The Henson Journals

[172]

2nd Sunday in Lent, February 24th, 1918.

1301st day

Ella & I went together to the Cathedral, & for the first time knelt together at the communion rail. It was sad & strange to be in the great church as a discrowned king: and the atmosphere was mortally cold. The collect for this day's festival will always have a curious interest for me, as having been put forward as suitable for use by the opponents of my consecration, and circulated with that intention in the diocese of Hereford. I suppose the "orthodox" do regard me as a modern day analogue of "the traitor Judas". Certainly Lord Halifax, Sir Walter Phillimore, & Athelstan Riley allowed themselves to speak of me in very insulting terms at the E.C.U. meeting last week, as if I had neither credit nor feelings! They speak in two ways, which might seem difficult to harmonize. On the one hand, I am an utterly contemptible creature, a kind of clerical "crank" or "freak", whose appointment to a bishoprick was a malignant joke: on the other hand, I am a dangerously powerful person, subtle & masterful, whom the bishops cannot stand up to, & whose presence in their counsels portends terrible calamities! These representations are hard to combine in a single portrait. Through the maze of self–contradictory denunciation one may, perhaps, perceive that these gentlemen are extremely angry and humiliated at the failure of their really considerable efforts to keep me off the Bench. The real "H. H. Hereford" is a very different being from that which hatred and bigotry have imagined – a man full of fears as to himself & mainly anxious to "do out the duty".

[173]

The five years of my life as Dean of Durham have been, from the point of view of achievement, very barren and disappointing. Mostly I think the cause of this was the War, which broke up the normal arrangements of life, and threw me into considerable perplexity, as to my personal duty. If I had known, or could have foreseen, in 1914 that the War would have been still in progress, without clear indication of ending, in 1918, I should probably, and perhaps wisely, have volunteered as a chaplain: but I shared the almost universal belief that the War would be over within the year, and thought my duty was to do what I could to help matters locally. As the war developed, it became evident that I was physically inadequate to anything worth doing at the Front: I was too old, and too frail for the hardships: there were many things which claimed me here, & so I drifted on until my appointment to Hereford put a term to questioning. The dispersion of the University hindered me from doing anything as an Hon: Professor: and the petrol–restrictions prevented me from moving freely about the county. Add the heavy taxation which made economy a necessity, and it will be seen that my circumstances have not been favourable to achievement. But, making all allowance for these, I cannot acquit myself of blame. I have frittered away my energies on the little emergent concerns of the day, and set my hand to nothing adequate, or substantial, or permanent?

[174]

I attended Mattins and Evensong, sitting in the stall next to that which had been mine as Dean, & the services were at once melancholy and consolatory. And everybody seemed to understand and share my sadness. Meade–Falkner and Budworth came to take leave. Both, in their different ways, expressed a sincere regret at my departure. Is all the world in a base conspiracy to fool me, or am I really loved by these people?

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