A Letter

Letter is reproduced with permission from the copyright holders.

Dear James,

No, your letter got here in optimum time. Your descriptions of the coast are wonderful; given the state I am in. It's been dark and dreary and utterly not of spirit here; I would much prefer to see the North Sea as you do but since I cannot your descriptions quite suffice.

Anyway, I looked up the letter of January you referred to, and reread it. I like your secret code very much, we shall have to work on it more when you return if I am well by then.

I do wonder why all ten-year-olds cannot be as polite as you. Yes, Felicity*is doing well and every now and then, upon seeing my current state, decides to bring me breakfast in bed. One must praise a cat for her devotion, but I cannot say her taste quite matches mine.

Now, onto your questions (which I will attempt to cover in a quick manner, because I do not want to take all your time). First, you asked about the rather messy subject of the reforms that have been spawned by V-II**. I do not believe that the thing is evil, but some people have had a field day with attempting to make it seem whatever they want. I must admit I am a bit saddened by the loss of my most beloved language, which I think will quickly degenerate if ever it is taken out of our schools—God forbid!--but I do hope that at least we shall keep a few of the mass parts in Latin, even if they want to mutilate the rest!

Then, I also had the misfortune of receiving the attentions of Father -----***, who, we both know, has suffered from the Hippie Movement and wears flowers to Mass, on occasion. Perhaps things are not so bad elsewhere. I rather doubt it.

Your second question was, if I recall, (I admit I forget where I placed your letter!) something having to do with being bullied for the sake of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Was it your medal?--perhaps I have not told you the story of my own miraculous medal. It was nearly snatched from me when I walked to the market one evening, perhaps three years ago. A fellow I do not know and have never seen since ran up and snatched it from around my neck, breaking the chain, and dove off down the road. I was annoyed, as you may well understand, and I chased him for perhaps a hundred meters. At last he tripped and ran off, altogether, but my medal was stuck in the mud. I cleaned it off, anyway, and I wear it at this moment.

The point is that there is not a moment that You-Know-Who does not hate Our Lady, and that we must all rather expect to suffer a kind of martyrdom every now and then. I do not think, like the martyrs of old, you will suffer decapitation or the sort, but I think singularly that we must all bear little crosses—little things, like Therese said—which are, in their sort, a kind of martyrdom.
Maybe you remember the story I told you, several years back, when the cholera was making its rounds and you came to live with us. You caught the influenza, and I stayed up until three telling you the story. I rather think you were bored with it, but if you remember, it was about the Queen.

'The Queen'. It isn't very subtle, is it? Anyway, you remember that the Queen was hated by these beings so much that they took great care to turn Men against her and erase all good memories of her from history—except—one. The crown she wore in her earthly years, forever touched by her beauty and goodness that they could hardly stand for it to exist. Yet, as you may (or may not) remember, they could not find it, for she has subjects yet.

Thirdly, you asked something about languages and beauty. I find the two are quite intertwined, but not quite as much as one would hope...for instance, I find the word 'cellar' quite lovely, and summoning images of wild roses. But it means quite an uninteresting thing, the place where we keep potatoes and whatnot.

Then there are quite beautiful things which mean absolutely nothing, to my sorrow—e threntuile a perronath—which I would pronounce ae th-wren-too-ill ah pair-rho-nath—which will not cease to bother me until Kingdom Come. But I stand firmly by my belief that a language, even a made-up one, has a meaning if there is someone to know what it means.

This is another cause that we ought to use our Universal Language—it is in the odd position of being both unwieldy and beautiful. Who thinks mulieribus can flow over one's tongue—in speaking, anyway? Yet when it is sung, who can match its fluency? Quite defying the laws of languages as I know them, I am consistently amazed at how song can transform a word that one has previously stumbled over.

Similarly Greek is also lovely—the old stuff, especially. Eleison is a specially lovely word, I think. I also have a fondness for the old Gothic stuff; you know the types that seem so utterly complex and confusing no being can ever speak it. Here:

Atta unsar þu in himinam,
weihnai namo þein.
qimai þiudinassus þeins.
Wairþai wilja þeins,
swe in himina jah ana airþai.

Hlaif unsarana þana sinteinan gif uns himma daga.
Jah aflet uns þatei skulans sijaima, swaswe jah weis afletam þaim skulam unsaraim.
Jah ni briggais uns in fraistubnjai,
Ak lausei uns af þamma ubilin.
Amen

The Amen, I am afraid, is a giveaway—but for that, would you have recognized the prayer you have known for years upon years?
I have a particular fondness for that Our Father, and like to repeat it especially when I encounter something of demonic proportions.

Perhaps you notice Atta, which I believe you know to be 'Father'. At any rate, we must go into this in more detail when you come visit—which you must do at some point!
Anyway, you know that Gothic and Old Norse are closely related, and they both share the same sort of feel, I think. A very beautiful language, I think. I should like to hear a Mass said in it one day.

On the same sort of line, you know, of course, some Latin, and you are familiar with habeo, I have. In Gothic, the word is haban; in German, haben; in Dutch, hebben. Therefore you see exactly how creative we lot are as linguists.
Then, you have some other lovely words. “ga-láubjan” is Gothic and means believe. “Bidjan”, then, is pray.

The fourth question I remember distinctly. It was, “Can I have a cookie?” and I am afraid I must redirect you to your mother, who is better equipped to answer that question than I.
Well, I shall end my letter here—for, I know well, ten year old boys, even very intelligent ones, quickly lose patience when they are forced to listen to an (crabby) old adopted relation-of-some-sort rant.

Love,
Amita E.

P.S My signature is meant to incline you to continue your Latin studies.

*An eleven-year-old-cat that C.E. Davys adopted.

** Vatican II

*** name censored.