeed spare
your hand to be given to the unemployed,
who might otherwise use their three[?]
fingers to grab loaves. And the
convicts! Oh, yes, they must come first
But you must not say you are outcast.
If you mean from London, do not mind[?].
You are beginning a happy New
period, & those non-conformists,
conferring, will make good, Catholic
Sermonry[?].
Not even, on one sigh, may you be
allowed to count yourself outcast of
God. God does & must always
tutor[?] you, always give you the there[?]
of grace.
On this children can always
insist
I will pray for you that you may insist
Pray for you! As long as Hamlet
prayed – but you are too busy with your
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[K.B.]
convicts to catch the reference.
However, we w d like to work your
will Father Prior, in our Leicester dates
Will you write your will to us? Shall
we come next Thursday [ this day week ]
or &c. &c. – or, if this is hopeless, because
because of your work, will you select
other lay clerks[?], if you think it right
not to exercise your vocation of O.P.
towards us.
Your child Michael.
(who is so sorry, if his Colonel is rude)
[E.C.]
October 10th
On Saturday, just when we
had read the Commemoration
of St Francis Borgia, whose
Vespers had given way to the
maternity of our Blessed Lady,
we received the first copy
of Mariamne. I fear the
Saint would scarcely bless –
but perhaps he wd intercede.
And poor orphan Queen among
books, our suffran Mariamne
wants, our intercessor.
May she win a critic in
the all-powerful Times Supp’: [?]
I have read the book half-
through, with a strangely
remote admiration. It was
a very near past God found
good on this first resting-day. .
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[E.C.]
Mariamne is good across
a past so far now that
my hold on it is difficult.

And now it is October 27th
The great Birthday has been
in a most quiet key, for the
helpless rain of the latter
autumn has been falling,
falling, & over us has been
the thought of a great horror - - -
The other night Tommy, dining
with us, said as bluntingly
as a child “You know
Arthur Symons has been
found at Bologna mad
& chained.” The shock to
us! – We had hoped he was
not going to the worst now; &
on the blow follows like
a vision of dazed sorrow, the
fountain[?] of “S.[?] Michel” & we
three Arthur, Michael, & I shooting
our [????]sous into the basin to
secure return to delectible
Paris. Arthur looked like
a boy-Cupid, audacious & golden –
Then came Fontaine bleau . . . –
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[E.C.]
the rolls shot[?] out to⟨at⟩ [????]
& Jupiter in wantonness of
dedication, to the pipes &
rebecks of our laughter . . . or
again, Arthur with a bleuet[?] under
his blush-face & a piled
basket of strawberries –
“Grosses fraises” – coming to
meet us for the last time
before parting . . . so many
pictures! He & Bernard, so
jealous of each other – each
a cloud by day to the other –
the first young men we had
been familiar with . . . . &
now! Well, Fr Gray writes
“It is as black a case as can
be – so horrible: don’t speak
much about it, or you will
learn details. ‘I should think
at first glance that the chain[?]
is a gloss that has slipped into
the text. There are plenty of
horrors with or without”
Then he says that if the wife
will send Arthur to the madhouse
where he visit, to be under the
treatment of an experimental
but Doctor of Genius a few
lucid years at least might be
restored, &, oh . . the chance!
Staunch Little Fellow! He continues
“I thought good to try what was
possible for the poor souls by me
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[E.C.]
in the past, so much disliked &
then liked.”
The wife’s decision is awaited.
This shock over Little Arthur,
has opened to us a sense
of the dragon’s throat
from wh : we have been
saved – We were nearly
caught by the whirlpool
breathing of Hell . . . & then
of a sudden we were Catholics
& saved!
But Illumination is only
a lamplit way to Penance . . .
Hence, beside the Contrition due
in the Confessional, we both
feel the need of penitential
days.
So the great Birthday passes
in the happiness of Contrition
& all its gratitude. Michael
is working over The Accuser
for poor young Borgia’s Works
– to be issued when he dies
of the spring winds – I am
looking at St Francis, & constantly
saying “Help me or I perish” &
catching the venerable Hands,
that[?] break the sacrifice for
ever, & ⟨that⟩ saved Peter from
the wind-wrought waves. I have
as yet so little faith that I
can do in Art what I conceive
& yearn to manifest.
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[E.C.]
I have heaped the Gold-Room mantel
shelf with myrtle & roses with
a sunrise as much at heart
as a lovely air at dawn has
sunrise at its heart.
And my roses change – deepen
here & pale there & hold in
a heavenly way to their burning[?]
space of beauty.
We join His Holiness & the
Confessors to those greeted when
healths are drunk.
And we read the sweet Office
of St. Luke – the artists’
Saint & the Doctors’ Saint
“For they shall be accounted poet-beings,
who simply sing the most heart-easing things”.
The rain is so draping – Michael
goes to Church alone.
We have got no presents for each
other – for we are waiting for
photographs & hoping to find
Crucifixes ( “Madona in Ecstasy”
Crivelli, for Michael ).
There are 6 Doves in the Grot
to keep Michael attentive.
Over the Space of Time I have been
silent, I will pass swiftly –
we now read the whole Office
every day, & this eats time
incessantly. Then Gosscommon
gave me my first ‘poor’ – A nice
Irish woman, almost a lady –
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[E.C.]
who is without any livelihood
at all, since her husband died
last Xmas, &, when I was given
to her, was going into the
Hospital for cataract of the eye.
She has had to be fed, cheered,
visited in the hospital – a
clinging[?] little woman, with
a will like an iron gate that
shuts & none can open, while
the gentle, caressing[?] flowers
of the garden trail through
the bars. Her will astonishes
me – her gratitude &
flattery, as flowers that
one waters & tends will
always flatter one deliciously,
at one time quite turned
my head, & I had to confess
to Goss how humourous my
self-gratulation was . . . In
silliness of light-headedness
over my first charity I
fancied myself blessed like
St. Francis. I know I
can cheer the sick, & the
whole ward yielded to my
voice & laugh – I should have
been thankful & like Wordsworth
been left weeping at the gratitude
of those men – instead of which
I was walking on a cloud
of flowers & incence & very giddy
white light.
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[E.C.]
But when I took Lucy to the Hospital
& the abrupt nurse officially
told her to choose her bed, I[?]
remembered my Hospital Days,
& the green Ward became the
green ward at Dresden,
haunted with Bernhard’s
wild gifts of roses, & the with
delirium, & remembered
music & the lure of sin –
lovely with the tenderness &
devotion of my Beloved.
I could but return to the
Vineyard & fall on my knees
at the bottom of the Church
in penitence & thankfulness.
And after this to be so silly
as to be elated & fancy
oneself blessed like St. Francis!
One day we visited the Palace –
Shannon looked like a
“ruinous choir” – Fay, worse,
looked vacant even of past
harmony & delight – & so
ugly! Oh, he is living with
those who frequent the Beast.
I hate to hear how he gives
his nights to dancers however[?]
oriental & beautiful their art
may be. But we see in
the studio an Ariadne –
Theseus kissing farewell as he
descends into the Labyrinth an
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[E.C.]
enclosure of circled roofs, most
wonderful as the heart of
a picture – smoke swept in
a wreath from it, as a place
of victims. The design is
“close” – there is intensity in
the lines & colours, the symbols
& in the lyrical note of emotion
the colour plays to one’s
imagination.
There is also a Messalina
reeling on the Pincian, as
if a goddess of the last death –
her veil making bat-like
wings, at her feet an Eastern
child, with the sk sly gorgeousness
of a jewel, flashes & tempts.
A terrible picture.
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[E.C.]
Nov. 3rd
And now we have been to
Leicester & returned – the
Circumstances dismal, the
Significance exhilerating.
In the train we read the Matins
at the Fast till there is little
life left in us, reading the
endless psalms to or rather
against the crash in continuity
of the Express. Michael is
keeping her Jejunium – her
eye clearly looks excited
with abstinence. Now & then
between verse & verse of the
desolating psalms I catch
a fire-bush of maple or
cherry in the desolating
central fields of England.
The Wyvern; next door to our
-selves of last visit! A fire!
After coffee & bread & a crumb
or two of cheese, Michael walks
to Holy Cross for Orders. She meets
an ugly, marred clergyman –
Vincent going to open a little
Local bazaar! But he will
give us a minute or two later –
& she returns to secure a
drawing-room. We wait two
flat November hours, trying to
speed them with Chesterton’s
bracing Spiritual Journalism
in his Catholic book Orthodoxy
at last! – “A gentleman wants to
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see you” – & the weird clergyman,
far too thin for his suit, with
bowed shoulders, presents
us to our Prior!
Can it be Vincent – with this
disquieting entrance from
the crude November of
Leicester? He looks excited
– like a ghost – with inward
experience, flaming up to
his lips, & beating through
wild smoke in his eyes.
He shakes hands, as bare
branches touch one in a
forest – & announces, when
Michael reproaches “We
thought you had stayed to
close the Bazaar, Father – or
was it a sick call?” –
“Well, I have seen blood”.
“Oh, Father – ⟨an accident or⟩ suicide?” –
suggests Michael in a sober
voice – I think “murder?” . . .
He repeats “I have seen blood”
&, pressed on the point, with
the gesture of Moses rod
bringing a fountain up from
the rocks he illustrates
his reply “ A poor woman
throwing up blood. She is
dying. I have the Sacred oils
with me” & he lays a venerating
⟨hand⟩ over them on his breast.
Then he goes on to say that
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in the morning he had buried a
young wife who died suddenly of
a clot on the heart & has
left husband & mother distracted
with grief. He speaks of the
open grave – the preparations
as for an execution, the
cold repulsiveness of putting
away anything in that
hole – to be hidden . . . His
lips shoot out anguish
of revolt from the auditions[?]
of humanity he has witnessed.
Talk moves on to Zermatt
– but he listens passively,
the smoke in his eyes still
beating with his own
trouble – & he concludes the
hearing of our tragedy with
reference to that of a
watcher for one lost at
sea whose vessel is over-
due.
Then we reach ‘little Arthur’
– our grief over the brief days
when we shared his youth,
our grief over him, forsaken
& now mad – the illumination
his doom has wrought – so that
we see how we condoned sin
in ourselves & others by our
attitude toward life – this wakes
him to apprehension. The sympathy
that has been drowned in
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life-blood of a poor woman
& buried in the young
wife’s grave rises from
the tide & from the clay
& fixes on this tragedy
of a brilliantly -gifted
writer; struck in heart
& brain.
But he has to go . . .
He opens his tablets &
finds Monday morning free –
for us – we arrange
to confess after the
Benediction & he goes
remarking in an open
door way, when he finds the
minutes have grown into
an hour “Among your other
accomplishments, you are
accomplished thieves”.
Comet-like he is down the
passage, & what a trail
of talk[?] about death &
disaster the pale priestly
Comet has left.
The dreadful Jejunium continues
its sway.
Vincent had remarked about
The death bed & the funeral
“I never get used to these things”
He also dwelt on his Convicts
– one of whom wd not steal the
fares[?] of some children going into
the country from their poor mother.
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– I wonder if he invented the
story to touch the Prior!
To our ques. “Have you an
asylum as well as convicts?”
he replies “No – but I shall
soon go as a visitor or
otherwise”.
What did the great Vincent im-
-ply? Does he feel the dreary
banishment he is under
to the point of peril?

Coffee – farm eggs – macaroni
with grated cheese! a hurried
meal; & we are at Holy Cross,
where one of the Fathers
gives Benediction[?] after a Rosary.
We know the Prior is in
his Box. In the following
Silence we are aware of
all the little rills of
the merciful Sacrament
of Penance as they begin
to bicker in the shadow.
We are going to Confess among
many; & we have to wait
long – then I have to wait,
while Michael disappears.
My voice seems to descend &
lie on my heart like a dead
bird. I wonder if I shall be
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able to utter anything.
At last I am within!
I confess the bitterness I have
been feeling against one I
love & respect who has believed
me guilty where I am not
guilty ( Gosscommon ). I confess
how hours have been filled
with the thought of how I
should reproach bitterly
that person if the chance
occurred – & then I tell how
I have come to feel in this
wounding suspicion, I am
receiving punishment for
the mortal sins I have
done. Christ bore all & was
guiltless – I have to bear
one wrong & I have sinned
greatly!
Vincent puts away the thought
of punishment. We punish
ourselves with our sins :
God loves & forgives. If we
have to bear a wrong, we
are mystically bound close
to our Lord – the bond is most
intimate, for we are suffering
after the manner of His suffering
– & if we suffer in His Spirit
the wrong becomes union with
Him.
I confess to lack of Catholic humility
& to lack of vigilance over the
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Imagination & Memory.
Then I turn to the real subject
of my more general Confession . . .
Arthur Symons’ tragedy has
opened my eyes to the way
in wh : I have condoned
sin & admired sin, & in