“I’m sorry, Father, but in that case I think we’ll go to Caxton Hall.”

From Trying to Please by John Julius Norwich.  Page 156.

Having both toed the line as required, we turned to the marriage service itself. I suggested that we might begin with “The Spacious Firmament on High,” and then . . . but Father Albion cut us short. “I’m afraid we can’t allow any music,” he said. Nor, as it later emerged, would they allow any flowers; and it soon became clear that, although the Roman Catholic Church had reluctantly accepted the possibility of a mixed marriage, it was determined to make the actual service as unpleasant as it possibly could. It was at this moment that Anne put her foot down. “I’m sorry, Father,” she said, “but in that case I think we’ll go to Caxton Hall.” The effect of this threat—Caxton Hall being the main London Registry Office where civil marriages were performed—was better than either of us could have expected. Instantly resistance crumbled away. When the great day came—it was Tuesday, August 5, 1952—we seriously overworked the organist, and the little Catholic church at the gates of Sutton Place in Surrey (my new parents-in-law lived a few hundred yards down the road) was awash with flowers.

It is only fair to point out that this occurred well before the Second Vatican Council, when Pope John XXIII put an end to all such ridiculousness. Several of the changes he made—such as the use of the vernacular language in the Mass, and the requirement that the priest should in future face the congregation rather than the altar—have, I personally believe, proved disastrous. They have demystified the Faith and taken away much of its former magic, with catastrophic results to congregations all over the world. But at least those contemplating a mixed marriage will find themselves navigating a path a good deal less stony than ours.