The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien (74 page)

I do not suppose all this is very interesting now. But it was a remarkable experience for me at 19, after a poor boy's childhood. I went up to Oxford that autumn. . . . .

‘Trends' in the Church are. . . . serious, especially to those accustomed to find in it a solace and a ‘pax' in times of temporal trouble, and not just another arena of strife and change. But imagine the experience of those born (as I) between the Golden and the Diamond Jubilee of Victoria. Both senses or imaginations of security have been progressively stripped away from us. Now we find ourselves nakedly confronting the will of God, as concerns ourselves and our position in Time (
Vide
Gandalf I 70 and III 155).
³
‘Back to normal' – political and Christian predicaments – as a Catholic professor once said to me, when I bemoaned the collapse of all my world that began just after I achieved 21. I know quite well that, to you as to me, the Church which once felt like a refuge, now often feels like a trap. There is nowhere else to go! (I wonder if this desperate feeling, the last state of loyalty hanging on, was not, even more often than is actually recorded in the Gospels, felt by Our Lord's followers in His earthly life-time?) I think there is nothing to do but to pray, for the Church, the Vicar of Christ, and for ourselves; and meanwhile to exercise the virtue of loyalty, which indeed only becomes a virtue when one is under pressure to desert it. There are, of course, various elements in the present situation, which are confused, though in fact distinct (as indeed in the behaviour of modern youth, part of which is inspired by admirable motives such as anti-regimentation, and anti-drabness, a sort of lurking romantic longing for ‘cavaliers', and is not necessarily allied to the drugs or the cults of fainéance and filth).
The ‘protestant' search backwards for ‘simplicity' and directness – which, of course, though it contains some good or at least intelligible motives, is mistaken and indeed vain. Because ‘primitive Christianity' is now and in spite of all ‘research' will ever remain largely unknown; because ‘primitiveness' is no guarantee of value, and is and was in great part a reflection of ignorance. Grave abuses were as much an element in Christian ‘liturgical' behaviour from the beginning as now. (St Paul's strictures on eucharistic behaviour are sufficient to show this!) Still more because ‘my church' was not intended by Our Lord to be static or remain in perpetual childhood; but to be a living organism (likened to a plant), which develops and changes in externals by the interaction of its bequeathed divine life and history – the particular circumstances of the world into which it is set. There is no resemblance between the ‘mustardseed' and the full-grown tree. For those living in the days of its branching growth the Tree is the thing, for the history of a living thing is part of its life, and the history of a divine thing is sacred. The wise may know that it began with a seed, but it is vain to try and dig it up, for it no longer exists, and the virtue and powers that it had now reside in the Tree. Very good: but in husbandry the authorities, the keepers of the Tree, must look after it, according to such wisdom as they possess, prune it, remove cankers, rid it of parasites, and so forth. (With trepidation, knowing how little their knowledge of growth is!) But they will certainly do harm, if they are obsessed with the desire of going back to the seed or even to the first youth of the plant when it was (as they imagine) pretty and unafflicted by evils. The other motive (now so confused with the primitivist one, even in the mind of any one of the reformers):
aggiornamento
: bringing up to date: that has its own grave dangers, as has been apparent throughout history. With this ‘ecumenicalness' has also become confused.

I find myself in sympathy with those developments that are strictly ‘ecumenical', that is concerned with other groups or churches that call themselves (and often truly are) ‘Christian'. We have prayed endlessly for Christian re-union, but it is difficult to see, if one reflects, how that could possibly begin to come about except as it has, with all its inevitable minor absurdities. An increase in ‘charity' is an enormous gain. As Christians those faithful to the Vicar of Christ must put aside the resentments that as mere humans they feel – e.g. at the ‘cockiness' of our new friends (esp. C[hurch] of E[ngland]). One is now often patted on the back, as a representative of a church that has seen the error of its ways, abandoned its arrogance and hauteur, and its separatism; but I have not yet met a ‘protestant' who shows or expresses any realization of the reasons in this country for our attitude: ancient or modern: from torture and expropriation down to ‘Robinson'
⁴
and all that. Has it ever been
mentioned that R[oman] C[atholic]s still suffer from disabilities not even applicable to Jews? As a man whose childhood was darkened by persecution, I find this hard. But charity must cover a multitude of sins! There are dangers (of course), but a Church militant cannot afford to shut up all its soldiers in a fortress. It had as bad effects on the Maginot Line.

I owe a great deal (and perhaps even the Church a little) to being treated, surprisingly for the time, in a more rational way. Fr Francis obtained permission for me to retain my scholarship at K[ing] E[dward's] S[chool] and continue there, and so I had the advantage of a (then) first rate school and that of a ‘good Catholic home' – ‘in excelsis': virtually a junior inmate of the Oratory house, which contained many learned fathers (largely ‘converts'). Observance of religion was strict. Hilary
⁵
and I were supposed to, and usually did, serve Mass before getting on our bikes to go to school in New Street. So I grew up in a two-front state, symbolizable by the Oratorian Italian pronunciation of Latin, and the strictly ‘philological' pronunciation at that time introduced into our Cambridge dominated school. I was even allowed to attend the Headmaster's classes on the N[ew] T[estament] (in Greek). I certainly took no ‘harm', and was better equipped ultimately to make my way in a non-Catholic professional society. I became a close friend of the H[ead] M[aster] and his son, and also made the acquaintance of the Wiseman family through my friendship with Christopher Luke W. (after whom my Christopher is named). His father was one of the most delightful Christian men I have met: the great Frederick Luke W. (whom Fr Francis always referred to as The Pope of Wesley, because he was the President of the Wesleyan Methodist Conference). . . . .

Oct. 1968.

A part of this letter seems to have got lost in the general confusion of my papers during the move. My bedroom-study at 76 was full of papers and half written works – which I knew where to lay my hand. I ran down-stairs on the afternoon of June 17 and fell. I was picked off the floor of the hall and transported to the Nuffield [Orthopaedic Centre] as I was and never went back again – never saw my room, or my house, again. In addition to the shock of the fall and the operation, this has had a queer effect. It is like reading a story and coming to a sudden break (where a chapter or two seems missing): complete change of scene. For a long time I felt that I was in a (bad) dream and should wake up perhaps and find myself back in my old room. It also made me feel restless & uncomfortable – and ‘suspicious'. I could not mentally settle in the new home, as if it was something unreal & might vanish! Also I am still – since no one seems able to help me, and I have been too lamed to help myself for long without weariness – searching for vanished or scattered
notes; and my library is still a wilderness of disordered books. . . . .

My ‘poetry' has received little praise – comment even by some admirers being as often as not contemptuous (I refer to reviews by self-styled literary blokes). Perhaps largely because in the contemporary atmosphere – in which ‘poetry' must only reflect one's personal agonies of mind or soul, and exterior things are only valued by one's own ‘reactions' – it seems hardly ever recognised that the verses in
The L.R.
are all dramatic: they do not express the poor old professor's soul-searchings, but are fitted in style and contents to the
characters
in the story that sing or recite them, and to the situations in it. . . . .

I have only
since
I retired learned that I was a successful professor. I had no idea that my lectures had such an effect – and, if I had, they might have been better. My ‘friends' among dons were chiefly pleased to tell me that I spoke too fast and might have been interesting if I could be heard. True often: due in part to having too much to say in too little time, in larger part to diffidence, which such comments increased.

I never gave the customary ‘inaugural' when taking up either of my ‘chairs' – because I was too frightened of a don-audience. I substituted a ‘valedictory' in 1959: and to my surprise it was packed out. But the University press refused to publish it (though they always publish inaugurals) because it was not an ‘inaugural'!
⁶
Yet many people wrote approving my choice. Julian Huxley said it was an excellent innovation that should be followed. (‘Inaugurals' are largely addressed to small audiences, casually assembled (but probably containing some professional ill-wishers who favoured some other candidate), and are either dull, or off the point, or occasionally pompous announcements of changes of policy and what the new professor intends to do.)

14 November 1968

I said to my wife (about 3p.m. today): ‘there's a man coming to the back door with a box, but it is not from our people so it must be a mistake. Don't get up! I'll deal with it.'

So it was that I received 4 Ports and 3 Sherries, from a cheery fellow, who laughed: ‘It's all right, you'll find. Just a nice present from somebody.'

I should say it
is
a nice present: and not just from Somebody. I cannot think why youbody
^fn122
treat us with such magnificence. But it is very delightful. And, of course, being from you, well-timed. We are fairly snug now in our new home, having learned how to manage the central heating that was unfamiliar; but even here in a sheltered woodland
(though within sound of the sea) nights, and days, grow chill. Port and a good sweet sherry are great warmers.

Elde is me istolen on … ich am eldre than i was a wintre and ek a lore
:
¹
so wrote a moralist (c. AD 1200 or earlier). It did not touch me until recently. I
hope ‘ek a lore'
(sc. also in
learning
, which seems to include the learning of experience, justifying the giving of advice!) is true. But I doubt it.

2 January 1969

[19 Lakeside Road, Branksome Park, Poole]

Dearest C.

This is hardly ‘correspondence'; but I must just write to wish you good fortune in 1969. . . . .

My library is now in order; and nearly all the things that I thought were lost have turned up. (Also some things which I thought were lost before the move!) Joe Wright's
Gothic Gram
[
mar
] first edn. has vanished; but it is of no importance, except sentimental. It was the acquisition of this by accident that opened my eyes to a window on ‘Gmc. philology'. No doubt it contributed to my poor performance in Hon. Mods.; though it guided me to sit at the feet of old Joe in person. He proved a good friend and adviser. Also he grounded me in G[reek] and L[atin] philology. (It was only many years later that I discovered and met the angelic examiner who gave me α+ in Gk. Philol. and so saved my ‘bacon', by squeaking into a ‘second' instead of merited ‘third', with the consequence that I did not lose my ‘exhibition', and was allowed by a generous college – Farnell, my tutor and then Rector, had a respect for philology and was one of the dons who in the days of Yorke Powell and Vigfusson had become aware of Northern learning – to transfer to ‘English' avowedly as a pure philologue with no liking at all for English.). . . .

I have horrible arthritis in the
left
hand, which cannot excuse this scrawl, since, mercifully, my right is not yet affected! Love to you both. I wish you were not so far away. (But it is very comfortable here!). . . .

2 January 1969

Now, my dear, as to my name. It is
John
: a name much used and loved by Christians, and since I was born on the Octave of St John the Evangelist, I take him as my patron – though neither my father, nor my mother at that time, would have thought of anything so Romish as giving me a name because it was a saint's. I was called John because it
was the custom for the eldest son of the eldest son to be called John in my family. My father was Arthur, eldest of my grandfather John Benjamin's second family; but his elder half-brother John had died leaving only 3 daughters. So John I had to be, and was dandled on the knee of old J.B., as the heir, before he died. (I was only
four
when he died at 92 in 1896.)
¹

My father favoured John Benjamin Reuel (which I should now have liked); but my mother was confident that I should be a daughter, and being fond of more ‘romantic' (& less O[ld] T[estament] like) names decided on Rosalind. When I turned up, prematurely, and a boy though weak and ailing, Ronald was substituted. It was then a much rarer name in England as a Christian name – I never in fact knew any of my contemporaries at school or Oxford who had the name – though it seems now alas! to be prevalent among the criminal and other degraded classes. Anyway I have always treated it with respect, and from earliest days refused to allow it to be abbreviated or tagged with. But for myself I remained John. Ronald was for my near kin. My friends at school, Oxford and later have called me John (or occasionally John Ronald or J. Rsquared). . . . .
²

As for an ‘Elvish' name: I could of course invent one. But I do not really belong
inside
my invented history; and do not wish to!