The Henson Journals

[24]

Saturday, May 3rd, 1924.

In the course of the night and in the morning before getting up, I read through "The truth about my Father" by Leon L. Tolstoy, a small book published by John Murray. It is an unpleasant picture of a great but enigmatic man. But the demonstration of the practical futility of the Tolstoyan version of the Gospel, made conspicuously in the 'leading case' of Tolstoy himself, is worth having. It is precisely parallel to the spectacle now presented by Bolshevick [sic] Russia. There, not an individual only but a whole community, starting with an exaggerated idealism, has worked out to a tragic collapse of morals. Yet the error persists, and seems to gather strength with every exposure.

After breakfast I strolled round the backs, and went into King's College Chapel, of which the noble proportions, the height, and the exceeding beauty of the windows impressed me greatly.

At noon the Vice–Chancellor took me to the Senate House which was filled with an audience of heads, dons and undergraduates of both sexes. The Greek representative sate beside the Vice–Chancellor, and must have felt surprised at the unflattering references to his countrymen. I had to make some omissions in order to keep within the hour. The attention was close and sustained, and, at the close, there was applause. Some compliments were paid me by the Master of Trinity, Sir Arthur Benson, and others. So I allow myself to think that the lecture was fairly successful. It was on sale in the shops after its delivery.

[25]

Burkitt carried me off to lunch. The new Bishop of Ely and MrsWhite Thompson, the master of Emmanuel and his wife, Kennett, and Nairne were of the party.

Burkitt said that the number of those who read for the School of Theology steadily diminishes.

Rather to my surprise, and not at all to my liking, mine hostess discloses strong Anglo–Catholic sympathies, and the son of the house is said to be far gone in the heresy. The new bishop is reported to be very complaisant to the sect.

Another thunderstorm broke over Cambridge, and the atmosphere became very sultry.

I received a telegram from Quirk saying that the Bishop's funeral would be on Tuesday next, and asking whether I would take part in it. I wired that I would, I wrote to Cruikshank and Lillingston accordingly. Also I wrote to Ella.

Among those who came to dinner was Mr Coulton, the author of the works on the medieval church which make Jesuits and Anglo Catholicks so very angry. He is a tall lean man with an obstinate look and an anxious manner. Also Lady St John Hope who seems to be as far gone in archaeological nonsense as her late lamented husband. The Burkitts again appeared, & some others whom I could neither distinguish nor get speech with. So the day, awaited with so much perturbation, slipped to its exit.

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