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[Bound book Cover]
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[Inside of front cover]
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[Folded piece of paper inserted between the cover and flyleaf]
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[Same piece of paper, now unfolded: typed double columns under title “1908” of numbers, senders, occasions (some penciled-in comments)]
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[Folded piece of paper]
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[Same piece of paper, now unfolded: typed double columns under title “1908 (cont)” of numbers and places, with a couple of occasions]
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[Two folded pieces of paper]
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[Part of a piece of paper and flyleaf]
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[Blank except for librarian penciling on bottom righthand corner?]
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[K.B.]
1908
Sine tuo Numine
Nihil est in homine
Nihil est in⟨n⟩oxium
[E.C.]
January 1st – A Most Blessed
New Year’s Day! What it is
to be free from temporal
Control – the “tabula[?] rasa” illusion
– a space of Time one had washed
oneself with one’s own trust
in one’s will! And now one’s
supernatural year has begun
a month earlier than New
Year’s Day & one is deep in the
yearning for Humility & one’s
will finding its vocation in
God’s.
Francis comes. I open the door to
him: but fresh from his married
Paragon in Clifton he steps into
Paragon, Richmond himself –
marriage, for the time, adventitious.
He has a gifted way of entering
into the life of a house integrally
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[E.C.]
Publishers in black type –
Desclée, Lefevre & Tournai
Note to Swinburne with ‘Wild Honey’
Dear Mr Swinburne,
I am tempted to ask your acceptance of my
Honey-book. With deep affection – the
affection of the aging poet for the Poet crowned
with age – I offer it to you. Of course to me
now there is no English-breathing Poet
save yourself. I, wistful for a reader,
am glad you stay with us. Michael Field.
_____
To Ld A. Douglas. [ He had returned Poets.
Dear Lord Alfred, I thank you for the courtesy
of re-enclosing the M.S.S.
Waking in a new language in a new
country I fear I am often clumsy in
combination & presumptious. And I am
glad you shd wish only to print what you
hold my best things.
* If either of these shd be considered of
sufficiently high rank?
I am grateful for accorded leave to thank
you for that article that did so much to
keep us singing in the world.
*“(old” “Tide”) Michael Field.
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[E.C.]
Frida Thursday
Fr Green calls & Francis in the curtained-
off “Grot” creeps off⟨away⟩ least he should
startle sonnets of our souls!!
Fr Green speaks of his hepaticas
in the chestnut-roots as of
parishioners – he loves our
gold holly & green buds of
lilies – he discovers boredom
at a dinner of beef & pork for
Christmas cheer, & while
claiming sympathy, like
a sea-creature its waves,
returns nothing. Michael
mentions Wild Honey, & he
advises us to read a booklet –
say on Rome (in kindness) to
make it a little limited⟨within⟩in the limits
of manners! Well, well! What
Idealists have to hear! He himself
as a priest of the Ideal Church
endured an hour’s scolding
from the Catholic local butcher
that⟨because his⟩ meal had been got once
or twice at Richmond. We, the
Idealists of the Temple of Beauty,
must endure his accidental
remark, too accidental to
even wound with its lack of
ableness of feeling.
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[E.C.]
Both deep in the Catholic Fold, with
the great word on its doorway, Pax.
⟨Yes,⟩ We are learning to walk, to
talk, to grow on a New Earth,
with our eyes on a New Heaven!
So it has been with us, &
marvellous the life we are
children in. Francis Thompson’s
Hound of Heaven (a beautiful,
unequal poem) catches a little
of the urgency by wh : we reached
deliverance – our mystery,
our strong Silence that avails.
Trouble with health & January
before us, always a sad month
to us – but every part of the
year means so much to us
now, & consolation keeps
pace with discipline . . .
So touching! Old Mr Higgott
writes in his celibate devotion
to Michael
“Your simple old Man,
Sam [????] Higgott”
Sweet old farmer – he had in the
days of my childhood at Newton
a look of perpetual advanced
years, & over the Chasm between
then & now, he signs himself
from the green fields on the Dove,
“Your simple old Man”
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[E.C.]
Saturday
Our copies of Wild Honey in the
vividly green cover arrive
so timely. In Epiphania Domini
Oh, joy! We read Lauds
with its mad antiphon to
the Benedictus, telling how
Christ washes His [????]
Jordon for His Spouse ⟨in Jordan⟩ how the
Mages run with gifts to the
Feast, & the water is made
wine for the happy guests.
The Church is mad for joy!
Such a smell of frankincence
– it lies on the air heavy as
the ice lies on the motion of
the river. – And gold, incongruous
offering to the babe in the
Manger, like all inexpressive
signs of joy, comes from
very far.
Michael writes to Fay –
My dear Painter,
But the Caves is [ now ) “attractive” –
And the book comes for the
Feast of the Epiphany. Glad are we
to have one, so wise a man, to
read its signs.
And, Painter, remember! This book is
Henry’s; what is excellent in its
ordering & distribution is Henry’s.
Attribute also to Henry all that
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[E.C.]
⟨is⟩ comfortable in the Art; kindly
also attribute to Henry all
that you do not approve in
the range or chapter of
the Emotions. And I stand,
a Mopsus, behind the heavy
sonnets on October –, November
& December – all the ‘Nature’-
things I should never dream
of reading, & for my sins have
written.
For your sins, my dear Painter,
you might in penance compose
a “brief list of those poems
you like best.” And, when
the freezing Thames is frozen
you will skate down
to Paragon.
Michael
Epiphany Sunday
Oh strange! Can it be that all those
trumpets of whitest substance
that alone on the High Altar
& round Christ’s Dwelling-
place are shouting forth their
Epiphany triumph, so that the
Ears hear with the sight of the
eyes, & the band of lilies are
veritably heard – Can it be
they are our lilies? –And that
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[E.C.]
young priest, firm & white in presence,
can it be he is my Confessor?
And last Epiphany, we were
strangers before the Altar &
its Ritual!
Goscommon speaks – with the
gentle independence, as of
a lily giving perfume,
that is the quality of his
little sermons – of about
the Mages’ gifts, as the
three Christian graces of
almsgiving, prayer, & penance.
Very austere he is over penance
– the myrrh of the Tombs.
I hear the threatening Echo of
the Monastery “Retreat” in
the stress he lays on “the Guard
of the Eyes”. Ah, as Fr Sam.
said, it is by looking into the
eyes characters are read –
Christ looked thus: it is by
the eyes set on Nature & all
the beauty of man’s creations
& on man in all he does &
is – it is ⟨only⟩ so ⟨ [????]⟩ ⟨can⟩ the great poet
expounds his Penticostal gift!
How hardly shall a poet
Enter into the Kingdom where
Monks & priests are the Ministrants!
Yet God give us such Epiphania –
& manifest [????] as Catholic
poets in Spatia Cantatis!
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[E.C.]
Michael goes to reedy Isleworth
& I to the Vineyard to see the
Host enthroned for Exposition.
Goscommon preaches again –
almost the same sermon of
as last year, when I wept
with terror & joy as I felt that
the Star was guiding us, but
we did not quite know
where the Manger was or
how we should get past
Herod safely.
Francis keeps by the blazing fires
of our White Room: he reads
‘Wild Honey’ as if it were
made from bitter flowers, &
only dwells on lyrics & poems
apart from Zermatt & the
Palace – on which the silence
tingles with self-consciousness;
yet the cloud is only gentle after
all.
We creep up to visit the blessed
Sacrament among the candles
& flock of lilies – that is
the Star, the whiteness of the
Light of the World above us by
which all our life’s journey
is led now.
The Vespers sermon (by Jewel) &
benediction are long, & the
pulse of joy is weak.
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[E.C.]
Epiphany itself
The symbolic star shines out in
the black-cold Church.
Francis leaves us – moved on
showing that the years do
not touch the old feeling, That,
as Sappho preached – in
this [????] relentless as ^⟨to the extreme of?⟩ the
Church herself – love is as
hard as gold.
This visit has been a beautiful
thing – what is more beautiful
than the mellowness of a
human love? And when heaven’s
sunshine has lain over it, &
the sweetness is due, not only
to ⟨an⟩ inward season of fidelity but
to the beams of visiting light
as well – that love becomes
a sacred charity, abimo
pectore, & one gives it . . . of
Sappho’s gold, of the Altar’s
frank-incence, & the sepulchre’s
spice – in little handfuls from
the Wise Men’s Kingly offerings.
I never knew another man like
Francis for Embracing unanimity
in the bond of a home. He
is there, pleasant as a quiet beam
& he goes as quietly, so that regret
is more subtle than mere missing –
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[E.C.]
It is a secret one has with one’s
own atmosphere.
We read the Matins of ⟨Die iv. Jufrer Octavan⟩ Epiphany
– Ah me! Large-voiced Sr.
Gregory says the Truth there
“Ma prima vero nobis aliquid Magi
innunt, quod in reginam suam
per aliam Vienne revertmutus” –
Another way back to one’s
self & one’s life! All the
road must be new – that
is the bitterness of Conversion,
that is why Christmas
was so intolerable – we were
seeking wildly for traces of
the old path –& our camels
were making the only possible
path with each new treading –
but we, foolish, took them
from their direction to
transe-verse & Zig-Zag wandering.
Michael.
The Visitation of Della Robia –
It is It. The Extreme beauty of Christ,
the austerity of the desert-prophet, in
these 2 figures. Oh! to write like that!
Never about things – close, gripping their magic.
Oh, oh, oh!
Christ among the Doctors (Duccio) That Mother rejoicing
her Son is about His Father’s business – how inscrip
-tural, how Catholic & Imaginative. It must needs
be – the imperative of the Imagination, how Essential a mode!
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[E.C.]
Jan. 14th.
The Famous Little Fellow writes –
My dear Michael,
“The Wild Honey is full of En-
-chantment. The poems I
taste in hurry are as marvellous
miraculous & familiar as the
bell to the bee. There is a
glorious busy hum like the
sound of invisible things
in the Italian summer. The Phoenix –
the lion en pension – The Cherry
Song – & the rest today after
your letter is gone. The decoration
is rightness materialised.”
John Gray.
Francis writes –
“I very much enjoyed my visit, &
took especial delight in witnessing
the new happiness into which
you have both entered & I
remain with many thanks &
best love to you & the ‘lovely,
brave’. always your most affectionate
F.B.
Thursday
There is a sign of returning sense –
‘Jewel’ comes suddenly to read
the Breviary with Michael –
strange! Michael & the queer
little Chafer-priest, with his exquisite
voice for the carriage of Latin cordial
& agreeing with Each other!
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[E.C.]
Friday 10th
And Gosscommon comes again, &
in his old place the [????] of
Christmas . . . spite of the strain
about the season he acknowledges,
he likes Christmas & “Adores
Mince-pies” – he says so with
the dark fervor of a hierophant
before a rite in ⟨his⟩ eyes – smiling
boyishly. Then he instructs
me in the network of
Commemorations & Suffrages.
He has been writing a paper
on the relation of Christ’s death
with⟨to⟩ the times of the Pasque –
& doesn’t he take pride in Expounding
it!
Saturday 11th
And, at last Fay comes “to praise
‘Wild Honey’” He wins a welcome
by being the substitute for an
awaited Lady-Caller . . of course,
there is acclamation! And he
steals back, as a happy dog intending
to make himself at home with his
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[E.C.]
bone, into the hall, – returns
with the valley-lilies, a spray of
vermillion flower from a
greenhouse –& the bronze
‘Tragic Actor’. He wants it
placed where the Tragedies
are written. While with
lifting hands we play with it,
or reach water for the flowers,
Fay “thaws’. Indeed he looks
exactly like our Pan of
“Frozen Rushes” – a withered
God! He declares he must go
back to Shannon. Michael
steals out & creates a dinner
with Mrs Drew; then back
to say “You stay – you dare
go back to Shannon!” And
the little Proteus, at most squeaking
at the grip ⟨the voice⟩ complains “I must,
I must” & touches a fortunately
uncharged electric bell.
“It is no use calling up the
kitchen – for Mrs Drew sent up
word ‘tell Mr Ricketts, I want
him to stay’.” Then the contrariety
makes for the door, firmly held –
then wails for a telegram
to be sent . . . I send it “Am staying
at Richmond to dine. Alas!”
We suggest he can go after dinner –
He stays on calmly till after 10.
Subjugated Proteus – turned to prophet
from rebel! Yeats made to Fay
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[E.C.]
the shrewd remark “You are
always in a state of rebellion
against yourself”.
The psychology amazingly deep!
Yeats touches the secret that
haunts Fay with peril. His
gifts are so wonderful, so
manifold, the achievement
so brilliant & distracted: lovely
things like the Leda, destroyed
as they touch harmony –
& then, in companionship,
the lack of peace one feels
with him – the “strain of
the stuff”! He comes, but he
never leaves happiness behind –
gifts in bronze, or book, or
flowers & memories of luring
moods: pantomime, that enthralls,
persiflage, narrative of impressions,
thoughts expressed by swallow
rapidity of speech! – All these
gifts; but joy or peace never
among them!
While we dress he goes out for
Cigarettes, & then, as in the old
days of⟨with⟩ Bernhard in Rome, the new
book is opened by him & ⟨another copy⟩ by me,
while he indicates his choice
or dispraise.
He adores ‘Pan Asleep’ – the scourging
in the ivy-grot . . . The last line is an
achievement; it gives the sense of an
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[E.C.]
‘open window’ – that sense is rather
wanting in the Sonnets generally.
They are a little too “close” – too
locked at the end. He does not come
for “Chariclo”, but esteems the
“Lament for Cheiron” very beautiful
beautiful poem”. Then, he lights on
Penetration. Onycha has very
beautiful things in it, though as a
whole he does not now1 care for it.
Frozen Rushes mentioned – joy in
Armour. The Winter Aphrodite will
be praised. Embalmment, very much
liked, & Lord Love & Forever greatly
liked. The Baudelaire translation
very good. He acknowledges characteristically
that the Train of Queens (He once praised
it immensely) worries his nerves
because Cuchlain is mentioned!
He finds my little God of Silence beautiful,
Nests in Elms & White Madness both
highly commended; while the Morning
Rains is perhaps, next to the Aspic,
the loveliest poem in the book. But
the Aspic! – he has no words to use as
weights to measure his praise! Then he
strongly admires Listening. The surprise
from him, is, that, unlike Francis
who kept tomblike silence over the
Zermatt sonnets, he proclaims them
the finest in the book, simple, with
such sureness & dignity. One lifts one’s
lamp high to Art & to Beauty while
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[E.C.]
Fay in his love for Art & Beauty
lauds these poems to the dead
Rival. He mentions ⟨The ⟩⟨Torrent,⟩Possession,
Falling Leaves (most beautiful of all)
The Forest, Burial, High Mountain
Flowers, Mouldering Leaves, & last
Parting –
We had been drawing keen breath
about the doorways of the heart
as he approached the end of
the book. Michael made a little
prayer –
“And after Parting, I dislike all
the rest”.
After all, the Rival of the Longer
Allegiance has long been dead –
I live, & Chow still lives
for Painter about the Rooms
of Paragon. Our poems are
dismissed . . . Old Ivories,
Unity, Palempsest, In Leash
to the Stranger . . . well the
great Crucifix at the End is
included in the same distaste.
We made no comment, & Fay
continues that his praise
of the poems has been restricted,
because he cannot recognise
them by their titles & they have
only been read once. He admires
the book much more than his
words have expressed, owing,
to his slowness of eye (like
Michael, he can never find his
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[E.C.]
places)
We feel the praise a little set,
somewhat lacking in final
generosity, as so often with
Fay’s abstract praise. Four
words of the Famous Little Fellow
are warmer. He⟨Fay⟩ cannot leave
the Creator’s ice-cave for the
Reader’s happy grove, or
stream-bank of mint! There
is the fault! With all his
multiplicity of gifts, his Protean
moods, Proteus can never
become a Man – he is always
sea-beast, or prophet-wonder-
worker in Semblance of a
man – in semblance only –
never never the heart-compelling,
heart! gratifying human creature,
near to us with appeal &
familiarity.
After dinner (an impromptu of
Tomato Soup, Cutlets, Damson Tart &
Cream, Olive & anchovy Savoury, & Excellent
Claret) Fay takes up the Academy &
finds a skit by Bobbie Ross on a
Bernardian Morellian frightening
away its family ghost from a
discredited Vandyke.  The
is ⟨skit⟩ only fairly brilliant & here & there
neatly hits the Morellian craze, but
Fay laughs packing his mouth with
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[E.C.]
Without⟨the laughter⟩ – his eyes vily with it –
his face becoming positively
naȉve with malice in a
state of pure enjoyment – Breathless
he reads; then a giggle [????] in
his voice, & it is let [????]⟨ [????]⟩ ⟨go⟩ round
the boles of fantastic trees, or
sylvan rocks where unearthly
fun bursts from satyrs.
Again he reads, stoops of over
his delight & becomes an
Eros stealing honey & filling his
mouth with it, till he gets a
string & the honey runs out on
a little scream. What elemental,
baby-boy pleasure in this man
at the secret-springs of nearly
every intellectual movement
of the time!
Then we turn somehow to Baudelaire
& I bring the handsome vol. he gave
Michael. “And I gave you this!” –
Michael gives⟨shows⟩ him Plantagenet
rage – oh he sees the wild Broom
toss, the golden lightnings, that
would be equal to killing the
Lord Abbot of Glastonbury!
But the ship of a Proteus dares
to persist & to repeat he had forgotten.
Then with a twilight fall of gravity
– that solemn heritage he gets from the
south – ⟨–⟩⟨ [????]⟩ he reads Baudelaire’s
Angel making appeal, & whispers with
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[E.C.]
sound of a cat drinking cream in
his voice “je ne veux pas” – terrible
sound the over the words that
should be positive to justify the
sound & one unnaturally
festive with refusal!
And he reads of the light⟨night⟩ creeping
in on the hospital.
One of Baudelaire’s most
Catholic gifts in his charitable
setting of the wretched in light
& air that are benign, however
outcast what they touches[?].
Baudelaire is far more tender
than Keats when he is great. –
More so than Catullus, who
is a heart’s league beyond Keats.
Then in the midst of the
twilight mood, Fay speaks of
his painting – it is as if
another held the brush; the
irresponsibility frightens him –
he never knows that he
will express what is in his thoughts,
he is startled, he cannot tell
why the thing has been done. In
sculpture himself he expresses
himself; it is his will, & what
he would he does: he can
foresee his effects, provide for them,
attain them. He is sure there,
while uncertain on canvass.
“Why the devil should I paint the
Resurrection?” It is moving to
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[E.C.]
watch this creative face
questioning the genesis it
must look on, without
knowing if it is good.
Genius when it speaks in
its privacy always subjugates
me with a devoutness
that would bear what has
been exposed to the Catacombs.
I wanted to light tapers
& go out of the Room.
Instead, the time came for
Fay to go. 2
A disquieting thing he said to
Michael à propos of “Wild
Honey” –“You are heartless,
& I am shameless”
I did not hear it said – so cannot
conjecture its intonation
nor fathom it.
Just with his⟨a⟩ remark, when
speaking of Bobbie Ross, that
he gave unsparing portraits
of Michael – the assertion
of two privatives in one
audacious phrase gives
room to anxiety.
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[E.C.]
 Long she sits by the
fire, drowsy with exhaustion.
At last between two & three
we sink asleep.
Tuesday
At the end of the Mass, the server
takes away the Napkin from the
altar-rails & extinguishes the
lights awaiting the 2nd Mass,
Gosscummon’s. I watch – by
a double action lights are
extinguished in my heart. The
sense of preparation gone
has never made such a
void in my spirit. I am
anxious, but just by the
anxiety, with the thought of
a “call” to the sick or dying
as the reason for the
quenched candles.
Wednesday
And the white card on the Church
Door continues today there will be no
second Mass.
My tears run through my veil & my
hands. I am sure something has
happened to Goss. And I think of
his little sermon on Sunday
evening as if it were his last.
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[E.C.]
It was a beautiful little sermon
on the Ways by wh : we could lose Christ
(as His parents lost Him) & find Him
(as He was found of them) – Losing Him
by our fault in Sin & as a trail by
Dryness; finding Him in the
Sacraments of Penance & the Eucharist
within the Temple of God. Goss was
moved & moving over “Dryness” & told of
St. Cath. of Siena who was left by Christ
for some days “Jesus, why didst thou
leave me?” she asked her Divine
Lover. “Katharine, I was by⟨with⟩ Thee
all the Time!” The candour of real
Spiritual Experience, the warmth under
the difficult sentences, the lifted,
gentle brows, the persuasion, not
of the orator, but of the child
or animal or simplest kind
of saint made my young
Confessor a power; & when I
thought misfortune had fallen
on him, he became a sweet
memory with rain all round
it.
What relief – rather like that of a
surgical operation – to find &
open a note from him!
Yesterday he fell on the ice & cut
his head over the right eye, with
the result, – bandages & seclusion.
He can read, but the Breviary is
rather a tax on shaken attention.
Notebook 23, Page Image 33; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 12r; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-033.jpg
[E.C.]
The January days of pain & discouragement
go on. Thursday I have to come
out of Church through the clawing
darkness of the semi-swoon of
gout. I half-see the Elevation in
a cancel of mist.
Friday I remain in bed – the hill
is not climbed to the Vineyard.
But the day suddenly veers into
an eager loveliness rare in the
very first spring. We remember
we had praised a visit to the Palace,
& by cab & train & cab reach it.
But the Palace if fireless, flowerless
– & the Masters just gone away.
The good House Keeper – a tiny
creature, with eyes that have
the timid sprawl of jelly-fish –
telephones here & there over
or along Bond Street. Vain!
So a fire is lit, &, as it burns
reluctantly, we are taken
into Shannon’s heated studio,
where tea is brought.
We prowl, we prowl . . .
In the Drawing Room “Wild Honey”
almost touching the Egyptian &
New most-beloved Gods & goddesses
– Two new ones – no, a goddess & a
priest – by the side of the new book!
Michael’s black opal by her Sicilian
amber – a really lovely thing with
the sliding blue thrust over it there is
Notebook 23, Page Image 34; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 12v; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-034.jpg
[E.C.]
over the golden eyes of savage
animals.
And on a chair framed &
mounted in gold The Persian
Saint . . . very type of the Sacerdotal
life; pleasant green Earth,
but the Priest severed from
walking it, obliged to another
Element, & to move with feet
planted on the sacred fish –
a globe in the hand – Earth,
rejected greenness. The other
little Persian painting of
the feat hunter with his gazelle
-hound set in a rose of the
most dying rose of sundown by
the Persian painter, our Painter
has framed in gold . . .
So we pass among treasures –
the lids & lips of the Greek
head of a woman haunting
us with their austerity – line
& shadow so continent.
In Shannon’s Studio Euch
Eucalyptus, a troop of scymitars:
And The Mrs Barker & a litter
of the dear incitements an
artist calls on to serve his
ritual . . . Beyond, an open
door! With the pad of the
Cat I venture through & before
us . . . Michael, like Adam, having
been gained by my curiosity – a
gt. unfinished design of (I judge) a
Notebook 23, Page Image 35; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 13r; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-035.jpg
[E.C.]
Deposition; many figures coming
out of the formlessness & void by
creation – & one prostrate . . .
men as trees seen through the
nebulae of a first day.
But what is this?
Before our eyes a most lovely idyll
of Charity! A valley full of
compassionate light, drawn about
a group – the naked stranger, held
up by the tender force of the Samaritan
on the back of the ass, who has
been allowed to pause & drink
the stream he crosses. The conception
of that group in its wholeness of
action, & that action the
unity of a double tenderness to
man & beast, passes anything
I have seen in painting as
far as design is concerned.
And the sweet lights, as from
the Heaven that is a simple
Pearl, round the group consecrated
by a virtue at its loveliest!
Oh, but it will not stay – it will be
blotted out, as that lovely
blue Leda. O cruel, mocking
Demon, that makes Fay blot
his lyric pictures, & only allows
us to be “rich in the simple
worship of an hour” – then the
wet smear & creations of
infinite beauty vanish! I
could make Fay roll a stone
Notebook 23, Page Image 36; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 13v; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-036.jpg
[E.C.]
up a hill day & night for
this sacrilege. Why must
he guard his curious and
bold pictures, that have
something of the campaign
about them; & doom these
lucent dreams of beauty
that are the Fêtes Champêtres
of his soul?
O Fay! O Satan, who standest
in his eyes instead of behind
him!
Saturday. St. Peter’s Chair.
I am so ill at Mass – I feel like
the pains of dying – negation
become an anguish –, as the
cold sweat lies on my lips, &
my eyes find their way through
Extremity to glimmering view
of the altar. As soon as I
can get home I go to bed &
there I remain till Tuesday
Evening Morning, physically
overthrown, & shame to me &
my faithlessness, morally over-
-thrown as well – not caring that
I lose the Bread of Life, the Daily
Sacrifice, sullen & negligent with
regard to the Supernatural Life . . .
In fact, three words of Condemnation
Notebook 23, Page Image 37; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 14r; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-037.jpg
[E.C.]
penned⟨pen⟩ me in from all blessing
‘Out of Grace’. That wide joy of
all joys, Grace. Not being round
me, I am in prison –That
is how the Soul suffers
imprisonment.
Michael on Sunday goes to Isleworth
& speeds Fr Green to Syracuse.
The weather is cruel with languorous
warmth or fogs thick as the
wings of the lost angels.
Wednesday Jan. 22nd
We wonder if Goss will come, as on
Sunday he was able to take a
Missa privata. He comes
On Saturday the
On Saturday Mrs Drew cames
up agitated: in the front of the
Richmond Paper the name
Michael Field was printed large, & the
distinction taught to Richmond
of having “perhaps the greatest of
our living lyric poets who are
actually writing at this time”
for residents in the borough . .
Alas, now the Vineyard will
Know. Our grief is like that of
a fine horse used unworthily.
We trust the priests & people of
the Universal Church won’t heed
Notebook 23, Page Image 38; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 14v; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-038.jpg
[E.C.]
local news . . . What ostriches!
On Sunday the Cabman, being
late, is full of exaggerated
apology, having been told by
his Master “what was right
to Miss Bradley”, & on Tuesday
the florist sends a present
of Hellebores – Wirey sprays
in dazzling white paper!
So the Brish British public
shows its superstitious
idolatry of The Poet – a
Creature next to Hamlet in
its affections: & yet that Public
would rather do anything than
read a line of poetry. The Poet
may starve or break his heart
or quietly accept being a Victim
(as a priest is ⟨one⟩) – still the live
specimen ⟨must⟩isto be Shakesperianized
by John Bull’s Islanders.
Funny & piteous!
Well, Goss comes, & Michael stays
in the Room to congratulate him
on his Escape & recovery.
He comes up to me with eyes
that have been brightened by
news, but as we are not in
tête-a-tête the occas [????] occasion
becomes simply social. Michael
proposes tea, as he is late & looks
tired – again it is only social, &
Notebook 23, Page Image 39; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 15r; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-039.jpg
[E.C.]
a dull shyness settles on his brow.
When at last we get our tête-a-tête
there is a cold river flowing
between us & we turn to
Vespers & Commemorations.
The moment that might have
been is still-born – a coffined
moment in the life of the
Spirit is a very sorrowful
little memory: & I am
furious against Michael, with
a Fury of such wickedness
it rages on the whole evening &
the next day, till evening
when I am brought to task
& ⟨made to⟩ explain, though I cannot
Excuse, my violence. I did not
think I should be visited by one
of these family thunder-clouds
now I am a Catholic – Grace
gone! Prayer faded out by the
terrible words that burnt &
roared through my brain!
And against Michael! – It
was that little coffined moment
that her social impulse had
killed – & no thought of harm in
her action – only of pleasure she
wanted to show, to Goss, & he was
touched at perceiving.
Thursday
But on Thursday morning ‘Jewel’
drops in & handles the situation.
Notebook 23, Page Image 40; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 15v; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-040.jpg
[E.C.]
Before beginning Prime he says
“I have to congratulate you,
Miss Bradley.”
“On what, father?” Michael’s
voice shows some disturbance
as of Earthquake from the
other side of the world.
“On what we have all read
in the paper”.
“Oh, if you are going to congratulate,
my fellow must come in”:
So I step back into the Sun-
-Room from the Grot & bow
“I thank the father for any
Congratulation he is thinking
of giving us.”
Then ‘Jewel’ speaks with fine
courtesy & reticence of how
he was drawn to read by the
strange name Michael Field &
then – the names of the ladies, &
that they had resided at Bristol
– “I knew then & I told . . . . .
(he mentions Goss)
“It is a great honour”
No, no, father – [????]⟨we⟩ are just your
children”.
The Church approves & adds “But
it is a great gift to have”.
‘Jewel’ says he soon found out
we were learned & had poetic
minds. We took the Breviary in
such a different way from others.
Notebook 23, Page Image 41; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 16r; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-041.jpg
[E.C.]
Tommy Sturge Moore has written
with the dear enthusiasm of
one who belongs to the Métier.
“I have cut the pages & read here & there.
I shall not say which I like best
till I am become a Connoisseur, but
I like many & have been delighted
by some.
Every book wh : is warm at the core
houses a power
‘That loves & is deserted & abides’
“July”, “Ariadne”, “Love a Lover”, “Eros”
“Love, thou did’st create
Man to be poor, man to be prodigal”
is magnificent. “Chariclo” & the
“Lament for Cheiron” have something
altogether new & attaching wh :
I have not yet had the time to
yield to. And where there are so
many how many times shall I
not meet those who passed
unnoticed, but invite one to
their home at last with a
delightful surprise . . . .
Yours Ever. T. Sturge Moore.
In a following letter –
I had noticed the presence of
Berenson & Santyana behind the
radiant lines of certain poems &
had hunted for Ricketts, but never
felt sure of finding him, & now I
suppose I am there & that Marie is to
Notebook 23, Page Image 42; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 16v; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-042.jpg
[E.C.]
learn the sonnet that cloaks me
in glory by heart.
Or is this merely infatuation?
No, after another hunt, I
decidedly cannot find Ricketts
behind the rhymes, & still
less myself. I shall have to
wait till Marie’s sagacity
has time to find the poem
wh : is for her heart, destined
to live & sing there.
I have not hated any poem,
yet once or twice I thought the
Endless good than the rest
wh : is always disappointing.
Chariclo’ you will have seen
by my note wh : crossed yours
really did delight me though
I had no thought of its resembling
your own work in any sense.
‘One of the Wise’ is Santyana, is it
not? And in “Old Ivories” I had a
vision of you & Miss Cooper before
a curio-shop, she looking at the
Ivories & you at her. It adds a
good deal to good poems when
one can divine particular relations
behind the general expression. I
am at present however very much
taken with Life Plastic –its last
two lines give it a crown & the
last line of the octave has a poignancy
that every artist who has had dark
days must respond to.”
Notebook 23, Page Image 43; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 17r; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-043.jpg
[E.C.]
Reply
Dear Sr. Thomas,
you cannot find Painter behind
the rhymes?
“But when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts,
So, traitor, when she comes? When
she is thence?”
The thyme is “various” – one
cannot pass all the flowers, &
yet it is to one secret, cleft-hid,
stealthy, curiously ‘small &
delicate’ little binding-plant
of Basil – Thyme the fragrance
of Michael’s honey is owed.
Poet, in this you must not
blunder – you may ruin worlds.
Of course, Painter has his own
Sonnet, among the sonnets
libres, but which of the
sonnets (not included in the sets
as Longer Allegiance & that:
manifestly to ‘Old Ivories’ &c) wh :
is not concerning him.
Oh, read deeper & rectify.
In Paragon there are two
books of sonnets. From these
only selection can be made for
“Wild Honey” We are in a world
of pressmen, influenza germs &
jealousies
Dear ‘Wild Honey’ – it is its doom to
set us all “..the from” If your
heresy has spread to the Palace I
will coolly watch you burning.
Michael.
Notebook 23, Page Image 44; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 17v; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-044.jpg
[Handwriting in pencil?, beginning half-way down page?]
Visible
V V
Chrism of –sevenfold
I opened[?] heart of gold
Partly of O painful truth[?]
[????] the [????]
death
O Music’s? swell
So soft, preferred[?]
[????] when Harmonious[?] [????]
[????]to dwell[?]
As when from senses [????]
And [????], [????]
And Violet[?]
Notebook 23, Page Image 45; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 18r; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-045.jpg
[E.C.]
Johnnie writes –
“You might tell F: [????] F . . . née
Goscommon a def. for wh : I
won 10/6 . . from Truth.
The Task was to give a def. of skating
Mine was –
A simple method of applying ice
to bruises
It might have won the whole undivided
guinea.”
Notebook 23, Page Image 46; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 18v; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-046.jpg
[E.C.]
Not a trace of Fay! But this
Prophet is blind, white-blind!
Or he is as our Enemy once
called him “Cow-headed” to
make such a blunder.
And Fay!
He will hear that Berenson is
in all the Sonnets!
Inapprehension raised to the
most dangerous power!
How can the white cloud be
pulled from these eyes of
a friend who “sees not”!
Not a trace of Fay!
Not a trace of God – so before
the world that is His & that
He made, some atheist asserts
from his serious brains!
The news of Michael Field falls
like Samson’s pillars on the
priests . . . Dear Gosscommon!
I am sure it is worse than
his fall on the ice. We feel
somehow as if a wrong had
been done to him – in the
Confessional one ought to discover
one’s creature, tho’ it is so dark!
Is it a lynx or a pard? Is it not
really so: for to be a poet is not
mortal sin, though pretty nigh[?]!
Notebook 23, Page Image 47; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 19r; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-047.jpg
[E.C.]
When I go to Confession on Saturday
to confess that mortal anger ⟨of Wednesday⟩ (not its
cause) & all my dereliction on
the side of sullenness & negligence
toward God, from the midst of
his severity, (I had prayed he
might be severe & he is!) I
feel in my Confessor the sense
of his having new knowledge.
– He sends me to David the
Psalmist to help me in penitence,
with a warm relenting in the
severe voice, & gives me as
penance the Miserere.
O wonderful Sacrament! I who
have been so far from the Divine
came home energised by
the Divine, ready to take up the
discipline that had fallen from
me, a field ploughed for
a treasury of good grain – a
wide, clean field, all my hidden
soil exposed for light & the
breeding of light of virtue!
 At the
second time I feel the blood
in my cheeks, & all the
folk who have read the wretched
local paper miss “poetry” –
the art he is obviously
leaving out in the shyness
of his violent precaution.
This Sunday that[?] representing to
us the day of our sacrifice that
[????] brought us to the Eternal
Sacrifice on the Altar, has been
swept bright by the joy of our
Faith. The little feet, fine as
brass, have been round our
lives all day, blessing them
with anearness[?], as ever in
the River-Rooms before we
gave them to peace from
their bitter circles.  Our
guard & our guide to the “House
of Fulfilment of Craving”.
We read “Love is Enough” as
we read it over the little body
in its coffin. We have the
wine-dark hellebores – the
flowers of our mourning, the
flowers of our pledge.
Notebook 23, Page Image 49; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 20r; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-049.jpg
[E.C.]
And Tuesday, the real 28th – We are
regaining what somehow since
last November we have lost,
Whymmie’s power of Love in the
gladness of its activity – what
the Supernatural Life should
be – what Christ has made
him⟨Whymmie --⟩ His little Spirit of Flame
to teach us.
Since that Confession ⟨of Saturday⟩ bowed
me to the Earth that I
might bear fruit for the
Divine Husbandman[?], I
have dwelt somewhat with
joy again. Now & then the
air has been a motions
of angel-wings & I have been
as the angels’ hands or[?]
on their shoulders[?], lifted up
by the wings out of the furrows
& offered, as shooting seed
to the Light of lights.
It is delicious to feel green
about one’s fig fibres & be
sure the dear Light will say[?]
Well Done to its work s to
your own. Euge! It is more
triumphant than Erae[?]!
And it is only said by the
God while the worshipper
triumphs “in cymbalis
benesonantibus”.
Notebook 23, Page Image 50; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 20v; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-050.jpg
[E.C.]
Wednesday Jan. 29th.
Goss comes late. His⟨He is⟩ cloudy &
guarded, & talks of Editions
of the Initatio & Summa
with eyes that “deny themselves”.
I feel I must break this
mood by direct speech
about Michael Field – but
it costs! He is so unaccount-
ably distant. At first I
might be in the Confessional –
with toneless voice he asks
questions that tend toward
learning if we have spread
the News to make an effect –
at least, that is the inference
I draw rather angrily[?] . .
Then he softens & grants[?]⟨becomes⟩ humanly
interested, it seems from his
voice; for the room has grown
quite dark in the sudden
way spring darkens, even
over a silver river.
I say I regret it is known; but
that in some ways I am glad
he, as my Confessor, knows as⟨for⟩
it will help him to understand
some things I feel he has
somewhat misunderstood,
& also to understand how hard
it is for a poet with his freedom
of impulse to submit to the
control & discipline of the Church.
Notebook 23, Page Image 51; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 21r; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-051.jpg
[E.C.]
“as it was with you last summer” he
murmurs as if speaking of a
calamitous dream. – – – – – – –
[K.B.]
Candlemas.
“ [????]” Surely[?] it will
all drip down my fine
purple coat! And we both
kissed the Jewel’s hand as
well as the candle. Like the
fine gentleman he is, he with
-drew his hand (presented
to others, thinking the converts
might have conscientious
scruples[?]”) We did this.
And we did not catch fire!
Since I became “a little
Catholic, I have had few hours
of such water-cress[?] happiness
– bubbling up through the Water
of Life – as when I stood with
my flambeau. & heard sing, a
[????] of the light that lighteth every
man that cometh into the World.
So much [????].
– I too have received the
response of the Holy Ghost:
& it has been granted to me
before death to see the Lord’s Christ
in the office.3 (Lunch[?]) It is greed
about the [????] coming into
the temple. And such [????] of
Notebook 23, Page Image 52; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 21v; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-052.jpg
[K.B.]
Winter [????] – still, North-East
air, & high [????] A [????] with old music
(4 [????] too ] on the towing-path before
dinner.
And, after dinner – again [????]
blue big, blue stream plashing up
looks just as it used to – a boat to
the rescue – – –
And new First Supper – like
First Vespers. & I take[?] the Acad.[?]
[????], my Merit, & Benediction[?].
[E.C.]
I take up Wednesday & Goss:
I told him I had not been
able to work since I joined
the Church, & that my
Faith & my vocation were
as yet unreconciled, though I
was sure reconciliation would
come. “It is rather difficult
to make any terms between
Zeus & Christ.” And I beg
him not to read our work.
“When you said you did not like
the hymns in the Breviary
that spoke of Olympus, I
laughed to myself & said ‘If
Fr G [????] ever hears I
write poetry I shall tell him
there is too much in it about
Olympus to please him’.”
Yet Goss had spoken at once of
the hope we might write some
Notebook 23, Page Image 53; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 22r; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-053.jpg
[E.C.]
Catholic hymns – or “some poetry
things out of the Breviary.”
When I continue to speak of an
artist’s difficulties in being
a Catholic, I am suddenly
startled by the question in
a voice that might be
wrung out by the rack: “But
you don’t regret it? You’ve never
regretted it?”
“Oh, Fr, no! I am more of a Catholic
everyday! If St. Michael were
to come before us to day⟨now⟩ with
my Faith in one balance & my
Art in the other, I should ⟨have to⟩ choose
my Faith, though it would be my
death, for my Art is my Life.
But it is not any question of
choice; only of reconciliation &
harmony.”
“You could not say more” – & he rises
to go, with an excuse for not staying
tea. “Oh, Father, no – you must not go
away without one cup. Come &
have one” I use every holy charm,
& he answers “Well, then, just one.”
But when in the Gold Room he sits
down under the candles I am
terrified, & Michael in amaze at
his face. It is like the face of some one
who is come down from an
Operating-Room – or as Michael
says, he looks as Abraham might
when he came up from the honor
Notebook 23, Page Image 54; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 22v; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-054.jpg
[E.C.]
of great Darkness round the
Sacrifice of the Fowls!
He is quite pale & a Knot[?], as
painful as Caligula’s Knots[?],
in his brow, giving a look
of strain; & the sweet eyes
have lost the very nature of
their sweetness & look
strange & distraught.
He begins in the same toneless
way as to me, speaking of
Editions of The Imitatio &
Summa . . . I am urged to say
lightly. “We have been talking
of this wicked disclosure in
the paper”. Michael takes it
up lightly – we make him
laugh – she tells him just
the same true story as mine
(suspicious Goscommon!) – the
clouds move higher, & at
last when – à propos of his having
lost a friend’s dog, Michael repeats
she is sure he was a naughty
little boy & not good to Pussy.”
the eyes take on their deprecating
frolic – a sweet irresponsibility
& naughtiness that only Ireland
can give even to Norman eyes,
dark & grave & often reticent.
We have precious Goscommon
back – almost from the dead!
And, when he leaves, his
handshake is cordial.
Notebook 23, Page Image 55; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 23r; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-055.jpg
[E.C.]
But what has happened to him? I
am distressed.
And Michael is archangelic in
wrath that I should have
allowed in the rhetoric of
compassion[?] even the figure[?]
of a choice between Faith & Art.
When I said to Goss, with regard to
Michael Field “You must forget it,
Father” – I heard a sigh form into
the words “Oh, I can’t.” But
priests say so little I cant[?] am
unable to realise what is happening
in him – if he is hurt at what he
unprofessionally regards as
lack of trust in me (He shows[?]
toward me plentiful lack of trust!)
or if he is overwhelmed in his
humility & simpleness⟨with[?]⟩at the
burthen of a penitent & convert,
who is an acknowledged poet.
It is tragical; & I shall pray
we may be drawn into peace
again. Next to Chow he has
helped me most of any creature
to the Supernatural Life; & his
“Welcome” was like the word of
an of angel, who was going to be
my guardian-Angel in the visible
world - so sure & good, full of
adoption, intimate as holiness
can make a word – so that one’s
ear is indeed a sea-shell of the
stainless & secret depths.
Notebook 23, Page Image 56; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 23v; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-056.jpg
[E.C.]
ThursdayFriday
So glad to ease the strain of
yesterday[?]⟨Wednesday⟩ & my anxiety over
my Confessor by a rush to
town – a sudden visit to see
Fay’s bronzes & pictures at
the New Gal.
The pond[?] makes all sculpture
look ridiculously suburban –
Fay’s wild images of Centaurs
or Laoccon & his boys look
violent in suburbia; & his
noble pietà now in bronze
is lost as[?] the noblest things
must be in vulgar the surroundings.
– They are hidden; they escape
as Christ did when he hid
from the Multitude.
The effect of this pietà is of
three supporting masses as
of hills – supporting a steep
declining valley, the heads
⟨of the hills⟩ alone as Knolls raised
above the slope of landslip.
So Christ’s body depends on
the three figures in its load:
so it falls over them, their
heads raised over it – dark little
hills of sorrow.
So one has the [????] sense
of the stretch of a high valley
downward – the Knolls congregated
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[E.C.]
in triangle – the body of each
eminence supporting nobly
the beautiful valley slope from
beneath. So much for the
configuration.
The reverent treatment of a
suffering body at rest – the
compunction of the modelling
appeals to me; & the emotion
in the attitudes & expressiveness
of the hands & what is defined
of the faces is of pure strength
& solemn.
But what is this – a little bronze
with Fay’s Pan-point beard . . .
No, no! And yet it is Fay.
“An ? Enemy hath done this”
Shannon’s friend Miss Bruce,
who has represented Shannon
as a sort of Viking Carpenter
who⟨a⟩ believer in Labour as
a Sea-King in Bloodshed – has
done this slippered Pantaloon
of a Ricketts! His round back
of eighty is so ridden by the
Wisdom of the Sage. Unskilfully
Anatole France is made into the
penultimate Ape of Man &
called Charles Ricketts. Michael
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[E.C.]
grinds her teeth. This lean &
slippered One is far too old
for her to look at – a
deliberate Sage who remembers
his wisdom as grannies
the stitches on their knitting
needles.  O Fay, Fay!
And his pictures! Well, the Resurrection
does not come out in a gallery
at all well – its defects beat
the eyes. Michael is impatient,
riled with that little Sage
of Lansdowne House & vexed
by the uncertain operation of
his genius. She is often out
of key with his genius.
I think rather capriciously[?]
in her aversion from his
other picture Don Juan in
Hell.
To me the conception is grand
– the execution phantasmagoric.
And the combined effects of
grandeur & ⟨a⟩ magic lantern give
Hades as it might be in the
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[E.C.]
sufferer’s mind with the sublime
cruelty of the Catholic Baudelaire.
A stallion, as it might be, the stone
Stallion of the Commandatore[?],
over the grave of Don Juan’s
victim, is now ridden by
Don Juan (the high saddle is
unhappy & gives look of amateur-
-ishness to the horsemanship)
through the crowd of all
the victims of his lust. He rides
naked, his devil’s brows
flattened with torture, as the
great stone limbs of the
awful stallion are raised
over the naked bodies of
courtesans[?], seduced maidens,
small girls, ripe women –
while making a defile for
the remorseless charger & the
proud, giddy dizzy culprit on
its back, runs loom[?] – ghosts
of a resigned misery & a ravished
widow cries out as to the graves.
The whole vision is in un-
-natural light, & the forms[?] have
a current handling as if
hours & not days or weeks
had gone to their definition.
But all the forms[?] are in
the Vision & the Vision is one
of a tragic though ignominious
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[E.C.]
Doom, as the dooms of Hell
ever are.
The Gallery!
One thing of aesthetic value I
have found in myself since
I was at one with the
Church – all unreality
& vileness are beyond
escape from my detection.
Lux? Mundi? goes through [?]
the horror that call themselves [?]
&? advertise? themselves[?]:
A man named Legrand –
a monstrous charlatan – who
can by a clever trick give the
infamies of the wordly[?]
Frenchwoman – especially
in unconscious self-exposure
to her own sex . . female
friends together. What is to
be expressed is of Satan
– & the means as ugly as
the matter. The people
round me say “He must
be a Genius”. – I answer
to myself A Demon-spawned
charlatan!
And amid this Art for
Motorists – brutal, cynic[?],
fitted to “goggled” eyes – Michael
finds a little Degas paintings:
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[E.C.]
are giving all the warmth of
horses, scuffling & galloping
together in a meadow – The
form & heat! The colour brings
steam into one’s mind – &
there is such mastery
of horsemanship in the
way the unlikelihood[?] of
horse’s capers & cabrioles
is caught: a poem in the
way the freedom of the
meadow reigns over the
bridled creatures – exhilarating!
Then all that is quiet in a
strong[?] refined art entrances
us in a silhouette of a
woman against an evening
sky – The solitude of the
brown form is suggested by
the silhouette as it could be
in no other way – the effect
is [????] & therefore of simple
effect. What dignity, quietness!
How the mood after sundown
is before us as in no other
work of art – & oh, how beautiful
the browns & neutrals all
the colours of poppy-seeds. One
could rest in the sight of this
picture; we could be laid asleep
by it maternally.
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[E.C.]
Orzy tells us that Mrs Arthur
Symons will never recover
from the loss of a favourite
dog & that little Arthur
has put up a monument
in granite to the dog –
she tells this to us with
a jeer . . . & she came to
help us this time 2 years
ago! It is to act incredibly
to act so – We bear it by
giving sympathy to Mrs
Arthur – the sordid incredibility!
People do act just incredibly
to us – Orzy only speaks of
a notice of Wild Honey she has
had & wonders if she gave the
address to Fisher Unwin.
Incredible! – Well, we have
to do the more incredible
& bear. O little Whymmie!
But the blow on our cheek
from one we had trusted!
Yet Orzy is very kind & loving
to the persons of us.
Ah me!
When once discipline has been
accepted, it is a marvel how
one finds nearly everyone round
one in the rough.
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[E.C.]
Yesterday Thursday Jan. 30th
Michael went to St. Dominic’s
Priory to see Fr Vincent.
He had written Jan. 26th
“My dear child,
I am grieved to hear that Henry has been
imprisoned from the faith Yet it
is not untempered regret, since I
feel sure she has been busy
distilling honey from the bitter
Passion flowers. As you know
mountain-heather – one of the
bitterest herbs yields the sweetest.
But – you know what honey
is & where the sweetest may
be found – & have found it.
The other day in reading the office of
the “Conversion of St Paul” I was
almost overthrown by the phrase
Elegit Dominus Virum de plebe;
et claritatem visionis aeternae
dedit illi (Chapter for Vespers)
What tremendous eloquence this is
the soul that penned the “Envoi” . .
to Wild Honey will understand it.
“The Lord picked out a man from
the people, and gave him sight
of the Vision Everlasting”
I should be free on Thursday
morning”
Yours sincerely in fear[?]
Vincent N’Nabb .O. P.
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[E.C.]
Now I am copying Michael –
“With Amy[?] I make a little
Novena of my own – I venture
to receive daily the Blessed
Sacrament. I am allowed
great blessing both on the
Sunday that seems – on the
Tuesday that is the Anniversary
of my sacrifice (January 28th 1908)
So precious the Love of the Father
in yielding to my care that
tiny orphan[?] life. The Father
softened my heart, giving me
that wee warm[?] life.
And the Redeemer taught me
the Sacrifice.
And on at Rottingdean came
the Reconciliation of the Holy
Spirit.
I worship in my perfect Trinity
______
Thursday. Jan. 31st
The Parlour of St. Dominic.
Fr Vincent (of ‘Wild Honey’)
Out of the strong shall come forth
Sweeteners - – if[?] there might be
a piece of rock-honeycomb, as
from the side of Christ”.
“Father, you think that may be?”
“Yes, with prayer”.
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[E.C.]
There is a rare shyness in Fr Vincent.
Pressed on me suddenly from the
hurry of the world, he has this
thing to say.
Of Anima Christi & the fear of Death
“Father, then I may have the Anima
Christi as my death-bed prayer –
I shall have then no fear
of Purgatory, of separation.
It is a Catholic prayer. I may
have it?”
‘In hora mortis meae voca me.
Et jube me venire ad te,
Et cum Sanctis tuis laudem te’ &c
Fr Vincent
The Union with Christ is six times
closer in Purgatory than it can be on
Earth.
Oxygen, just after it is created, has the
most intense life: so the soul
after death. Probably it will exile
itself as it approaches the light of
the vision. You yourself, for the
Love of God, are making . . for yourself
a purgatory. You are giving
yourself pain.”
Speaking of Candlemas & the humility
with wh : our Lady & her Son fulfilled
the Law – Christ worked miraculous
changes, but as far as possible without
revolution, changing the face of
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[E.C.]
the world while He obeyed. He
was born at Bethlehem, because
His Mother obeyed a command
of Caesar – circumcised, baptised
in obedience. He was at Nazareth
subject. Even in not opening His
mouth to teach till he was 30
He was obedient to the Law.
Michael
(Of Acts of Hope) “You wd not know them
if they were plants, they are so
small.”
Fr V. But they are vital –
M. I borrow from Faith for
for my Acts of Hope. 5
Fr V. A better money-lender is
Caritas – charity. You will
get more. Hope without love
wd be dreadful.
The Father in Heaven likes Acts
______6
Of Jan. 28th We had the Mass of Thanksgiving
at 8.30 this morning & took the
Blessed Sacrament then. We read the votive
Dr Angelis, so triumphant, so glad, so full
of guardianship[?] – the animals sway[?] the
heavenly powers. How we thanked Christ for
our little Chow. It is only by my love to Chow I
am learning what my love to Christ ought to
be & shall be. If I could fear losing Him as I feared
losing Chow. If I could weep for Him, the tears
of live welling Chow has drawn; if I cd rejoice in
His love as in the golden loveliness of Chow’s, then
I should know the Love of God. So may it be, as Chow
shows the way to my God!
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[E.C.]
Sat.
A Miss G. has been sent to call on
us by Fr Sam, as several other
women have been sent by Goss –
Dear me! They run over one’s
experience like water off oil-skin.
They have morally nothing
central, when they are not Mothers:
they do not seem, unless they
renounce the world, to make
religion central. They never seem
able to take things in except
as appearances wh : they
solidify into perf personal
interests – not even give the⟨into[?]⟩⟨ facts with the⟩⟨ir⟩
dignity, because interdependence, ⟨of facts⟩.
Women weary me – I am thankful
when they are gone to forget them;
& yet this should not be so, & if
I found women at all like our
Lady I should adore them, as I
adore the real Aphrodite-beauty
of women.
Miss G. – poor Miss G. a weariness!
No desire for any future toward
her – no relish, that is the fresh
prophecy of Desire.
Candlemas
We missed it last year – it is the last
of the Church’s Celebrations we
shall go to for the first time.
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[E.C.]
We feel so young in our
Relg Religion again.
The Candles – how shall
we manage them?
Little “Jewel” with his sense
of ritual, bear him nobly –
a priest quite after the
most ancient Order – Goss by
him hands the Candles with
the blank intentness of a
child – to hand candles is
the one motion of life in
him. With fineness of
thought for us, Jewel gives
the Candle to each & withdraws
his hand instead of offering it –
we pursue the hand with
our fealty – & a sense reaches
us – this act is seen to be
well.
The Nunc Dimitis – what it is
to a Convert, to one who has not
seen death, till God’s
Christ has been seen! And
to hold the light during[?] the
Sacrifice, the sign of one’s
own enlightening & of God’s
glory! We spill no grease & we
do not set our hats on fire.
We are only happy as the
little flames that soar in
front of us.
The Ice & the Lyric Poet have done
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[E.C.]
for Goscommon! Such dull sermons
– no moving of his soul on the
face of his little ponds[?] – it is
only that motion of his holy
soul white over his boyish
words that gives them
virtue – & Goscommon’s
soul is in hiding or only
creeps out mottled &
ineffective – Dear Goss!
At night we just get to Church
as Jewel is telling of the
Pagan feast that Candlemas
supplanted. “It was a feast
of Pan” – & I catch Goscommon’s
eyes shot in the direction
of his Pagan Convert, with
the a knowish[?] “there’s for
her!” & a priestly concern
equally mingled in their
swiftness. And I laugh at
the thought of “Wild Honey”
with Pan asleep on the 1st page
[????]⟨laughing meanwhile⟩ to give foolish Goss one
stroke of the “windy riot that
a little shakes the spheres.”
The Office for Candlemas – Oh, lovely:
St. Augustine on the old Man:
“Agnovit infantem senex, factus est
in puero puer. Innovates in aetate,
qui plenus orat pietate. Simean senex
ferebat Christum infantem, Christus
regebat Simeonis senectutem.”
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[E.C.]
We both have felt a solemn
trumpet-voice to our wills
to fall & to give up their
refusal of daily Req Reception
of the Bread of Life.
We let them fall to that
music, knowing that a
new city will be built
to the music, that will not
shut its gates, but leave
them free for their Lord
to enter or not as it is His
will.
Away with morning tea as a
habit – that earliest comfort,
that indulgence often coming
between us and a sacramental
mystery shrivels in the
Candle-flame of this Mass
of the Purification.
So we are wrought[?] by the Supernatural
Church & our King, & one
of Fr Vincent’s miraculous Changes[?]
– is it not worked without revolution?
Mrs MacDonald writes,
“Miss Gulell[?] danced with John Duncan,
the quaint little artist in a country
dance & Fr Gray dressed in his
soutane danced with little
girls in pink silk frocks.”
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[E.C.]
Monday
At Mass a rather bold-hearted,
healthful[?], saint-adoring Woman
– a Dominican Tertiary – whispers
to me “Will you say a prayer for
the King & Queen of Portugal! They
are both dead – is it not dreadful?
You will say a De Profundis?”
One’s heart stands back before what
must be murder – but this
calm Mother-Church of Humanity
asks our love & prayers for the
dead before any excitement
over a terrible ef event.
At home we find it is not the
Queen, but the Crown Prince.
And the King of the Cochon
D’Or! –The blithe & massive &
art-loving Dom Carlos!
Well, he has died for the sake
of his country – his blood
will be effectual as shed
blood of a victim always is!
Dom Carlos of the Cochon d’Or – a
Victim! One of the Dead, in
Purgatory, – & the untried boy
beside him! God who has
dwelt with unapproachable
Tragedy will have mercy on
the burly[?]⟨soul⟩ & ⟨that⟩stripling[?] soul meeting
him from their blood.
The Times gives us this Aeschylian
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[E.C.]
Group: “Queen Amelia spent the
whole night sitting between
the dead bodies of her husband
& son, her right hand resting
on the King’s face, & her
left on that of the Crown Prince”
Tuesday Feb. 4th
From high sky & ⟨from⟩ what grace in
the air we came back to
a letter from Bernhard –
a handwriting how young!
It flies out at you like young
leaves from their boughs! It
is young, young as vine-tendrils
& the yearly loops[?] of bramble –
A thicket for Eros!
And Bernhard croaks of Senility
from feigned lips.
But joy he has written –
though his praise is insolently[?]
mitigated, seeing he cannot
write at all. But then has
he not “in- [????]” Keats &
Milton, leaving[?] them only
phrases or lines of the highest
poetry. “The Golden Urn”, of each of
those two pleads for him.
He says
“Honey of any kind wild or otherwise,
is not to be gulped down in gallon-
measure by any person of my
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[E.C.]
years. So I have read of your last
vol. but a little daily, & have found
it delicious. I truly congratulate
you, & tell you frankly it is far
above what I expected. There is
much poetical stuff throughout, &
not at all infrequently real
poetry, if not of the highest, all
but the highest kind. The chief,
perhaps the only drawback is
that you occasionally fall
into a certain Don-ishness, a
certain obscurity while you do not
quite inspire the confidence that
one must delve for sense. I
like too many of the poems to tell
you which I prefer. On the whole
those wh : are most Greek in
theme & most impersonal in
address. And those few Greek
lines – they are from OEdippus (sic!)
Coloneus are they not? – That Preface
the “Longer Allegiance” They are
ideally placed.
Well, I have read & shall read
again, sip this wild honey. It is
real bees’ work & no compound[?]
of glycerine & God knows what.”
____
So much for unwilling Bernhard!
We are come back from Town where
we have been to the Society of Twelve[?]
& to Orzy for bodice-fitting . . . We
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[E.C.]
been warming our fatigue into
bliss by the fire & this comes
from Fr Gray –
‘My dear Michael,
Certainly the treasure of the
world is increased by the
content of wild⟨the⟩ Honey Book.
It was on my pen to write
this long ago – but I did not
care to make a solemn
statement of the kind off-hand.
I cannot pretend to survey
the past (& the future) in
the manner of the literary
critic. I can however say
of a given work what I now
say of Wild Honey. It has
the pulse & warmth of life.
The magic of poetry has been
achieved. I can say of
Morning Rains that it never
was before & never will be
again – but is, just as I know
beyond proof that the organism
I is unique. Here is the swish
& sob of the rain, the thrill & sob
of the bird’s voice, the gurglings
mingling. I may worry at
dewdrops & yes be sure that I
am wrong & the lyric right – it
it echoes in “through” & no doubt
is justified in other ways.
Had you lights? Had you all lights?
We had. John Gray.
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[K.B.]
Candlemas.
Dear Father,
I was delighted to get
your letter last night for the excuse
it gave me to speak of Candlemas.
“Did we all have lights?”
I hear ⟨at⟩ the Dominican Priory the Fathers
went up with their lighted candles to
the altar, & that ended the candle part[?] . . .
the Fathers would not have been allowed
to do that at the Vineyard.
What, leave the laity unlighted⟨ing⟩!
But the bees & the angels would
have hasted to redress the churlishness
Father, Candlemas, is, I fear, the last
of the Church’s great rituals, at which
we can assist for the last⟨first⟩ time.
this is grief – as one closes one of
Shakespeare’s plays – read with
eyes of springtime.
– My first terror was for Michael’s
beautiful, purple coat. All went well,
and I was in an ecstasy over the
blowing out, & re-kindling – the
receiving, distributing, & maintaining
the Flame.
Not since the charmed life in
Ireland have I been so happy.
Last year – it leapt up in my heart
at “et jusso tuo per opera apum hunc
liquorum ad perfectionem cerei
venire fecisti. This year! And the
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[K.B.]
lectiones[?]! that S. Augustine on
Simeon! And the Antiphons to Lauds!
And to an old Convert how dear
this feast.
. . Respensit accepit Simeon a
Spirito Sancto . . .
Accipiens Simeon puerum in
manibus gratias agens, benedixit Dominum,
M.
Wild Honey
My dear Father, But coming in tired from
town, I was not expecting, on my
little couch, anything so comfortable
as more praise of the Honey Book.
Poet’s praise! It is of life, & I will
love the Morning Rains for your sake[?]
Like you, the other day. I stopped dead
at the “dewdrops”. There must be
then a little stream[?] of the stuff there:
Now I am happy you love the
book, as you have been reading
some of it technically – do just say
what jars your ear – what
tricks[?] are becoming troublesome –
where you detect beginnings of vices[?].
I liked one thing that Painter
(now lying in disgrace like a
disused waxwork) said about
Sonnets. “there should always be the
open door at the end: He finds the
open door at the end of the first
sonnet. I can’t follow him there.
But when we write sonnets
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[K.B.]
Poet, let us remember to leave a little
path out into the universe.” –
&c. & c.
[E.C.]
We have found these lines Michael
wrote in the ideal cold near
Christmas, & from a mist of
pain –
*
As ribbons we hung round her chariot,
We dangled or blew out on the air –
We were dusky[?] about her breast,
There we lay at command,
And then spread through the land
Multiplied on the way from the
Wheels of her chariot.
___
It is cold to us sparrows of Venus,
Recluse on the noble winter air:
The boughs are stretched forth in the sky;
It is cold & even
On the bough, on the stream,
We company in the boughs the sparrows
of Venus.
___
Everyone has loved the “Lament for
Cheiron” – this is of the same
new brew, &, I believe, points
the way to the strain of the
future, at least in Michael’s
work.
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[E.C.]
Wednesday
Sweet Goscommon comes – it is well.
He has taken counsel with his
own simple dignity & we
meet as if he had forgotten
all that troubled him.
But when, after telling him of
our joy in Candlemas, that
starry[?] “Nunc Dimitis,” I say
gently “My Confessor must
never again ask me if I regret
becoming a Catholic”. The blood
sweeps his face & neck; &
after a silence, like the little
conscious instants of silence
in a wood[?] thicket, he assures
me he asked expecting a
positive answer. “It was a
rhetorical question”. Dear
prevaricator! How he regretted
the impulse that had made
him question!
I would⟨will⟩ not tease him; but
turn[?]edto[?] the gravity of my
hope to[?]⟨that I may[?]⟩ take the Blessed Sacrament
every day. Of course, warning
me to take regard the cardinal virtue
Prudence & not overtax my health,
he sanctions & approves.
He has had great joy in my constant
attendance for a week; & he speaks
of the Eucharest as birds sing
the sun. AsIt ⟨is⟩ the one centre of
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[E.C.]
fountain of the Catholic’s life. How
I love to hear him speak of the
Blessed Sacrament!
He asks impulsively during his[?]
visit –
“But you have more self-control?”
“Your health has improved
since you were a Catholic, has it
not?”
I wonder if both questions were
are rhetorical!
Anyhow he is happy; &, at⟨during⟩ tea, as
full of light-minded happiness
as if he were a spo lamb at
sport. Delicious to have caused
this⟨a⟩ bit of the frolic of the
spring in this boyish, saintly
priest – so candid, with all
his seminary sophistication!
Yes, he is just like a lamb kicking
& springing in a sunny field.
The Kingdom of Heaven
very near us!
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[E.C.]
Thursday Feb. 6th
My Second Visit to Fr Vincent.
Michael takes me to the Priory – I
am shut in a waiting-cell
without a fire: then a Lay
Brother, with the manner
of a nurse to the Spiritual
Physician soothes me “He
will come to you now directly”
& he gives me a cell with
a fire, where I study a photograph
of the Community – Vincent
toward the centre, a creature
of a different sphere, with heart-
shaped stain of hair on
his brow, like an ink-stain;
& features conditioned by
Pentecostal Wind & the torture[?]
of conflict even a wind of
the Spirit strikes with
arrows[?].
The door seems driven open . . .
Vincent in his scrubby flannels;
Vincent, a presence bowing
the Cedars like his God – for
his holiness, his refinement,
as refined gold bow one down.
And there is something of
the prophet in the worn-down
face & in the eyes, cloudy[?]
impersonal, as chrysolite
iscloudy[?] & lays no claim
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[E.C.]
by brightness of shining.
We sit at the table, our elbows
on the table, our eyes on each
other’s[?]
“Your time is so precious to me,
Father, I can hardly bear
to take it up by telling you
what I want to talk about.
And I plunge into the
problem: what is a dramatic
poet to do, who, receiving Christ
corporeally each day, must yet
deal with sinners & become,
as Matthew Arnold says,
the thing that what he sings –
Before dealing with the subject,
Vincent folds his hands & says
very quietly “It would be
flattery for me to praise “Wild
Honey” as I have⟨am⟩ not competent”
Then with the same quietness as
of a magic stone declaring its
augury he says “The five
wounds of Christ will give you
their sweetness. I have always
thought of honey as in the
rock – Now I have another image . . .
of a cleft Rock – Christ’s side.
It haunts me. I cannot get
away from it . . . And the honey
you will find in the clefts! No,
the thought of it will not remove
from me. I listen as if he
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[E.C.]
were telling me where to get my
apples from – say!
So familiar & simple the
way he speaks I take
it by simple hearing.
I believe prisoners at the
bar receive their sentence
in this commonplace way
manner, with simple
hearing, & only a detached
detached little cloud of
doom, further from the brain
than the ear is, to make[?]
them pay any attention.
Great things arrive thus –
humbly –, as Kings & poets, &
beggars are all born.
And Vincent turns to the
subject:
“To become what we sing” –
That is what God did– He
became Man that he might
teach Man a New Song.
It was only by hearing that
sorrow He could do any-
-thing great for Man. So with
the poet, he must bear Sin.
I explain further the strong
physical identification I have
with my characters, & rapidly
tell of the presentation I was
conceiving of Caligula. The
monk slightly recoils & confesses
“I should not like to give my
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[E.C.]
opinion off-hand. It is not that the
matter is so much serious
as delicate. All I can say now
is wait long & do not put the
matter by – never solve anything
by fear. Christ abominates fear.
And remember, St Augustine’s
(‘Ah’, we are St Augustine’s
children’ he murmurs
tensely[?]) & his famous words
“I love God & do as I please”.
You will find from that new
centre there will be new
radiation that touches things
differently. Antinomianism
will drop off – that says “I
do as I please & it is good”.
What slays[?]⟨kills⟩ Antinomianism
is the beginning portion of St
Augustine’s sentence “I love God”.
Then you must consider that
Reticence is the modern
form of mortification. Also
the poet to be great must face
sin as the good priest must.
If a priest has been allowed by
the mercy of God to keep his
vow unstained, to⟨if he will⟩ be of any
good as a priest he must go
into the very reek of sin, go
down to where it is a stench
& breathe it & touch it” [ The refinement
in the face opposite ⟨me⟩ seems to curl
up as delicate green leafage before
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[E.C.]
the smoke of a fire. ]7
“And a great poet must
never minimise sin – It
is an insult to God. It
is watering down the Precious
Blood [ & Vincent laughs
a free laugh at the
daring[?] homeliness of the
smile[?] – touching a thing
so sacred & terrible ]8
We must remember Christ
is never weak – His[?] strength
is inmitigable.
A priest to help the intellectual
difficulties of the day must
face them all take them
all into his own brain.
Newman has been such a
power because he was intellectually
so fearless – he bore the
pressure of all doubts &
questionings. And remember
this – if you want to get
dramatic force you can
never get it by the weakness
of yielding to the force of
evil that causes the
tragedy – Every force that is
not resisted tends to weakness –
to mere projection of itself,
so that if you want to
feel & recreate the force of
sin you must yourself resist
it to⟨that you may⟩ feel its magnitude &
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[E.C.]
continue to resist that you may
express this magnitude.”
“Father, I have been afraid I might
be persuaded not to write of sin
now I am a Catholic in its
utterness – that I should be
afraid to be true & strong . . . .
Yet how I hate those ⟨who⟩ alter the
facts of life & square[?] them to
do honour to any preconception
of faith or Religious Teaching!
As an artist I could not
do it. I should have to leave
the subjects alone, & confess
the artist defeated & a
weakling”.
“Ho!” – and Vincent throws back
his head & arms till the flannel
sleeves of his habit show the
yellower under-sleeves, & ⟨the⟩ cry
he makes is of the desperation
of a sea-bird’s cry – “Ho! It
has been the terror of my
life that Christ should make
me weak – or that he should
take away everything else”
“Father, it has been mine. In
The Hound of Heaven Francis
Thompson expresses the same
terror”
“Yes – it is because he speaks of these
things in his poetry, I find it
great & moving”: Oh, what is the
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[E.C.]
direct temptation – say, of
seeing the apple red &
round before you for you
to steal compared with
the vague Temptations of
the Intellect! But I have
come to realise the deadly
Temptation of fearing that
Christ means loss or
weakness. To resist & endure
is to serve Him – to go from
strength to strength.”
We turn to speak of the Classics[?]
– essential matter for the
poet’s use. Here, spite of himself,
I detect some Early Christian
fear in the fearless Vincent.
To apply Pagan life & its aims
to modern life he holds a
great danger – just as to apply
Christian life & its aims
to the more savage Pagans of
today is often a great danger
to their savage virtues.
The greatness of one ideal of
human life cannot touch a
lower ideal without peril
arising. “But, father, I am
referring mostly to the imperish-
-able symbols & legends of
Greece. They have summed up
Nature & Thought & Man
as a splendid creature on
earth in forms & in tales of
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[E.C.]
imperishable perfection. These
were re-discovered at the Renaissance
& welcomed by the Church – by
Popes & Cardinals, as well as by
great artists; & these the poet
claims as treasure of his
portion.”
Vincent speaks of Dante’s use of
the Classics, of Plato & Aristotle
– of how antiquity led on to
Revelation . . . but I gather
that a sense of peril makes
all the birds of his nature hold[?]
their nature – he is thinking
of the dark laxity that has fallen
on the world since the 15th century.
And so his bold fairness[?] of
Spirit is checked. The pseudo-Greek
infamies depress him.
“I see the Tragedy of your life
now – the Tragedy that will be
there to the end. The struggle
between what you owe to Christ
& what to your Art. Ah, it is
the hidden tragedy that is often
so much more profound than
the public one. It was so with
Christ. What was the Tragedy
of His Mission on Earth & His
death on the Cross to the hidden
Tragedy of his life here, that He
was severed from the Father.”
“I have always said that the artist
is a lost creature between Heaven &
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[E.C.]
& Earth, grasping spiritual things
with one hand & with one
passionate grasp the things
of sense”
“No – not lost! The Poets are
the mystics – they lead the
way to Revelation – & as
long as they grasp the things
of sense firmly, they are
safe. The Church welcomes
poets.
But there will always be
the delicate question with
you what you must bear for
your art, as Christ more[?] bore
sin & sorrow, & what
must be rejected in your
material. It is a question
for you yourself & it must
always be fearlessly answered.
This will always be your
Tragedy.
You have always regarded art
seriously, as your profession,
your vocation, have you not?”
Since I was a child. I began
to write at ten”.
“Then you must be willing to
take up your Tragedy, you must
be willing to bear sin & to suffer.
– You must always remember
Christ had a vocation from
God & bore all things for it.”
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[E.C.]
I hear the school-children outside
as bright voices – & thank Fr
Vincent. “There is no other Priest
to whom I could talk as to you.
Sometimes I feel shut up, & then
at the end of a long avenue[?]
I find Fr Vincent holding a
door wide open”.
“Oh, I must have doors all
round me & open. I sometimes
think I shall die of freedom . . .
(What did he mean? That he
would catch a cold from too
liberal airing? ]9
He takes me himself to the door
restraining my thanks “It is a
privilege to me to be of use to you”.
The consideration of symbolism
has to be put off to another time.
Toward the beginning of the interview
mention was made of Milton –
“I am peculiar about what I
read. I rejoiced in the gt. drama
in Paradise Lost – the imperial
way it was shown forth – the superb
force of lines like “Better to rule in
hell than serve in heaven” – but
I came to a gross insult to the
Church that seemed to gather[?] up
the mind of the man . . I couldn’t
read him any more. I have a
dear Mother who is dead – if
any spoke against her, I should
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[E.C.]
probably strike him. I should
leave the room. If he lived
next door to me I should
never speak to him – he
had insulted my Mother – so
with Milton: he had insulted
my Mother. I cannot bring
myself to have any dealings
with him. But I know
what I miss.”
Wonderful Vincent!
These are some of the words
he said as he moved his
flannelled arms almost
with the pantomime’s
art of expressiveness, &
the delicate ocean-lines
of his thought played in a
smile over his mouth.
As my Confessor he wd not be
nearly restrictive & firm enough
to “break me in” & he would
hesitate to “let me out” as
he does now.
__
Amy writes “Such lovely days we are
having – gray, but full of spring,
smelling of the dear earth &
ushered in by thrushes.”
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[E.C.]
Feb. 22 nd –
All the space between the 6th & 22nd!
What have I been doing?
Perhaps it is that I have been absorbed
in the greatest change that has
begun or can ever begin in life –
the reception by the Spirit of its
Daily Bread – the pledge given
to the Supernatural Life that
the Child gives when, weaned
it first begins to feed on what
will support its natural
life. I feed for the Ideal Life
every day – & the growth, &
the strength! A force is in me
I was awaiting: but it only
comes if one eats & drinks of
one’s God as one eats & drinks
for the preservation of one’s Earthly
life. No wonder that in the
Secret of the mystery the one
prefigures the other. The force
in me is as the clean robustness[?]
of health, a very folly of resurrection
from the food of Heaven.
I must cease to try – I
cannot put into words this
mettle[?], this intoxication that
yet is steady as an unfailing
element of the spiritual
world – seedtime & harvest shall
never fail there to make this
food, to store this wine.
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[E.C.]
Monday S t Scholastica.
Michael goes to see Emily & her
friend in their flat among
the costers[?], founding as it
were the Order of Great Neighbours.
The two natures are Rhone &
Arve, but the different colours
flow in their volume toward
one end, & as Fr Vincent said
it must be well in the end
when two wills are both
set toward God’s.
The two ask for poems from
“Wild Honey”, & Emily chooses
“Penetration”. Michael loves
reading to these women gathered
round; & as she reads they
thrill from their own hearts.
I, calling on a Catholic lady, hear
that “Jewel” has quietly been
paying the Church debbs Debt
with his Ɫ200 endowment, &
living on what the people
give in contribution; & as they
have been rather careless
in their duty, he is almost
destitute of clothes. But
the sensitive, proud lips have
been shut for years till the
pinch made them plead for
more generous giving; & then
the truth was discovered of
our Rector’s generosity & self-sacrifice
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[E.C.]
Wednesday 12thTown.[?]
A copy of a Wedgewood hermit-jug,
& toilet service got from Daniell’s
– pledge we’ll keep Paragon
firm to the discipline of beauty.
And at Kate Reily’s a little
hat for Michael to love & to
be loved in – a black form
just new & Gallic in every
audacious suavity, with nothing
but a soft-woven gray
veil about it & around it.
The Society of Twelve
Fine Saint-Woman, cut out &
remounted[?] by Fay, the scissors
spoiling the breath[?] of his
outlines – & his poster for
‘The Persians’, never used – a
grand Assyrian Bull-Sphinx
& below the Ghost of Darius
slanting miraculously up from
his tomb, the slab following
the tilt of his body, the face
cleft by grave & napkins.
A not quite successful challenge
& therefore a little nerve-wracking.
Shannon has sent some fine
prints – The Cup of Tea is delicious
– the way one treats a cup of tea
like a Cat, the way it is brought
to one as a Cat.
And At the Water’s Edge, where two
girls, their shoulders & heads in
a linen shroud of chemise, wrestle
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[E.C.]
in sea-delighted with a clothed
older woman. I saw at
St. Andrews the beauty in
the contrast of naked bodies
& fully clothed ones in the
frank light & motion of the
elements. I knew Shannon
could do it with bold ease.
And he has two early
drawings of children in the
sand, the sand is felt to
be in their boots, they are so
deep in sandiness. Two little
girls like very recent chickens
nestle[?] in a sandhole & peep
up ridiculously. I should
love to have the drawing –
fresh & happy – “The Kingdom”
(as we call Children now)
on the sea-shore.
Tommy is marvelous in
comedy & naȉve imagination
– His young man flying[?] into
a chestnut tree, pursued
naked from among Christ’s
disciples has a drollery
of vivid realisation that
sets one laughing – but
there is a round[?] tolerance in
one’s laughter. There is a
Dryad bird’s nesting that gives
personal form to the deep places
of a Wood – we know how
very deep & lonely the wood is, &
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[E.C.]
all woods can be as we look this
Dryad, her hair flowing down as
pine-branches flow down.
Thursday
Goss comes, his visit yesterday
having been put off. As with
all delayed visits this is not
a success – we do the office,
making no echo of sympathy
over the distances between us.
When I apologise for being so late
for his sermon on Sunday evening
he makes the stupidly misunderstanding
remark “Oh, it didn’t disturb
me”. – & I hate him as much
as when he first came into
the house. He is consciously
sacerdotal & gives himself away
in his cloudy disapproval of
the delightfully fresh young
girls who have visited me
just before he came. Nine of
them – all young – manage[?]
an orphanage of 40 children
under a lady of 27 years – & they
have no Ecclesiastical Superior!!
That makes them so fresh & sprouty[?]
– green living things of CharCaritas.
However he boyishly proposes
we should all three visit the
Superior-less young Ladies & brave
their Poodle! “They have taken
a baby for me” he says laughingly, &
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[E.C.]
describes what it was to him
to take the big woman & her
baby over Richmond Bridge
. . . ” That Bridge! I felt everyone
was looking at me – the
Bridge! The crossing of it! I
shouldn’t have minded the
woman – it was the baby
. . I was glad to sink into
Duck’s Walk . . . oh, that
bridge!” & he ripples into
deprecating Irish laughter,
shaken from mischievous
virgin eyes – so Catholic!
Saturday Feb. 15 th
We go to see the Sicilian players
in Malia, & we see all
the passions, the splendours,
the dangers[?] of a menagerie.
But where is Art?
It is just express & admirable
instinct. And Agulia Ferran!
Well, the creator of sin[?]
wd have owned[?] his country.
Woman! But think of the
beauty round that figure
of unabashed Lust, of the
cries to the Moon! Agulia
cries to our Lady across the
Room in a paroxism[?] of
desire & for a moment gives
one the sense of beauty – for the
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[E.C.]
rest one watches an exposition
of physical lust as awful
as that of Shakespeare’s sonnet,
& as shameless as one
thought sin only could be
when secret & hidden.
The infamy of the way she drags
herself about the house!
No one in the power of any
god could be so exposed to our
disgust, & therefore beyond
the pale of art.
Through a thunderstorm, to the
Palace, where Shannon’s
pictures are giving an At[?]
Home! Fay & the Pictures
had given us up . . .
We whirl out of our cab,
to be comfortably supported
by Tommy, who is just leaving
with Marie & a sister. Michael
kidnaps Marie into the lift Marie –, she
struggling as a Lapith’s
wife should at a Centaur’s
gallop. Off & up she goes!
back. But once inside the
Palace-door I detect she has
on the waterproof so the
jest must go no further; & she
is pushed into the arms
of her Lapith who has rushed
up the mountain of steps
to snatch her from capture.
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[E.C.]
Beside Fay, like a figure from
the marbles of Pergamon[?],
stands Farquheson[?] – the
salient lips, violent jaw,
head of broad ideality, eyes
liquid with youth, speech
a beautiful stammer
that arrests cicala-wise.
He seems enchanted to
meet me . . soon he is
with Michael & swift on
his knees in an homage
only he could dare for
an instant’s instinct . .
He has just heard a beautiful
thing of us that we are
Catholic – not mechanically,
but within the Sanctuary
of our own will . . . We have
taught him to love small
things – shells & bits of
gems. Fay keeps near, &
watches Herod as if he
were but a permitted liberty
that might be withdrawn
at the King’s pleasure –
only the King is not quite[?]
sure of his antiquity!
In the distance queer Bobby
Ross, who has never acknowledged
“Wild Honey” or Michael’s letter,
gazes rapt as a dog at a
Master whose table drops
no crumbs.
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[E.C.]
We take Herod to show him the Lamp
-shell, & in the Drawing-Room we
find Fay out as the schemer
of lovely elfin grots on plates –
lawns of smoothed moss – gazon
with tiny cyclamen showing
vivid nozzles of life among shells
& cold lumps of amber or Topaz.
The Room is floral with the
specially wavering lilies of this
month[?]s[?] (such the lilies that
guard the Tabernacle at the Vineyard)
with blood-deep amaryllis,
white & wine-red hellebores.
Here Herod parts from us – the
liquid eyes full of the necessity
of flight & of repugnance at
flying – a train for Bramley[?]?
– his Mother’s home where he
lives, because she gives him
beef & milk? “What an
excellent reason for living with
one’s Mother. I myself wd
live ⟨with⟩ almost anyone who wd
give me milk & beef . . Michael
had commented. Off he goes,
touching her hand with a kiss,
as deftly ⟨given⟩ as Fr Gray’s did before
he became her Confessor.
Then Fay joins her & they talk
of “Wild Honey”. Really he is
Atticus, & one smiles at such
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[E.C.]
a friend! He goes about saying
the book is far too long, &
with Bernhard keeping back
half his heart from his praise.
He refers to the last poems
as important. In rebuke
Michael replies “They are
right – naturally, I knew you
wd not like them & we
must never speak of them –
but there must be no sore[?]”
He seems to appreciate the
tone of intrepidity & peace:
“The Zermatt poems” he said
“are right & are right just
where they might have been
imprudent”.
I meantime have found myself
in the Shannon’s great empty
studio with the pictures, &
near me Binyon, as quiet as
a Budhist ivory. I dare to
make an act of approach –
“How do you do, Mr Binyon?”
He becomes human under my
laughter at the butchery Shannon
has just been guilty of in
his portrait of Mrs Binyon –
a portrait in delicious browns
& grays. He has painted out the
Twins under a glass bowl
of flowers. Sheer massacre
of the Innocents, & in that
drawing[?] bowl he has put
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[E.C.]
blood-red flowers votively! I
am sure the picture will be
haunted[?] & out of the depth of
bowl infant faces will
float up & fix the imagination.
I talk of Attila as I am
able – & then I go away
into Fay’s studio where
Shannon’s great portrait of
MrsPat[?] is to be seen. I fancy
I am alone . . . but the reserved
ruffle[?] that an animal makes
draws my attention to a
corner, & there is Fay hiding
the jewels, & he has designed, ⟨which⟩that
their owners have laid down
⟨for exhibition⟩ at his bidding on their
obedience, behind the Shelleys
& Keates of a bookcase for
safety. The velocity & stealth
of the little figure! “O Painter,
from there!” – one’s very[?] voice
goes gentle as to a shy⟨hoarding⟩ animal.
And we talk of the superbly
effective picture – the novel
flowers painted with enjoyment
as choice means to a[?]
decorative whole quite
unusual & convincing by
its ease. The sweep of the figure
in blue & the beautiful head
under the rule & governance
of the Round Mirror quite
gloriously compels victory.
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[E.C.]
Monday Feb. 17th
A card from Fr Green ‘from scented
Corsica. The whole air is full of scent
& Corsican is true to its name. There
are fields & mountains covered with
all that is sweet. It is warm as
June. There are whole fields of almond
blossom, violets, narcissus & gt.
hedges of roses & mimosa.
I shall be home for next Sunday.
There are hundreds of dogs here &
children dressed in black.”
Subtle Fr Green – if Corsica is true
to its name he wants us to be
true to Isleworth . . .
And we went – but the
meeting disappointed.
This energetic priest is inapprehensive[?]
as a cat – His yellow[?] eyes
soften at a caress in the voice
– they bring no gifts. Those
who cannot be flooded
with others’ personalities
always strike others as
shallow as having no force
to rise up – ⟨& take ⟩⟨possession[?]⟩. Of course this is from
the point of view of others’
These natures draw others
as tributaries – a whole neighbor
-hood may be their watershed.
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[E.C.]
March 13th
Nearly a month silent!
Our household has broken up –
Mrs Drew gave an account of her
health – more from a wildness[?] that
was tired of control. She was a
pleasant blustering presence, like
a wind, as unstable &
without any lingering when
she went – a thing that ceased
like a wind. Old Music[?] feels
quiet now she does not crumple[?]
his ears[?] or ask him a very
gale of questions: yet she parted
from the old dog as if he
were a feather & not a
dog. But the hard blue sky of
this cheery wind will be missed
by Michael, who was not teazed[?]
by it as I.
Alas we have not held our maids
to their duty, & the little Lar of
Paragon has a grimy face under
his bits of box-tree garland.
And Lent has begun. We tried fasting.
I had to give it up in the Confessional
on Saturday. Michael has been visited
with Colic of viperish quality, ⟨as⟩ when
the viper gathers up the interworking
folds of itself to strike out. And
here we are pick-nicking in our home
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[E.C.]
– she[?] at the Tumble-Down Dick
Inn at Farnboro, whither we
arranged to go on Goscommon’s
recommendation. His Prior-friend
at the Benedictine Abbey wrote
“Let not the ladies be frightened at
the name.”
We went to see – liked the
wayside comfort – liked
the pine-trees, [????] singing
storm-clouds on the horizon,
crouched over their harps.
But Michael has been
really ill – & we wait
in rooms stripped for spring
-cleaning till she revives.
On Monday, after suppressing
as far as might be the awful
colic that she might receive
the Blessed Sacrament, she
lay in a kind of coma, while
the last maid left & my
feet toiled thirty or forty times
up & down the stairs of the
River-Tower!
I have been under great spiritual
strain. At my first Confession
after taking Daily Communion
the Confessor opened to me the
whole region of Sin in Thought –
I had thought⟨believed that⟩ to conquer in fact was
enough. He defined the boundaries
of temptation & of sin in thought,
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[E.C.]
giving me the right to benefit by any
doubt, if I could lay my hand on
the Gospel & say “I made resistance
– I did not dwell with the thoughts”.
Sin & Thought is when the
Evil Thought is an Incola in
the mind, or when it is an Hospes[?].
I am terrified before the new
perils, the new strife, sorrow
& anguish. The Confession on
my part is unsparing, before
the white orb of the Daily
Host, – I am long defamed &
leave reeling – thankful to say
the Miserere.
And I reach home ghostlike to
fill Michael with dismay.
The light of the glory of each
day’s reception of God grows
dim & haunted – sheer nervous
temptations figure themselves
before the Holy Presence. They
are resisted by shoving in screens
between them & attention – but
they return hour after hour.
Michael suggests holy water &
prayer out of a solitude – I score
my brow with a cross of holy
water & implore that I who have
had such suffering since I entered
the Church may be spared these
vain, delusive images of thought.
They have been exiled from that
moment, driven away as by a
renewal of baptism – exiled as bad dreams.
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[E.C.]
When Goss comes again I treat
my torment as a swarm of
bad dreams created as bad
manners often are by nervousness –
he does not understand at
all for a while; gradually
the contracted brows force
themselves to take my meaning.
Goss shows his old anxiety
to make me avow happiness
as the result of my Conversion –
I will not avow it. I have
never been so unhappy.
“Oh, Father, the precious things
don’t make me[?] happy – not
my Art! . . and great affections
do not make one happy.”
He becomes gravely concerned
to find what strain[?] Confession
puts on me – &, of course,
persuades me to confess to
anyone, as the Church demands –
“though it is ⟨quite⟩ natural you
should choose one to help
you in the supernatural life.”
O Gosscommon! If he would
be himself & not try tactlessly
to “help” me! If he would be
simple, if he would show
the tenderness of his “Welcome”,
he could be the Ambassador
of his Lord to me in a moment.
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[E.C.]
Then at the next Confession, with the
unexpectedness of the dark events
of the Confessional, I find my Confessor
stern, when I had been aware
of a great, decisive victory. The
‘Miserere’ is given as penance
again & I have the agony of a feeling
of injustice rising bitterly &
becoming wormwood when
Goscommon’s “Pray for me” is a
careless, nearly dropped formality.
I had been unfortunate in the
impression I gave – for I was going
away on a Lent Holiday; I had
to say I could not fast (contemptuously
he offered to remit the fast of Good
Friday I was to⟨should⟩ find it was going
too hard with me) – & I had forgotten
the Stationes Crucis on the[?] Friday;
I think he thought I was ‘relapsing’
fast & making Lent an occasion
for levity – the Lent when I who
had never spent a Catholic Lent,
was also receiving, by the Church’s
wonderful grace, the Bread of
Life every day.
Since this Confession it seemed as if
Goss drew quite away from me.
The hard black olive-shaped eyes
were scarcely aware of me: I could
not pray for him my undesired prayers.
I have been restive & resentful
more or less since.
On the Sunday following the Sat. of
my Confession March 8th we go to
Notebook 23, Page Image 108; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 49v; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-108.jpg
[E.C.]
hear Fr Vincent preach the first
of his sermons on the Passion.
A glimpse of him in Choir –
a strip of corpse between
the black & white strips of a
cowl. So he will look in
his coffin – though that will
be Death & this is ecstasy.
He preaches his own Tragedy –
Christ tempted by the kingdoms
of the world their glory – Christ
who went about preaching –
who resisted the temptation
by the outlook He[?] had over
the future – that to be
truly won those Kingdoms
must be “died for”. An act
must give value to aver[?]
the Incarnate Word. On Gogaltha
Christ assured Himself of His
own reality in a deed. It
is this text that all who
teach & preach are trembling
to apply – Vincent spoke with - - - -
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[E.C.]
Of snowdrops – very large from the
Caucasus: they almost lean over
themselves with weight of whiteness
as a full snow lies on bushes
& eaves of pent-houses. The lovely
excess of snow-storm in these
petals. I have to watch it till
Michael grows impatient & chides
me for doting.
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[blank]
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[E.C.]
TumbleDown Dick Inn – Farnboro.
_________________________
We drive to the Abbey in the coldness
& damp of a March morning.
No congregation – one odd man
in blue & green who stands where
we always kneel in the Mass –
one woman – we alone communicate.
Such an ordeal to rise & face
the whole Community – Silence
falls . . . It seems as if Creation’s
Chorus stopped that we two
might be fed of Heaven. – the
woven sung Mass pauses,
the shaven heads remain[?] un-
cowled – The Confiteor is said
for our sins, the Indulgentiam
said, the precious treasury
unlocked; & then, as from a
high refuge from the Mountain-
heights of the blessed Trinity, a
gift is brought & given under
the light of a solemn candle.
That pause for our God to
come down from his Majesty to
us – to His two Poets who were
strangers to Him a year ago! It
is a wonder the terrible condescension
does not send us in our mortality
– but the events of Transcendant
Mercy quiet & confirm by their
transcendence, that cannot be
withstood even by humbleness.
I felt as one might dimly
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[E.C.]
imagine a soul feels when
St. Michael introduces it from
purification into the light
of the Beatific perfection.
For us, that pause in the
great Act of Praise – for us,
the recent Converts, the
young Catholics of not
a year’s time – for
such a moment of incredible
fruition, granted so individually
to our love, we would
have come any distance;
for any shortest stay . . .
& each morning as long
as we come for it this
gift is ours! The thankful
-ness must be silence – continent
grace before the unutterable.
The old Benedictine Music
is memorable. I have never
heard such sl singing – the
perfection of the dual masses
of tone forming a whole
harmony. Paradise is
built with voices for bricks.
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[E.C.]
Wednesday 18thSt. Gabriel’s Day
The same experience – & as told to Amy.
“I can’t tell you what a solemn awe-
rousing experience Goscommon has opened
to us here. The Music is a house not
made with hands for the living God & the
souls in Paradise. It is music absolutely
dedicated, humble in adoration &
therefore sublime in power. Like an
ocean of praise it breaks round the
throne of the Trinity, & there is no reason,
save a ritual one [????] that human
instrumentality is feeble, why it should
ever stop. There is eternity in the
current of sound: the River of Life
sweeps on & on with impregnible
waves & billows of praise. The
tone & masses of this music are
perfection. The old Gregorian Chant
preserved in its inspired, miraculous
beauty by the Benedictines!
Being an artist I am roundly taught
lessons of the Church no priest has
been able to clinch.
And then think what it is to receive the
Blessed Sacrament! We two His poets came
to the rail, face the whole community –
there is a silence: the great Music has
stopped ceased – O the silence! Then a
low Confiteor for our sins an Indulgentiam
– Silence again; it seems as if Creation’s
chorus stopped. Then there is a rustle as the
whole community uncowl & kneel at
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[E.C.]
the passage of our God in His
infinite Condescension coming
down to us, & under the light
of a great torch-candle we receive
from the Father Abbot the Bread
of Life. For us the great[?] sung
Mass splits its web – for us our
God comes down & a holy
Brotherhood bows[?] on either
side of the Divine approach,
and that silence! I wonder
we can bear it! The majesty
of God is taught to us as if
we were souls just led by
St. Michael from Purgation into
the Kingdom of Perfection & of
Eternal Light. Think of it!
We called on Fr Prior, but he is not
interesting – too blankly foreign
to catch on with us. But he has
lent us a splendid Breviarium
Monasticum.
We return from Mass to such
a late breakfast (& Michael has
been dressing & praying since 5 o’clock)
– then we walk slowly back to
St Michael’s Abbey for Vespers
(in Lent at 11.20)
Oh, such Vespers! This morning
they were sumptuous for St Joseph
& the Magnificat ⟨was⟩ most moving in
anticipation of the tender &
compassionate Spouse of Mary.
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[E.C.]
Also to see the celebrating Fathers
– the Abbot & Prior among them –
form a long line of white & gold
& bare dedicated skulls in
front of the Altar & chant the
“Ave Regina caelorum
⟨- - - -⟩Salve radix, salve porta
Ex qua mundo lux est orta” –
– of a truth it was⟨is⟩ a poignant
vision & poignant to the
poet-audience.
The community is beginning to wake to
a little interest in us now it discovers
we follow the office as well
as the Mass.
Though against the strict Lent discipline
I have sent a word to Gosscommon
to tell him of my happiness in these
perfect conditions for a still &
recollected life & of our hope we
should learn to feel a little about
this holy Seasons as Catholics feel.
He looked so strained & exalté.
I should be glad to bring him any
comfortable Emotion. Every trace of his
famish fun[?] is gone, & the imaginative
Irish strain in him meeting the
hard Norman race produces a
strange kind of devoutness – turns
him almost into a stranger. I am
glad to be here, where priests seem to go out[?]
as influences before the gt. control of the Missal &
Office guarded & resounded by devout lives.
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[E.C.]
Michael says the Nature here
is in ‘half-bottles’. No other
comment is necessary.
We live between the Inn
& the Abbey connected by
a High-road on wh : soldiers
march – The Abbey in various
kinds of bad architecture –
the Norman monastery the best –
rises into the view out of
a hill-top of firs – As we
go up I think of Goss’ happy
retreat here, conducted by
himself; & among the forbidding[?]
influences not forgetful of
his pénitente. Well, well!
In all his Lent-change
I don’t think he has dropped
out all prayer for me, as he has
dropped out all frolic from
his eyes.
The Masons have just met . . .
such knife & fork laughter &
all people talking together –
the poets share the jocund
company – Ah, the Inn & the
Abbey alike hold interest
tense.
And on the Couch & up & down
the stairs & by the inn-door –
always beside us is our bright
Whym Chow: all the sun on
the couch falls on him & when
we are happy we are happy
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[E.C.]
among us three. An inn was
always the right place for Whymmie
– the stagnancy of the lodging
-house being as a disease to
him & his beloved ones.
How good we can take him
with us now into the very Presence
of the God to Whom he has been
allowed to lead us – our
guardian Angel of the little Torch,
our Flame of Love – Whym Chow.
Thursday - St. Joseph’s Day.
I pray for Purgatory to protect my
soul a little from the State of
Paradise, if it should be like
the awful ritual of this morning
in the midst of wh : we sought
Holy Communion.
The Abbot was enthroned – full
Pontifical High Mass – Vestments,
genuflections, two mitres moving
about in an sea⟨ocean⟩ of robes – incense,
convolutions involutions, every
rite of lofty ceremony – the
Abbot’s ring glaring[?] for Kisses
. . . & the rail spread with the
sudarium. I felt to break this
festal celebration would kill
me – the presumption before the
pomp of the universal Church
of arresting this pomp!
My heart lay of a heap –
Michael’s heart lay of a heap.
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[E.C.]
We prayed we might have force[?]
of the right moment to approach
& receive the gift for which now
we live the life of each day –
we prayed St. Joseph to lead
us simply to Christ.
Every moment the ritual
grew more involved & more
solemn.
Breath! Our bodies were almost
without it! Once or twice sharp
pain stabbed into my heart.
Almost I wavered . . .
In the thick splendour of the
ritual three small bell-strokes
& I rose & walked as if to
martyrdom – the Abbot above
us & all his supporting Fathers –
far away the altar with its
three dazzling celebrants.
But quiet falls down with
the sense “Here I stay till I am
fed”. I hear the music – then
no music – then it begins once
more. I hear no Confiteor, but
a tramp of feet. Wildly I bless
myself, & see Michael in a haze,
believing the administrant is
bending to tell her she cannot & must
not receive – so that he has said the
“Corpus Domini Nostri Jesu Christi” before
she is prepared or understands the silver
vessel under her chin. The three priests
stand over us – alone – the Abbot, a
Knoll, a [????] [????] above us! Saints
of heaven[?]!
Notebook 23, Page Image 119; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 55r; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-119.jpg
[E.C.]
The Empress Eugeníe
at a prie-dieu.10
[K.B.]
My dear Painter[?],
Michael sends you a fair
Catholic lady to add to the portraits of
‘Fair Women’ at the international
The [????] – how it has arrived with[?]
perfect goal!
And all you cull with the[?]
that Michael with prose like that, & [????]
a bunch of violets & [????]!
Well, go your ways!
And did the Painter look such a Painter
as his[?] furious night of the ball’
A was the feast in the vigil?
Unspeakable our[?] life of turpitude at
the Tumbledown.
The air here smokes[?]; & everywhere we
encounter puffs of delicious pine.
But there even the weather is kept in
its place.
I am sorry for the Abbot.
⟨and his ⟩⟨laces[?]⟩⟨ go on so far before⟩11
The good Abbot’s here12
Always, I hope to the end, I shall keep my
laces close.
I am fond of them & my evils. The Abbot is
big S noted[?] this morning. It was
glaring for kisses. It was not so
Notebook 23, Page Image 120; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 55v; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-120.jpg
[K.B.]
so large. As be thing of the Song of Solomon.
You must design for your black opal
Dossop[?] dressing up, & plunge into
great settings.
Michael
to Emily –
– Henry spoke of a most woe-begone
Emily’s face. And of this face I must
have news. I make enquiries – as of
a house I may possibly be the inhabitant[?]
of – Are there too many tears – so that
the cheeks may get spoiled[?]
The eyes – I am particular about
this – must be shining always.
And the mouth – wh. is the spirit’s
little garden – the mouth must be
like the mouth of the Lord – “most sweet”.
Awful herb beds & one of the mouths
I have seen lately: let us dear Emily, grow
at least a sprig of parsley for triumph[?],
& are[?] [????] crown – a tuft of muffled
purple thyme.
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[E.C.]
Amy is going to be confined on
Sunday at 1 o’clock.
Michael writes –
“It is the martial sacrament. It is,
as Fr Vincent says, to make you a
good soldier in Jesus Christ” –
to make you strong to confess Him, not
to muffle up, strong in battle,
heavenly strong in peace. How I
shall love to see you growing strong
not from introspection; from perpetual
witness.  To the Third
Person of the Trinity she had access.
We saw Him in her eyes when the
larks mounted; we saw Him in her
eyes when serene, she looked dying
into the face of Death. When she
blessed her children, the Holy
Christ was there: on Sunday, white
from Paradise, her benediction will
be yours. And the old poet, so greatly
blest by the tongues of flame, the
mighty winds – the old poet, praying
new for the Dove’s brooding peace,
blesses you from his full power to
bless.  O Little One,
pray for me.”
Henry:
With hearts moved by the Pontifical Vespers
for the great founder of Monarchism[?] –
“Sancte Pater, Benedicte, intercede
pro nobis” (some of the faces
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[E.C.]
in such vital intercession) I came
home to write to thee of the
imperishable gift of life & blessing
you are going to receive from the
Third Person of the Trinity. It is so
solemn a time, I can scarcely
write at all – all one tries
to say is blown aside, goes out
before the holy wind, the flame
that springs unquenchable.
May you be very happy & the
Dove come to you in the gt.
simple word that rules us
here Pax. What the world
cannot give the Holy Spirit can
& does give to those bent under
His Sacrament. I have been
praying for you, beloved, at the
top of our pine-knoll in the
Church growing so dear to us,
where the Invisible World is
so realised that perfect Music
is made to it & Vestments of
dazzling beauty & freshness are
worn to its glory alone. Such
superb Ideality wh : means
such solid Faith!
I send kisses for the little brow so
soon to be blessed by the Dove that
came down on our dear Lord
Himself with bright light. So may
God be with you! May you be
bright & strong.
My word! – won’t we make hasten to
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[E.C.]
receive the noble sacrament that
makes one into a ‘finished’ Catholic!
. . The Church brings the Vast Power
that bloweth[?] where it listeth
in the Room – the Enclosure of
its Fold & on to one simple[?] heard
there & can bring it so captive
& victorious. Such is the ordered
power of the Church in a Sacrament”.
[K.B.]
St Benedict’s Day.
this 10 [????] whose little son was
born on St. Joseph’s Day.
– You darling Duck, & Mother of
thy little Son. – Good Morrow!
How fares the sweet Brickbat?
How shews the rudely appearing?
Probably he is too great to develop
hair on his head yet.
Kittens, they say, open their eyes
on the 9th day: – men, we know, never
open theirs till about their eighteenth
year. _______
Such austere terms we are given
here of Life . . . . to enter – while the birds
were still yawning outside – to enter the
Abbey, & find the Abbot on his Throne, reading
from Matins”. Beneath him the white-robed
servers[?], seated comfortably
amid their candles & crozier
. . . . . think of a young[?] brother, as
it might be John, holding that loveliest
of weapons[?] – the crozier – & peeping on
either side of it[?], at the fascinating lay element
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[E.C.]
in front”. –
And I go to S t Benedict’s Pontifical
Mass, after being awake
over the little bedroom-fire’s
had been cherishing[?] for the
death-cold Michael’s return since
five o’clock.
The clean glory of the robes, the
sense of beauty, as a discipline
‘in Excelsis’ – the procession
down the hill from the open
doors of the Church so that the
‘Sancte Pater, Benedicte, Intercede
pro nobis’, chanted to the
reverend music of the far past[?],
rose up to us in the Church
as the soup of Callicles
rose to Empedocles on the top
of Aetna – & rose so clear on the
reverberating frostiness of the
morning . . . It was nearly
10.30 when we reached our Inn
& the whole time of the ceremony
I was sick unto desperation –
receiving by eye & ear as
they are filled in a nightmare.
Pontifical Vespers at 11.15 impossible[?]
But we drive up to Benediction
– the old music seems to resent
the new devotion, but the candles
land it in wheels & wreathes[?]
of brilliancy. Then very quietly
we confess to the Fr Prior.
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[E.C.]
He is a man largely, humanely put together
– not fine, but keen! In his limited
English he speaks centrally of
the humility of mankind being perfect
in our Lady’s acceptance of the
Annunciation, & the humility of God
being perfect in Christ’s acceptance
of His Incarnation, & both perfect
in the Feast of Wednesday next –
on wh : he prayed me to set my
thoughts. I told him all my life
had been based on Pride or on that
Humility wh : is the social gift of
Pride.
When I said I had harboured ret resent-
ment against my Confessor for what
I had allowed myself to think,
over severity, there was a rich little
furor of laughter, the crack of a
pod from our oily nut, on the
far side of the grille. He knows
from Goss’ letter who my
Confessor is.
I feel very light of inward &
outward motion after the
Sacrament of Penance – like Whymme
when he scampered about in
washed gold, & plunged[?] the claws
of his spotless feet in rugs[?] – he
was so light after washing –
Whym Chow!
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[E.C.]
Sunday. March 22nd
Amy’s Confirmation
The Sevenfold Spirit sent forth on
her in Sacrament:
Of the seven-fold gifts we find
she chiefly needs
Spiritum Sapientiae (badly?)
Spiritum Consilii
Spiritum Scientias.
Michael repines
Spiritum Intellectus (badly)
Spiritum Fortitudinus
Spiritum Scientiae
I require
Spiritum Sapientiae
Spiritum Consilii
Spiritum Pietatis (badly)
This list is our Lenten discipline.
Oh, to be confirmed Chrismate
salutis.
I want the Wisdom that can
go forth on the whole of life –
the power of endowing
others with mental virtue –
the power of lifting the
heart to Him whom my
Intellect worships.
It shows the profound difference
between Michael & me that she
specially need no like gift of the
Septinarium.
Notebook 23, Page Image 127; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 59r; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-127.jpg
[E.C.]
We heard yesterday Rothenstein has
a new son – vocal & brick-red.
Will asks Michael to god-mother
the babe – a relation of poet & child.
Noli’s coiffeure was not now[?]
disturbed by his birth.
Rothenstein says we are of those
who take large simple things
from Nature & return them
to her. I wonder if this is true.
There was a good Review in the
Times suppliment entirely on
how we rarify emotions – our
honey “from the immemorial
banks of all the fairy lands – &
there is magic in the honey”.
Dear & generous Fr Gray writes
today –
“My dear Michael
The Times notice is the truth truly
expressed. To be quite satisfactory
however the article should have
been integral. My hope is that the
Athenaeum will supply this. We
live in a sad world for notices –
they are machine made – Pater
is no longer writing in the old
Pall Mall. Still the Times
words are very blessed.
John Gray
Notebook 23, Page Image 128; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 59v; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-128.jpg
[E.C.]
Tuesday 24th
We take lilies from Richmond
to the Monastery for our Lady’s
1st Vespers when we go to Mass.
Michael, holding them out
to the silver-eyed old Mildness[?]
of a Lay Brother, at the door,
sees his eyes fix on the
lilies as a child’s eyes fix
on the doll it knows is to
be a gift – solid possession
in the joy before it is realised.
Then she hands the bunch
& her pretty hand touches the
warm peaceful old hand –
even warmth in it, stable
grasp. A very sweet old man!
He has the exquisite Benedictine
solicitude for the stranger –
a simple silver vessel of
welcome.
Our lilies are immediately given
in a heap to our Lady; but at
her Vespers later they soar
to her feet on the top of her
high Column or cluster at
its base.
We return to Amy’s full
account of her Confirmation
“It was too wonderful a Sacrament
in its tremendous power & might .
. . . That gt. descent of the Holy Ghost!
I felt It coming down . . . The lovely[?]
Notebook 23, Page Image 129; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 60r; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-129.jpg
[K.B.]
The Flower Fadeth.
Tears heard on Peter’s breath
In evening, in a field of grass:
Gray eventide, a mass
Of flower of grass & straw
Cut from sap & clinging into death,
Fashioned no more
For glory – as no more the day[?] might spring
Up through the sky, a splendour flourishing,
Erect at noon as any[?] flower of grass.
________
The Lord died yesterday.
Lowly & single, lost[?]
His wan[?] disciples, tossed
With pain of tears, have wandered wide
In the country-fields, as sheep might stray:
No need to hide,
For harvesters that mew & sing have heard
Of the far[?] city’s rumour scarce a word,
And only stare to see a stranger lost.
Gone – all of brightness, gone!
All intrepidity removed!
And Peter weeps the Lord
Whom he forswore, yet knew
As the Christ, the living, Godhead’s Son –
God gave the clue
Now[?] in the treacherous[?] grayness soon to be[?]
But⟨Deep⟩ Mid-night Peter mourneth bitterly
The sunk[?] day, the grass withering – Christ removed!
Yet he had hailed Him Christ!
 Darlings,
it was wonderful afterwards –
the nuns crowded round me
to share in the radiance
that was round me from
the Sacrament. Oh, I am
blessed!”
Then she writes, “I believe
Mary[?] will be received this
very week. Don’t write a
word, but “pray like murder”
as dear Sister Mary Padna[?]
puts it.
A second letter
“The Fire within, how it burns!
And how I shall need it, for
on Wed. the blessed Feast of the
Annunciation at 3 o’clock,
at the little Beechwood
Avenue Church I am to be
Godmother to the Manny[?]!
It is just arranged. Thank God!
Yet it needs awful prayer as she
is not a bit Catholic as yet”.
On the Feast that begins with
Vespers at 11.15, when our
Lady heard from St Gabriel
that with God nothing is
impossible, we hear then what
we had almost, in spite of
our labour of prayer, esteemed
impossible, will by God’s power
Notebook 23, Page Image 131; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 61r; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-131.jpg
[K.B.]
The weary grass & clover feel
Sudden[?] a lifted heel,
And, kicked[?] aside, are left
By the stranger’s feet they had enticed
Beneath their weft!
But he is on the rock, the⟨of⟩ narrow way,
As if he talked with something he wd say,
As if he would conceive as he could feel.
He stands there in sweet dark –
The steaming hay upon the air,
His feet on bare rock, bare –
And strangely waiting on . . .
Is it a trumpet soundeth? Hark! –
Hath a torch shone?
The cock crows, the sun splinters cloud;
and dry
The face of Peter at this dark-bird’s cry,
While the sure Easter-day assumes
the air.
____________________________________________________________
[E.C.]
be accomplished! I send to Gosscommon
with the the news & ask a Mass
on the feast of our Lady’s Annunciation.
And we pray “like Murder”, &
Michael writes[?] to St Peter’s for a
Mass, & the day passes in a
great wonder. Such Vespers!
The Majesty of the Stella Māris
in the great Plain-Chaunt –
Womanhood taken not only by
Religion but Art in Mystery, &
the Imperium of a Mystery.
Notebook 23, Page Image 132; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 61v; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-132.jpg
[E.C.]
No wonder we put our Poetry
under her Protection! It is a
moment of profound joy to
us when with incense the
gt. song of the church – a
Woman’s Song that was
made only for a woman’s
hearing – is lifted up before
the Divine Presence of God
as the sweetest breath of
the Evening Office.
Wednesday March 25thLady Day
It pours, pours – a soft
rain, hanging gray drops
among the tiny leaf-drops
on the hedges. Rain keeps
falling – as if on the throats
of the birds, that give forth
songs as a fragrance or music
of rain.
The Noble Mass of the first
instants of Incarnation opens
to us a glimpse of on to that
Genisis when it was not the
Spirit of God on the face of
the waters of Chaos, but the
Virtue of the Highest shadowing
a Virgin & creating by her the
new-created world, the Supernatural
Life for Mankind!
 We ask her to the
Tumble-down-Dick at noon.
On the breakfast-table a letter
from Amy – rather feeble before
that work for the Holy Ghost,
the preparation of Mary[?] for
the hour of reconciling with
the Church. Also a letter with⟨from⟩
Goscommon, who is delighted to
find from the scraps I sent him
that our holiday has turned
by God’s constraint into a Retreat.
That we should be “recollected”
seems to have changed all
his distance & concern into
thankfulness.
After a serious sheet – he boyishly
turns to fun (that yet gave me
start at first reading)
“Well, to come to the matter I wish to
speak to you about. It is important
you should know it as you will
then understand the attitude of people
toward you in Richmond when you
return.
You will be grieved to hear your reputation
has completely gone, & it is the
Tumble-down Dick that has done it.
Mrs B__ told me she had a letter from
Miss Bradley, & considered that the
address was a most extraordinary
Notebook 23, Page Image 134; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 62v; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-134.jpg
[blank]
Notebook 23, Page Image 135; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 63r; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-135.jpg
[E.C.]
She couldn’t understand anybody having
any self respect putting up at such
a place. I therefore took upon
myself the responsibility of your
being in such a place & assured
her that it was perfectly respectable.”
I had felt moved to pray for Manny[?]
just about the time for saying
the Canon of the Mass at the Vineyard.
So I knew Goscommon had offered
the first Mass of the Annunciation
for her before I came back &
read his letter –
“I shall offer Mass for Mrs Ryan
tomorrow”
Our Lady’s 2 nd Vespers, sung solemnly,
while the rain is hissing, like
a roused vernal snake outside
with the gargoyles, is unforgettable.
The Irish Girl follows us through
the beating downpour to the
Inn. We learn that, after many
experiences in France, ⟨Rome,⟩ Switzerland,
she is waiting to learn if she
may be received by the Oblates of
St Benedict who are founding a
house in London, & after next week
will be penniless. She has been
keeping herself by service, & needs
help till May, having left her
Protestant place through religious
difficulties. We promise to try to
help her & speak of our own place
Notebook 23, Page Image 136; Vol. XXIII, Add MS 46798, fol. 63v; Holly Laird; add_ms_46798-136.jpg
[E.C.]
as a situation with two
ladies that might be suitable.
In the meantime we will
see F r Prior about her.
She came to us at the Church