On 25th November ill health forced him to abandon a lecture at Oxford half way through. He went home, was overcome, and crashed on to his bed, breaking it. Frances wrote to Father O’Connor again, informing him that “It is mostly heart trouble, but there are complications.” The outbreak of the war increased the strain on him, but the fundamental cause of the breakdown was his own self-indulgence. Frances asked her friends to pray for her husband’s recovery, and brought in a series of nurses to care for his every need. The collapse was almost total, both physical and mental. The body can only take so much punishment, and Gilbert’s body had never been in a particularly fit state of self-defence. After an early sign of recovery he fell into a deeper decay, unable to sit up or remain alert for any time. O’Connor described his condition as “Gout all over. Brain, stomach and lungs were affected. He was ten weeks unconscious and had to be kept so. The doctor said that the shock of recognition might destroy life.” Frances was concerned enough to wonder about last rites, and believed that Gilbert had come close enough to Catholic conversion to want the sacrament from a Catholic priest. “I do pray to God He will restore him to himself that we may know,” she wrote. “I feel in His Mercy He will, even if death is the end of it — or the beginning shall I say?”
It was a hellish experience for Frances, not only because of her husband’s agony but also because of the nature of the attacks; periods of near recovery would be followed by deeper falls, throwing her off balance and ripping into her confidence. She would come to terms with his death, and the future which that would create for her. Days later a feeling of euphoria would ensue when it appeared that her husband would regain his health. This pendulum was a dreadful one, and a lesser woman may have broken under it. By Easter it seemed that the swing had come to an end, and Gilbert was steadily if slowly heading towards full recovery. Frances appreciated the theological significance of the date of this good news. She wrote to a friend of the “resurrection of the body” and that, “Last night he said the Creed and asked me to read part of Myser’s St Paul …”
With total seclusion, the dedicated work of a group of doctors and nurses who grew to love the wretched figure of the great writer lying on his bed, and prayers from all who knew of the attack, he did indeed begin to recover. Frances’s expectations of “full recovery” were not to be fulfilled. No man could have gone through such a painful illness and return to his previous self. By the time he was conscious and out of bed Gilbert had lost stones in weight, and instead of looking fitter and more healthy, he appeared to be a man who had lost too much weight, too quickly. His body had been considerably weakened by the episode, and nobody had produced a suitable diagnosis or cure. He would have to cut down in all areas — including work — but other than that nothing was specified. By the end of May he was writing again, for the Illustrated London News and then for the New Witness. There was universal pleasure on his returning to the literary scene, with letters of congratulations and approval from all directions. His secretary, Freda Spencer, dealt with most of these. She was a delightful creature, frequently making mistakes in her business affairs for Gilbert, but always fascinating him and provoking great chuckles of laughter.
Back at work, he set about contributing to the war effort with some propaganda writing. A more important publication came in 1915; in book form his poetic efforts were called quite simply Poems, and were brought out by Burns and Oates. Some of his best known pieces were published separately, under the title Wine, Water and Song, but Poems contained some gems of Gilbert’s writings. “Lepanto” was of course included, as was “The Secret People” and “When I Came Back to Fleet Street.” “Antichrist, or the Reunion of Christendom: an Ode” was an attack on F.E. Smith, the ambitious and gifted politician and lawyer who was later to become Lord Birkenhead, and who did such damage to Cecil Chesterton at the Old Bailey. He had rather pompously spoken out on the subject of Welsh Dis-establishment, stating that it would shock the conscience of “every Christian community in Europe.” It was a ludicrous idea, and angered Gilbert with its dishonesty and political posing. He began his poem with
Are they clinging to their crosses,
F.E. Smith,
Where the Breton boat-fleet tosses,
Are they, Smith?
Do they, fasting, trembling, bleeding,
Wait the news from this our city?
Groaning “That’s the Second Reading!”
Hissing “There is still Committee!”
If the voice of Cecil falters,
If McKenna’s point has pith,
Do they tremble for their altars?
Do they, Smith?
And ended with
It would greatly, I must own, soothe me, Smith,
If you left this theme alone,
Holy Smith!
For your legal cause or civil
You fight well and get your fee;
For your God or dream or devil
You will answer, not to me.
Talk about the pews and steeples
And the Cash that goes therewith!
But the souls of Christian peoples …
— Chuck it, Smith!
His knowledge of the war, and of military matters in general, was weak. He followed the progress of the British army’s battles against the German “Barbarian” through Hilaire Belloc’s articles in the magazine Land and Water; Belloc was, of course, an expert. At the end of 1915 Gilbert published The Crimes of England, a short book which blamed Britain for some of the rise of Prussian power. His fear and hatred of Protestant Prussia and the larger Germany was intense; and had been long before the 1914 war. For Gilbert and Belloc the steady increase in German influence was an international evil, especially as it was to the direct detriment of Catholic France. There was no chance of the army ever accepting Gilbert for military service, and his endeavours to join up must be viewed in their true light; the quixotic romantic, not the unworldly fool. His brother was finally taken into the military in 1916, classified as B2. After a struggle he managed to obtain a transfer to the Highland Infantry, received another classification of B1 and was able to fight for his country. Ada Jones, impressed by the dashing soldier, gave in to Cecil Chesterton’s requests and agreed to marry him. They were married first in a register office, then in the beautiful, almost subterranean church of Corpus Christi in London’s Maiden Lane, The wedding celebrations took place at the Cheshire Cheese.
Gilbert was busy at work on his A Short History of England, now employing a second secretary, a Mrs Walpole. His health was gradually better, his physical strength had mostly returned to him. He was spending more and more time working on Cecil’s paper, feeling that it was his contribution to the war effort, and his sign of loyalty and gratitude to his brother, doing what Gilbert could not. It was a struggle to complete his English history, but by 1917 it was on the book-shelves. The book contained all the usual inaccuracies and faults, and all the striking wit and incisiveness which were so particular to Gilbert. Shaw wrote in the Observer in November, that it was impossible to review such a volume. The task was akin to writing a “comic review of Mark Twain.” He continued “There is nothing worth saying left to be said of his book, because he has said it all himself: he is too good a husband-man to leave much for the gleaners. Let me therefore ask him for another chapter in his next edition. I can even give him subjects for two chapters.”
It became increasingly apparent that Cecil could not edit the New Witness from the western front, and in his final editorial he said “Au Revoir” to the magazine, and thanked Gilbert “who, at no little personal sacrifice, has consented to undertake the editorship in my absence, and to allow his name to appear on the front page of the paper.” Frances was deeply hurt, and angry. Gilbert was the least organised of men, and the most busy. The idea of his editing a working magazine was ridiculous. As has already been noted, personality clashes on the journal were frequent and severe; Gilbert was to spend fruitless hours mediating between thin-skinned personalities and reassur
ing people that their efforts were indeed appreciated. Financially matters were in bad shape, and always would be. However, Thomas Beecham, a great admirer of Cecil Chesterton and a guest at his wedding party, donated large sums, and eventually became a member of the Board. Others either loaned or gave money; there was a great amount of goodwill.
Gilbert was forced to subsidise the running costs of the New Witness at a rate of some £200 per month, out of his personal income and savings. Frances could do nothing. It was not only the time and money being spent, wasted, which hurt her, but the fact that Ada Chesterton was now so dominant in Gilbert’s life. The two women did not get on, and as Ada was taking on most of the organisational chores of the magazine she and Gilbert spent a lot of time with each other. There was no sexual jealousy — such a suggestion would have been laughed at — but the understandable resentment that a husband was working, drinking and laughing with another woman, who was hostile. It was a difficult time for the Chesterton marriage.
Gilbert was happy when writing editorials, which he approached as if they were short essays rather than journalistic leaders. He wrote in his Autobiography that his being an editor had seemed as likely as his being “a publisher or a banker.” He was proud of the stance of the New Witness under him, “which was passionately patriotic and Pro-Ally but as emphatically opposed to the Jingoism of the Daily Mail.” Non-Jingoist or not, the magazine announced with relish that “The Prussian devil is defeated” when the war finally came to a ghastly end. The joy of the staff of the New Witness was short-lived; it was announced that Cecil Chesterton was dead. Gilbert was left senseless. Ada, so recently a bride and now so suddenly a widow, was brave, but of course in complete despair. Gilbert would write
For my brother was destined to prove, in a dark house of doom, that he alone of all the men of our time possessed the two kinds of courage that have nourished the nation; the courage of the forum and of the field. In the second case he suffered with thousands of men equally brave; in the first he suffered alone. For it is another example of the human irony that it seems easier to die in battle than to tell the truth in politics … and I continued to the editing of my brother’s paper, if you can call it editing, and all the other financiers and politicians showed no signs of dying in any faith, or indeed of dying at all …
He would exploit travel as a way of overcoming his grief, though in reality the pain of the loss would never leave him. Ireland had been visited before his brother’s death, with the hope that a lecture tour would provoke interest in the New Witness. Gilbert had made up his mind on the Irish question before he set foot in the country, sure that the North and the Protestant faith signified urban modernism and all that was bad, while the rural Catholicism of the South was where the true path to political contentment and happiness lay. His conclusions were later published as Irish Impressions, and reviewed by Bernard Shaw in the Irish Statesman
These Irish impressions are not, as the title page states, impressions by Mr Chesterton. They are impressions by Ireland on Mr Chesterton. I am tempted to recommend the book in which he has recorded them as a proof that an Englishman is a much pleasanter, jollier, kindlier human variety than an Irishman; and though I am checked by the reflection that all Englishmen are unfortunately not like Mr Chesterton, and that he describes himself as a blend of Scotch, French, and Suffolk Dumpling, still, the net result is the sort of man that England can produce when she is doing her best. Like all such Englishmen he is a thoroughgoing Irish patriot, and will not hear of romantic Ireland being dead and gone. It exists still for him; and he holds us in an esteem which would make us blush if so conceited a nation knew how to blush; for we are very far from deserving it. Our vices are so obvious that they have troubled him though they have not estranged him. Of Dublin he tells us faithfully that though the inhabitants can dream they cannot sleep, having all the irritability of insomnia and all the meanness and jealousy of perpetual wide-awakeness, and that they slander one another with an abnormal ungenerousness. In Belfast he is staggered into laughter and horror at the mad pride and wicked selfishness of the purse proud commercial Irish Calvinist; and if he had travelled south instead of north, he would have discovered that the kindlier life and thought of Catholic Ireland does not save it from the infatuate and deadly-sinful conviction that it lives in a world of its natural inferiors …
Back at the offices of the New Witness Ada Chesterton could face the long hours no longer, and W.R. Titterton came in as an industrious and enthusiastic assistant editor. Things at Essex Street, the home of the magazine, became more stable as the staff realised that without Cecil Chesterton around everybody involved would have to work harder. Gilbert spent less time there, and decided to take his travels farther afield than Ireland. The Daily Telegraph asked him if he would go to Palestine with Frances, and write a series of articles on what he saw, now that the British once again were in control of the region. The proposal was God-sent, and readily accepted. Friends played a part in all of this, knowing that Gilbert had to find adventure, and work through the death of his brother. E.C. Bentley, on the staff of the Daily Telegraph, was instrumental in awarding the task to his boyhood friend, and Maurice Baring made sure that his military contacts would welcome Gilbert in the Middle East. The excitement at the Chesterton household was as if a child was awaiting Christmas; Gilbert, if not childish, was always childlike.
The couple travelled through France and Italy, then took a ship across the Mediterranean to Alexandria. From that magnificent city they took the railway to Cairo, and then concluded their journey in Jerusalem. They were treated as honoured guests in Jerusalem, both by the British authorities and by the Zionist organisers who Gilbert was so anxious to meet. It snowed in Jerusalem while Gilbert was there, and he was completely captivated by the romance and beauty of the city. He came to the conclusion that Christmas cards, with their depiction of Christ being born in a snowy Bethlehem, may be more authentic than he had thought. Gilbert visited the holy shrines, delighting in the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, and the Church of Ecce Homo in Jerusalem. When he travelled to Bethlehem he was quite overcome
Never have I felt so vividly the great fact of our history; that Christian religion is like a huge bridge across a boundless sea, which alone connects us with the men who made the world, and yet have utterly vanished from the world … I can never recapture in words the waves of sympathy with strange things that went through me in that twilight of the tall pillars, like giants robed in purple, standing still and looking down into that dark hole in the ground. [He refers to the entrance to the stable where Christ is supposed to have been born.] Here halted that imperial civilisation when it had marched in triumph throughout the whole world; here in the evening of its days it came trailing in all its panoply in the pathway of the three kings.
He returned to Britain to write The New Jerusalem and discover that the New Witness was in dire trouble once again. For the first time circulation figures were dropping with an alarming regularity. The magazine had triumphed in the bitter years before the war, had done relatively well during the war, but had failed to adapt to a new world of new peace-time conditions and attitudes. By August a public appeal was made to New Witness readers for donations; the result was the raising of £1,000, generous but far too small a sum. Gilbert was tired of the petty problems of his inherited project, and had become mildly addicted to the travel bug. A lecture tour of the United States was arranged for 1921, and no amount of difficulties on the New Witness was going to postpone that. Frances’s ill health may have done, and she was going through a bad spell of illness. X-rays revealed further arthritis in her spine, with much consequent pain and suffering. She decided to make the trip.
Gilbert was already something of a celebrity in New York — which until recent times accounted for most of America’s reading public — with his books widely read and the large Catholic community interested in his spiritual works. As his ship docked reporters were already clamouring to interview him, asking him questions which
he had no way of answering: such as what did he think of the crime wave in the city? He did not think of it at all. The Chestertons drove directly to their hotel, the Biltmore, and began a rest before the stormy days of the tour. His first lecture was at the Times Square Theatre, and was a great success. Gilbert fulfilled the expectations of his American audiences; he was as eccentric, unique and witty as they had hoped. The paradox was new to them, and they were delighted. A lecture entitled “Shall We Abolish the Inevitable?” attracted an amazed, curious group. He liked Americans, enjoyed their youthful willingness to be pleased and entertained; cynicism had not yet tainted the East Coast character. The aggression of American journalists was not so pleasing to him; Frances would sometimes leave the hotel room before her husband to ensure that it was safe for him to leave without being accosted by noisy reporters.
On one subject, of course, he was more than willing to speak his mind. His apparent desire to drink alcohol was partly based on physical need, partly on what people expected of him: the English journalist who would not be able to tolerate any ridiculous drinking laws. He wrote: “I went to America with some notion of not discussing Prohibition. But I soon found that well-to-do Americans were only too delighted to discuss it over the nuts and wine. They were even willing, if necessary, to dispense with the nuts.”
Gilbert: The Man Who was G. K. Chesterton Page 24
