His father was broken-hearted. His only idea now was how to get out to the front, in spite of being too old for soldiering, and too heavy, and too asthmatical. It was my idea that he should join the Y.M.C.A., and he seized it gladly as a chance of service and heart healing. I met him in his hut at Arras, serving out tea to muddy Tommies, finding a man, now and then, to his enormous joy, who knew his son. Always he was in the spiritual presence of that boy of his. For the sake of that, and for the men’s sake, he endured real agonies of physical discomfort in a drafty hut, with a stove which would not burn, and cocoa as his only drink. The fastidious author of Raffles, who had been particular about his creature comforts, and careful of the slightest draft!
He started a lending library for soldiers in the trenches, and I lent him a hand with it now and then. It was in a hut on the ruins of the Town Hall of Arras and because of the daily bombardment, he slept at night in a dugout below an avalanche of stones. I promised to give a lecture to his men on the history of Arras, and “mugged it up” from old books in an old château. The date was announced, and posted up on a placard. It was the 21st of March, 1918! No British soldier needs reminding of the meaning of that date. It was when 114 German divisions attacked the British line and all hell was let loose, and, for a time, the bottom seemed to fall out of the world.
I did not deliver that lecture. I was away at the south of the line, recording frightful happenings. But I heard afterward, from Hornung, that through the smoke and dust of heavy shelling which churned up old rubbish heaps of ruins in Arras, two Scottish soldiers in tin hats loomed up to hear the lecture.... Poor Hornung survived the war, but not long. His soul was eager for that meeting with his son.
One visitor of mine in the little house in Holland Street, which was often overcrowded with a mixed company of writers, artists, and odd folk, was a distinguished little man who came only when there was no one else about. At least, he preferred it that way, using my house as a little retreat from the madding world. This was Monsignor Hugh Benson, the famous preacher and novelist. The son of an Archbishop of Canterbury, he had shocked his family by joining the Catholic Church, in which he found perpetual adventure and delight. He loved its ritual, its color, its legends, its romance, its history, its music, and its faith, like a small child in a big old house constantly discovering new wonders, mysteries, and enchanting treasures. He had the heart of a boy, and an enthusiasm for life and work which would not let him take any rest. As a preacher, he was constantly flying about the country for special sermons and missions, and he preached, or, as he used to say, “praught,” with a passion that almost choked him and tore him to pieces. In spite of a painful little stutter, and intense shyness, he was extraordinarily eloquent, and every sermon was crammed with hard thinking, for he did not rely on sentiment for his effect, but on sheer intellectual reasoning.
That was only one part of his day’s work. He had an enormous correspondence with people of all denominations or none, who used to write to him for advice and help, and every letter he received he answered as though his own life depended on it.
At my house he used to go to his bedroom at ten o’clock to deal with the day’s budget. But when that was done with, he used to get out a manuscript book and begin to enjoy himself. That was when he was writing one of his novels—and as soon as one was finished, he began another.
“My dearest dream of Heaven,” he told me once, “is to be writing a novel which goes well and is never finished. What more perfect bliss than that?”
Among his other passions—and all he liked he loved—was music, and he used to strike wonderful chords on my piano, and one particular combination of notes which he called the “deep sea chord,” because, if you shut your eyes and listened, you could hear deep waters rushing overhead!
He killed himself by overwork, and I heard of his death when I was crossing a field outside Dixmude, which was a blazing ruin, in the autumn of the first year of war.