John Ayscough's letters to his mother during 1914, 1915, and 1916

Introduction

IT has seemed to me possible that there might be a welcome for this volume of letters from my cousin to his mother: partly because of the peculiar sense of personal friendship for John Ayscough continually testified by his readers, by readers who have never met him, and (living far from England) probably never will meet him; and partly because all who are his readers must know by how rare a bond of love and devotion he and his mother were united.

The letters contained in this volume were the last he ever did write to her, and they were written during his absence on Active Service in France and Flanders: two circumstances which I have thought might give them a special interest. For five and twenty years Ayscough's mother had been in every sense dependent upon her son: for many years she had hardly suflPered him to leave her, even on the briefest absence: she was eighty-five years old and in most precarious health. His departure for the front was a blow from which she never recovered: the blow which did in fact bring her long Hfe to its end. Knowing well how this almost must be, it was her son's one preoccupation to bridge that absence as much as was simply possible by unfailing frequency of letters, and further, by seldom in those letters allowing her to picture him as in danger or discomfort. He wanted, if he could, to make her imagine him as enjoying a complete change, full of interest, and having no drawback but the separation from herself that it involved.

To say this is necessary, or the letters can hardly be understood: they are all bright and cheerful, and succeed viii Introduction

in giving an account of some of the hardships without making them depressing.

John Ayscough's mother was Ehzabeth Mona Brougham, daughter of the Rev. Pierce WiUiam Drew, for twenty-five years Rector of Youghal, of Heathfield Towers, Co. Cork. She was born on October 3, 1829, and was one of seventeen children (of whom, however, many died young), and was baptized at the parish church of Shandon, the bells of which formed the subject of Father Prout's most famous lyric.

At six years of age, in consequence of a difference of opinion with her governess, she informed that lady that her eyes (which the owner of them esteemed fine) "were like two burnt holes in a blanket." The culprit, haled before her mother, was informed that her conduct rendered her unfit for education at home, and told to prepare for immediate withdrawal to the establishment of a Christian lady at Cork. To the Christian lady, a Mrs. Bailey, the small Mona was accordingly dispatched per coach; and she proved a very sensible person, in whose charge the child was not unhappy. Being so much younger than any other pupil, she got much petting, far more at school than had ever been her lot at home. From Mrs. Bailey's, Mona Drew was later on moved to the "finishing establishment" of a Miss Oakley, for whom all of her pupils seem to have entertained a kind of worship. Once finished, Mona returned home and "came out" under the tutelage of her only elder sister Matilda. Throughout life, Matilda and Mona were devoted to each other, which speaks well for the younger of the two, on whom their mother was always impressing the superiority of Matilda in beauty, character and accomplishments.

It was at this time that John Ayscough's mother had her one and only romance. She was extremely popular and pretty, with rich blue eyes, very dark brown hair, almost black, and all her life had the sweetest expression conceivable.

Introduction ix

For one of her many devoted admirers she felt what was undoubtedly the great love of her life. He appears to have been a charming man of excellent character, ample means, and with every qualification for making a fit husband; but although a gentleman he was not sufficiently aristocratic to satisfy her father's ideas, so was dismissed in such a fashion as to lead him to believe that the young lady herself thought him beneath her. She also was deceived, and allowed to imagine that he had

no serious intentions. Captain W then exchanged

into a regiment bound for service in Canada, and swore to his friends that he would never marry unless he heard of the marriage of the girl he loved. It happened that he read of it in a newspaper, while staying in a hotel, and his terrible emotion attracted the attention of a stranger sitting near. Thinking that the officer was taken ill, he offered sympathy and help; they became

acquainted and Captain W presently explained the

cause of his trouble: that the one creature he had ever loved, and who he believed had truly loved him, had cut herself off from him for ever by marriage with another man. The other man was Ayscough's father, the intimate friend and fellow collegian of the clergyman whom Mona's elder sister had married.

It was in 1851 that she married the Rev. Henry Lloyd Bickerstaffe, third son of the Rev. Roger Bickerstaffe, Rector of Boylestone, Co. Derby. Those who have read John Ayscough's Fernando will recollect that the marriage was not much approved by the parents on either side, nor was it fortunate; perhaps husband and wife were unsuited: at all events it ultimately came to a complete separation shortly after Ayscough's birth, on February 11, 1858.

Readers of Gracechurch and Fernando will remember John Ayscough's first recollections of North Wales, his mother having moved to Llangollen about a year after his birth. Mrs. Bickerstaffe, besides having the care

X Introduction

and educating of her three boys, used to write stories and novels. Owing to her many other industries, which took up the greater part of the day, the only time for writing was at night. The stories would now be called short stories, but they were much longer than the average short story of to-day; many of which appeared in The ^ueen. It was during this time Ayscough's mother took a departure from the ordinary and wrote a novel of Japanese life called Araki the Daimio, which was reckoned very clever.

During her life most of her spare time was devoted to natural history, and she made wonderful collections of ferns, mosses, moths, butterflies, and fossils, also sea and land shells. As you can see, the love of nature was not in Mrs. BickerstafFe the pastime of an idle woman, because it necessitated a great deal of climbing and very long walks: how it was she managed to find time to do so much, to bring up her children and write novels, I don't know.

Mrs. Bickerstaff^e had among her acquaintances the Dr. Arthur Adams who wrote Travels of a Naturalist in Manchuria and Japan, which I believe is still read by lovers of natural history.

John Ayscough, who was quite a small boy at this time, went with his mother to stay with Dr. Adams and his wife at Rockferry, opposite Liverpool. One evening Mrs. Adams gave an intellectual evening party, which did not include such frivolities as music and singing, but was "a feast of reason and a flow of soul." The guests not having dined, owing to the early hour of the party, were beginning to feel rather hungry, when about one o'clock in the morning Mrs. Adams provided a very light supper, consisting of jellies, biscuits, etc. Little Johnny, who had heard about dinner parties, wanted to know if this was one, so he said to a young naval ofl&cer who happened to be standing near him: "Could you tell me what meal this is?" to which he replied, "God only knows, my child."

Introduction xi

Mrs. BickerstafFe, besides being pretty, was very witty and entertaining and full of anecdote. Ayscough, when quite small, was invited to a dinner party with his mother. The Hfe and soul of the party was Mrs. Bickerstaffe, who amused her friends by telling one anecdote after another. Her fellow guests were all amazed and wanted to know how she managed to remember them all, when little Johnny exclaimed rather loudly: "Oh, she doesn't have to remember them for long, because she keeps them in a little book." Of course, everybody went into shrieks of laughter, except his mother, who being deaf, didn't hear: but when it had ceased, she wanted to know what it was all about, and on being told could not help laughing herself. This, I think, will give a little idea of her sweetness and good nature.

Added to her many industries and occupations, Mrs. BickerstafFe played the piano well in spite of her deafness, and like Lady Bertram in Mansfield Park she did embroidery and crochet, which, by the way, she did not start until she had passed her seventieth year, and as in the case of her painting, had no lessons, but taught herself and went on continually improving, till the end, so that some of her finest work was done shortly before her death.

In 1864 or '65 Mrs. BickerstafFe moved to a small town, near the Welsh border of Shropshire, described in Gracechurch. This, as is told in the book, was done in order to place her boys at the locally famous school of the Vicar; who, however, died a week or two before her arrival.

In 1868 Ayscough's father died; in April, 1870, his mother married Charles Brent, one of the eight sons of the Rev. Daniel Brent, D.D., Vicar of Grenden in Northamptonshire, in whose church the wedding was solemnized by himself, assisted by one of his sons.

John Ayscough gives a very interesting portrait of his mother in Gracechurch and Fernando: "My mother in xii Introduction

her soft lavender silks, looked lovely, and I was as proud and pleased as if it had been arranged by me. God knows she had had sorrow enough, and if an aftermath of gentle prosperity and happiness was now to be reaped by her, she deserved it all; and I, at least, could see nothing but cause for joy in it."

It was in December, 1880, that Ayscough's mother took leave of him at Euston Station, for Liverpool, where she embarked for America, Mr. Brent having bought a ranch in Texas.

A day or two afterwards Ayscough left Cardinal Manning's house, where he had been staying, for St. Thomas's Seminary, Hammersmith, where he made his studies for the priesthood. A few months earlier Mrs. Brent had followed her son into the Catholic Church. She was happy in her new life in Texas; happy, indeed, it was her genius to be everywhere; but the life was much too rough, the work too hard for one of her years, and the food unfit for one who was rapidly becoming an invalid. But her old resources did not fail her; Nature was all around, and for her it was ever full of absorbing interest; she sketched and painted more than ever; and then her sketching made demands not only upon her skill, but upon her courage, for the scenes of her painting had to be sought in the wild and lonely brakes, the homes of panthers, wild cats, and, much worse, of innumerable rattle-snakes: she was always quite alone, and it will be remembered that she was so completely deaf as to be unable to hear the nearest sound without the aid of her speaking trumpet. Her husband, Mr. Brent, would often expostulate upon the danger of those solitary ramblings, but she would laugh and declare, "I am so fat that only a very hungry panther would think of eating me, and as I can't hear the rattle-snakes rattle they never frighten me.

After a dozen years it was decided that her only hope of life was to return to England and to rest, and in the

Introduction xiii

summer of 1892, she joined her son at Plymouth, where he was Military Chaplain, and with the exception of his period of Active Service in France and Flanders, during the Great War, they were never again separated.

John Ayscough has often told me of his horror, almost dismay, at first meeting his mother on her return from Texas. He had been scanning the faces of the passengers in his search for her, and had already more than once glanced earnestly at one very old, broken-down lady, in amazing clothes of at least a dozen years' standing, without in the least recognizing her. Presently she smiled, asked a question, and held out her battered speaking trumpet. In her smile he recognised her: but it was literally a shock to find in this wholly broken, terrified-looking woman of extreme age, his mother, whom he had last seen looking fairly young, certainly not beyond middle age, upright, and with a face bright with cheerful courage. He says that though she lived a quarter of a century longer, she looked many years older at her first return from Texas than at the time of her death, and was more bowed in figure: she was in fact not sixty-three years of age on her return to England and looked very much more than ninety.

If she had been left a few more weeks in Texas, the rough work and hard toil would no doubt have killed her. This journey across the Atlantic she made entirely alone, deaf, in shattered health, and in a very inferior boat — as she sailed from a small port in Texas itself to avoid a long railway journey. With astonishing rapidity she recovered health, spirits, and cheerfulness, in a comfortable home, under the charge of an excellent doctor; with good nursing and attendance and good food, she very soon lost the look of extreme age, and recovered her upright carriage, her happy expression and abundant interest in life. The mother and son remained seven years at Plymouth, till 1899, the reunion seeming an almost incredible joy. With a very large social circle Mrs.

xiv Introduction

Brent was, as she had everywhere been throughout life, much more than popular. The affection of these kind friends was a peculiar delight to her; and the beauty of the country round Plymouth afforded endless scope for her talent in water-colour drawing.

In March, 1899, John Ayscough was ordered to Malta, and she accompanied him. The voyage she thoroughly enjoyed, and very soon she had as many friends in Malta as she had left behind at Plymouth.

During the six years of her stay there (without a visit to England) Mrs. Brent never seems to have had any sense of exile, and was certainly never bored. Here, too, there was plenty of scope for her many talents. With her son, she explored every corner of the island, sketching, collecting flowers and studying the archaeology of the place.

During the six years in Malta, John Ayscough and his mother made many visits to Italy and Sicily — visits which have fruit in Marotz, San Celestino, and A Roman Tragedy. Also they visited France, Switzerland, and North Africa — the fruit of which journeys is Mezzogiorno, Admonition, and several of the stories in Outsiders and In.

Travelling was an immense joy to her and especially was she delighted by a trip to Crete. One of the many wonderful things she did during her life was devoting her seventieth birthday to an ascent of Vesuvius.

During this six years in Malta, Mrs. Brent was presented for the second time in private audience to Pope Leo XIII, and in 1904, for the first time, to Pius X.

At last, in March, 1905, they returned to England, and Salisbury Plain became their home.

After less than four years at home, John Ayscough was ordered on a further tour of Foreign Service, to last probably for five years, and she determined to go with him. At her great age, how could she expect ever to see England again? Early in March, 1909, they sailed from

Introduction xv

the Port of London for Malta, for it was to Malta they were to return.

It was a bitterly cold day, with deep snow everywhere, and heavy snow falling, but she trudged on bravely, her son expecting any minute to see her fall and there breathe her last. It was at least half a mile to walk from the train to the docks, and not a conveyance of any sort could be had. A very devoted friend of his came and brought a beautiful bouquet of roses, which seemed to give her fresh strength to continue that miserable walk. After being less than a quarter of an hour on board, she was talking and joking about herself to complete strangers as though she found life full of amusement.

They were welcomed in Malta by many old friends, though many were gone. A charming house was soon found, with a pretty garden full of fine flowers, but Mrs. Brent could no longer enjoy things: through the eight months of this second stay, she was too ill for anything but a wistful longing for home. The doctors said it must be home or a prompt end; and her son had to purchase an exchange home and obtain War Ofl&ce sanction for it.

At the end of October they started for England. The voyage itself did good and by the time they reached London she was out of danger; she was, in fact, destined to live seven years longer, though with frequent more and more alarming illnesses. Within a few weeks of her return, Mrs. Brent received from Pius X the Cross of Leo XIII "Pro Ecclesia et Pontifice" in gold, an honour which she told her son "made her feel very humble," having, as she considered, done so little to deserve it.

Immediately on the outbreak of war, Ayscough was sent to France with the first British Expeditionary Force, and in December he returned to England, as he thought, for good. I need not describe the joy and happiness it gave his mother to see him back again, xvi Introduction

perfectly safe and in his old home, but alas! it did not last for long. On the morning of February 8, 191 5, he received orders to return to France immediately.

I am sure my readers will realise what a blow it was to them both: the news came in the early morning. He jumped out of bed, told his dear mother, dressed, had breakfast, and was out of the house within an hour and a half of receiving his orders. When he returned in December, he had been told that he would be released from Active Service and continue duty at home. Like her other troubles, his mother took it all bravely, and considering her age and state of health, kept cheerful.

About the beginning of November, 191 5, Ayscough became very ill, but continued his work until the doctors discovered how bad he was and insisted on his going into hospital, which he did, but not until the third week of January, 1916. The day after his admission into hospital, he underwent a serious operation, but luckily got through successfully. He was then sent to a hospital in London, where he underwent another operation, but only slight in comparison with the first, and after being there about a fortnight, he returned home. The medical board then offered him a few months' sick leave, but he only accepted a month on condition that if, at the end of that time he was unfit for duty, further leave would be granted; this proved unnecessary and he resumed duty at home in Salisbury Plain. But after this second shock, his mother could never believe that he was home for good; every day, every post, she expected that orders would come and take him away again. The strain at last proved too much for her, and in July she died. Oh! what a terrible loss it was for Ayscough; I don't think there ever was a more deep love and affection between any mother and son than between these; they were everything to each other.

In the last chapter of French Windows he says, "For his first remembered impression of life was the realisation

Introduction xvii

that he was his mother's son, and almost the next his reaHsation of the terror lest he should lose her. The dread of that loss remained ever afterwards the only real dread of his life: no sorrow, no misfortune, threatened or fallen, seemed to affect the substance of happiness so long as that supreme calamity was spared. For fiftyeight years it was spared, and for that immense reprieve he can but cry his thanks to Divine patience.

"That the calamity fell upon his life during the writing of these pages, must make this to him a different sort of book from any that he has written, must make of the whole book a lingering farewell."

Owing to the recent date of the letters and their dealing with living people, it has been necessary to omit much, and unfortunately much that constituted by far the most entertaining portion of them.

Ayscough's first period in France was spent at the front with the fighting troops, while the latter part consisted of garrison and hospital duty at Dieppe and Versailles.

The two periods, I think, make a fascinating contrast and an interesting volume of letters.

Frank Bickerstaffe-Drew yohn ^yscough'^s Jitters to his ^JYCother yohn (lAyscougF s Jitters To His ^Mother

I

Railway Station, Salisbury

My own Darling Mother: I send this by the chauffeur to bid you another good-bye, and to thank you very, very much for having borne this cruel smack of fortune so well. It makes it so much better for me your doing so.

God bless and keep you, dear, and bring me soon back to look after you.

Oh ! for Peace.

Dublin Sunday, i o'clock

It seems a hundred years since we parted, and this is my first opportunity of writing. I will go back to the beginning and tell you exactly how I have got on.

My dear, my dear, how good and noble it was of you to be so brave and cheerful at our actual parting: it made the pain of leaving you, and of saying good-bye, so much easier to bear. But I do hope that you did not collapse when I was gone.

At Salisbury station there was Mr. Gater come to see me off and, though the train was an hour late starting, he stayed on : I thought it very nice of him, and he was most cordial, friendly, and sympathetic. I am sure you and Christie may always send to him if you want any male assistance: he did not offer his services as a matter of form — but as if he really meant it. I travelled up very comfortably with Captain George Herbert, brother of Lord Pembroke, and we talked the whole way; he knows scores of people I know, and we had lots to say, besides he is a Territorial and frightfully keen about the army and the war.

It was dull but quite fine when we got to London. I first telegraphed to you, then went straight on to Euston in a taxi. For a quarter of an hour my taxi was going at a foot-pace beside a detachment of Lancers: the young officer called out to me: "Off to the front, sir?" and began talking. He said all his detachment were recruits who had joined the night before; they looked tired, but marched pluckily: they were not going to the front but only to St. Albans, where they are to train for some months to fill up gaps.

In the street I saw Cardinal Gasquet walking with his Secretary. After putting my things in the cloak-room I had tea; went for a walk; came back and had dinner in the Euston Hotel and then secured a good place in the Irish Mail.

I had one entire side of the carriage, and slept lying down comfortably till Holyhead. Then I had some tea and went below; I had a large six-berthed cabin to myself, and was able to undress and make myself very comfortable, and so slept till 6.30; then I got up and washed and dressed, and werjt ashore (not intending to go up to Dublin till 8.45), when I took a jaunting-car and went off to Monkstown to find Helen and Jack.

I found their house but it was shut, and the creepers much overgrown over the door, so I suppose they have been long away, visiting.

I had breakfast and got off my telegram to you: then we came up to DubHn and I heard Mass (I could not say it, having had tea after midnight on my journey). Then the Church of England chaplain attached to the same ambulance as myself and I took a car over to Phoenix Park, where our ambulance is.

The Commanding Officer was not there, but his Adjutant told us there was no tent for us, and that we could only be allowed thirty-five pounds of baggage — about as much as my roll of rugs alone. However, after about two hours' waiting and discussion, I got the C. O. to agree to my proposal that I should be allowed to take my stuff on to the base, and there discard almost all of it — that will enable me to find some convent where I can leave it, and where it will be more within reach than if I left it behind here.

Also I found an empty tent in another camp joining ours, and they allow me to use it: so that I shall have a place to sleep in to-night and to-morrow night.

I hope you will be sitting in the garden this lovely afternoon. Do keep well, my darling; that is what I am praying all the time; do keep well, and let me think of you as well and cheerful in the beloved home. I love it far, far more than you do: and it is like an anchor to every happy thought to recollect it, and you in it.

God bless you both; bid Christie keep a good heart, and let her know how I thank her in advance for all her care of you.

We are quite in war conditions — no tables, chairs, beds, baths, washing-stands — nothing but the ground and our rugs!

St. Francis Xavier's, Upper Gardiner Street, Dublin

Monday, 10 a.m., August 17, 1914

I HAVE fallen among most kind and hospitable, friendly and pleasant people, with whom I am staying. The letter I wrote you yesterday was written in the parlour of a little fifth-rate hotel just outside Phoenix Park, where I had luncheon. After finishing my letter, I got on a tram and came in to the city, getting off at "Carlyle Bridge" as the Unionists call it, "O'Connell Bridge" as the Nationalists call it. Thence I walked up O'Connell Street (Sackville Street) and presently met two young priests, who saluted and began to talk. (All the priests here are full of friendliness). I told them I wanted, if I could, to get a light altar-stone, instead of the very heavy one I brought from our chapel at the Manor House. They said, "We are Jesuits, from Gardiner Street Church, St. Francis Xavier's ... go up there and ask for one." Well, I came here, and the Father Minister (Housekeeping Father) instantly said I must stay here. He found the Rector and Father Provincial, and they would not take any refusal; I must be their guest till we embark.

They sent Father Wrafter (the Father Minister) out to the camp in PhcEnix Park, to fetch in my baggage in a taxi; that was really just so that I should not be at the cost of bringing it in all that long way myself. And so here I am, very comfortably installed, and made a very great deal of.

After dinner we had great talk and smoking: all the Fathers here (there are about twenty) seem admirers of my books.

The Rector and Provincial are charming men: and to-night the latter is taking me to dine with his brother at Kingstown.

I said Mass this morning at the altar I send you a postcard of. One of the Fathers insisted on giving me all these cards to send to you.

This house is very large and fine: most comfortable. But what I like best in it is the universal spirit of hospitality and kindness of the Jesuits themselves.

I slept uncommonly well, and so did not begin my camp life with last night, as I had expected. I said Mass early, had an excellent breakfast, and then they showed me the house, church, library, etc. And now I am writing this to you; I hope you are getting on all right; presently I shall go out to post this and will telegraph to ask how you are. I shall be here till about nine o'clock to-night; then go to camp; and to-morrow morning, I believe, we embark.

It Is 6.30 a.m. on Tuesday, and we march ofF from this camp, Phoenix Park, in half an hour.

I think it almost impossible that you can hear anything from me for days now. We are, I believe, going to France, and will take some days to get there: and a letter would take some day or two to return. Besides, it is quite possible they would not let us write at first, or even telegraph — they are so determined to hide all the movements of our troops.

I just write this to say good-bye. I don't quite know how I shall get it posted. I dined at Kingstown last night, with the Provincial of the Jesuits and his brother, at a charming hotel on the sea-front. Then we trained into Dublin and came over here in a taxi: I cannot tell you what the hospitality and kindness of those Jesuits have been.