Piety and wit

During the second world war, while one brother was editing Punch as a national institution (‘Working with him was a little like helping to edit the Journal of Hellenic Studies,’ said a colleague), and another brother, given to asking questions like ‘Which way does a clock go round?’, was breaking codes at Bletchley (as an interlude to piecing together fragments of the Greek low-life mime writer Herodas), Ronald Knox was translating the Bible.

He did this at Aldenham Park, where he lived as a weekend guest who stayed for ten years, thanks to the hospitality of Lord Acton (whose grandfather was the historian) and more particularly Daphne, Lady Acton (whose grandfather had discovered argon), with whom he was sort of in love. There were also 55 evacuated convent girls staying in the house.

‘Sort of’ in love because Knox, or Ronnie as everyone called him, had determinedly switched off the gene that expresses sexuality at the age of 17 when he knelt down in the cloisters at Eton and vowed to God that he would remain celibate all his life, which he did.