When asked about the achievements of Distributism Gilbert referred the interviewer to the writings of Hilaire Belloc, and informed him that the transformation to Distributism would be conducted on a constitutional basis, not by bloody revolution. There is no sense of reality in his answers; he expounds his philosophy with consummate skill and charm, but can envisage no obstacle, does not have any doubts as to its success. Such an attitude smacks of one thing: extremism. On this one issue Gilbert would not hear a counterargument. He continued in the article
… we are the only revolutionary paper, in that where the capitalist and the communist agree we disagree. Where both the capitalist and the communist submit we revolt.
We have had ten years of struggle to keep the paper going, with a fine staff and no capital. We have a good circulation for our sort of paper, but we can’t get out of the habit of appealing to the intelligence of the human race. That is perhaps where I am old-fashioned; I am that most antiquated of things, a Radical, an ordinary nineteenth-century Liberal, and I have grown old in the delusion that my fellow creatures are rational as well as myself. I am afraid I can’t start regarding them as a race of morons or nit-wits; I shall go to my grave believing that if I meet an ordinary sane man he will agree that two and two make four …
The year 1927 was a particularly busy and ambitious one for Gilbert, much to the chagrin of Frances and his closer friends. He received letters from people who had read or seen him, but whom he’d never actually met, asking that he take care of his health and perhaps take a sabbatical. Fellow writers suggested that it was preferable for Gilbert to concentrate on longevity and a steady flow of publication, rather than tire himself in an effort to produce as many works as possible in a single year. It was as though he envisaged an early grave, and felt the inexorable need to write all he could, whenever he could. Guests would be asked to excuse him as he left them to add just a few paragraphs to his current book or essay. Frances perceived in Gilbert a fear, an awareness that he had yet to do his best work. Her protestations were in vain, her tears provoked consolation and sympathy, but no change in life-style. She asked him not to work so hard on his play The Judgement of Dr Johnson, but to have stopped working at this stage would have been to deny everything that he did, and hoped to, represent. The drama ran for six performances at the Arts Theatre Club. It depicted Dr Samuel Johnson, through the favourable eyes of the author, and fulfilled a long-standing ambition. Gilbert exhibited a childlike glee throughout the run, and was to be seen pacing the floor during the opening night, resembling a neophyte producer or playwright anxious that his child should do, and be seen to do, well. He confided to friends that he would have relished performing the role himself on the stage.
In addition to the play, Gilbert also published three major volumes that year. The Secret of Father Brown appeared in September, much to the delight of the priest’s devotees, who complained that their hero should come to life more frequently. The book was dedicated to Father John O’Connor, “Whose truth is stranger than fiction, with a gratitude greater than the world.” His writing of it had been disturbed by the noise of some building work taking place nearby. His secretary asked the foreman of the workers whether he was aware that the noise was so great that Mr Chesterton could not write. “Yes” replied the foreman, “we are quite aware of that.” When Gilbert was told of the exchange he laughed, predicting a sparkling career for this master of repartee. For all the difficulties, the book received sanguine reviews, particularly because of its fuller treatment of Flambeau and the divergence of subject in its ten stories.
Gilbert’s biography of Robert Louis Stevenson was to be the first in a series of Intimate Biographies, but the promised volumes on Napoleon and Savonarola failed to appear. Gilbert lacked distance from the subject of the book, writing with an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the service Stevenson had done him during those long, lonely days. The book may have lacked impartiality, but it exhibited that congenital perception of character and motive which made almost all of Gilbert’s biographical works shine. Sir Edmund Gosse wrote of it
I have just finished reading the book in which you smite the detractors of R.L.S. hip and thigh. I cannot express without a sort of hyperbole the sentiments which you have awakened of joy, of satisfaction, of relief, of malicious and vindictive pleasure …
It is and always since his death has been impossible for me to write anything which went below the surface of R.L.S. I loved him, and still love him, too tenderly to analyse him. But you, who have the privilege of not being dazzled by having known him, have taken the task into your strong competent hands. You could not have done it better.
The latest survivor, the only survivor, of his little early circle of intimate friends thanks you from the bottom of his heart.
The review gave Gilbert more pleasure than almost any other comment on his works, and was a necessary point of support when his next volume was sent to the press.
The Return of Don Quixote was a futuristic fantasy, its qualities diminished by Gilbert’s increasing determination to lapse into Catholic apologetics. Reviewers and critics noticed the trend, and insisted on pointing it out. The author was depressed by the book’s indifferent reception, and sought solace in the company of friends, and in the comfort of his faith. He began to spend more time at Westminster Cathedral, and other worshippers from the time remember him being escorted along the busy road towards the church by two small boys, “like a huge galleon being guided by two tiny tugs.” On one occasion he was stopped on Artillery Row, a nearby street, by two adoring members of the public. They passed the time of day. “You should be careful walking along this road you know,” said one of the pair as they were about to part, “otherwise somebody might canonise you.” This time Gilbert did not laugh. He was beginning to suffer from brief but painful periods of depression, and Frances was acutely conscious of this. They took a holiday in the beautifully and quintessentially English Lyme Regis, staying at the Three Cups Hotel, their favourite haven. They were happy, content to be the stylised middle-aged couple walking by the sea. When they returned home, a selection of local children were invited to Top Meadow so as to brighten Gilbert’s darker moments. The absence of children from the immediate Chesterton family continued to provoke anguish and sorrow. Gilbert coped with the pain with more stoicism than his wife, as active as ever in the dramas and games of the town’s young people. Frances tended to say little, and look on.
In 1928 Gilbert was fifty-four years old. In spite of his size and diminishing health, he retained his youthful appearance, with a fine head of hair, always with its unruly curls and youthful fullness. His countenance was invariably fresh and optimistic, his stance erect and invitingly carefree. In some areas, however, the years had taken their toll. His breathing was at times difficult and even painful, and long speeches became more of a chore than a pleasure; depending on gradients, walking could tire Gilbert for hours, sometimes days, and his capacity to talk and work long into the night was severely curtailed. A Polish academic visiting London made a special effort to meet Gilbert, and finally managed to track him down. The two men were introduced, and evidently shared a number of loves and concerns. But Gilbert tired of the conversation quickly, and finally interrupted a point he was making long before its conclusion with a wave of his hand, indicating that his breath was short and speech was a problem. The gesticulation resembled rudeness, but wasn’t. It depicted a deeply sorry man, angry that he could not hold a conversation, frightened that what had once been so natural and facile, could now be so traumatic. Those of Gilbert’s friends who thought that he was ignoring his ill health were poor judges of character in general, and of Gilbert’s in particular. He was aware of what was happening to him, and equally aware that there was little he could do about it.
The only book published in 1928 was a collection of essays from the Illustrated London News entitled Generally Speaking. It appeared in October, and confirmed Gilbert as the paramount essayist of his era. The essays showed t
hat he was more, much more, than a writer of pithy, erudite articles. The staff and voluntary workers at G. K.’s Weekly, however, were in the front rank of those protesting that their doyen was a political philosopher and social critic, and that his essays were a mere annexe, something jejune and placid compared to his contemporary journalism. But it was they, with their petty financial squabbles and lapidary statements on policy and position, who restrained his ability and distracted him from nobler enterprises.
In 1929 no book of original writing appeared from Gilbert, only a volume of previously published short stories under the title The Poet and the Lunatics. The original pieces had been written to finance Gilbert’s eponymous magazine, and the royalties and advances from the book made the same journey.
Later in the year the Chesterton family — for Dorothy Collins was by now considered a virtual daughter, and accompanied Gilbert and Frances on all their holidays and long journeys — organised a pilgrimage to Rome. The enterprise had long been planned, and combined the joys, and needs, of a holiday and a spiritual journey. They lived at the Hotel Hassler, looking down onto the Spanish Steps. They stayed for three months, and Gilbert managed to obtain a private audience with Pope Pius XI. He scrupulously avoided ever writing about the interview, but friends were aware of the state of activity and enthusiasm which he demonstrated for days after the meeting. He also met Benito Mussolini, who had still to begin his anti-Church campaign and was still perceived as a saviour by many Catholics, both in Italy and beyond.
Gilbert recorded his impressions of the stay, and his memories of the encounter with the Fascist leader, in The Resurrection of Rome. It was in every sense a product of its maker. Gilbert’s frequent insistence on treading the middle road, even when that position was untenable, held the work up to criticism and accusations that its author was naïve, callow, even indifferent to other people’s suffering. It was an ambivalent book. Gilbert had found Mussolini to be charming and charismatic, as he was. He also stressed that he would always “prefer English liberty to Latin discipline.” His admiration for the new Italian leader was the admiration of a constructive lover of ancient Europe, for a destructive lover of ancient Europe.
If Gilbert was insufficiently analytical or critical of Mussolini’s policy at home and abroad — and G. K.’s Weekly did support the invasion of Ethiopia — his sentiments were less egregious than the tangible adoration that many British and European socialists poured onto the former socialist editor and leader in Rome, and far less insidious than the tributes which came from Shaw and H.G. Wells and some of their Fabian comrades. The right was equally myopic. Belloc envisaged a united, Catholic Europe under a strong leader, and the rump of the traditional political parties in Britain gave similar backing. Gilbert the socialist only looked to the future, the conservative only to the past, but the Christian to the eternal. For him all answers were to be found in philosophies beyond the material. He was no politician.
While he was overseas The Thing was published in London by Sheed and Ward. It was sub-titled Why I Am a Catholic and consisted of thirty-five essays, all previously published in magazine or newspaper form. The book was appreciated by Gilbert’s co-religionists — Belloc thought it his friend’s best and most important book — but neglected by the secular world. It was in every sense a defence and a justification, a support for those who had been “pelted with insults” for their beliefs. In the tradition of Orthodoxy and Heretics, The Thing outlined Gilbert’s attitude towards the church
It is enough to say that those who know the Catholic practice find it not only right when everything else is wrong; making the Confessional the very throne of candour where the world outside talks nonsense about it as a sort of conspiracy; upholding humility when everybody is praising pride; charged with sentimental charity when the world is loud and loose with vulgar sentimentalism — as it is today. At the place where the roads meet there is no doubt of the convergence. A man may think of all sorts of things, most of them honest and many of them true, about the right way to turn in the maze at Hampton Court. But he does not think he is in the centre; he knows.
The book’s publication was as important for Gilbert as it was for his readers. It was a cathartic exercise, an enforcing piece of intellectual stimulation. He needed to be reminded of his convictions and their accuracy, even if he “was convinced.” He also needed the provocation of travel, and in the September of 1930 the Chestertons and Dorothy Collins embarked for Canada. They sailed on the White Star Line’s SS Doric, and relished the elegant suite they were given and the space which the half-full ship provided them. Some of the finance for the holiday, or at least the feeling of financial security which hastened the trip, was provided by the publication of Four Faultless Felons in August. The Felons are in fact heroes, and they tell their tales to a sympathetic American journalist.
Of the stories in the book, most reflect Chestertonian social and political concerns, and do so with a refined style, but also with a wit and an appreciation which taste more of anger and bitterness than is usual with Gilbert’s work. There is none of the exotic and blood-red flavour of Father Brown, more a reminder of things past, or earlier attempts at mystery and imagination. “The Honest Quack” deals with the arrogance of the scientific and the progressive, striking the chord of ecology before that chord was at all fashionable. “The Loyal Traitor” demonstrates the possibilities of benign journalism, and discusses the dangers of revolution. These two stories are the best offerings in the book, and its reviewers in the daily and weekly press gave it fairly short shrift.
On the voyage over to North America Gilbert recovered some of his zest for the smaller, more idiosyncratic things in life. He breakfasted early and began to take walks around the craft, announcing the joys of exercise in a self-mocking manner. He indulged in long conversations, dined well, and took part in the organised games on board. He also composed one of his own, conceiving a treasure hunt in which various clues, usually written or drawn on scraps of brown paper, were hidden in sometimes obvious, sometimes quite impossible places. The solution to the chase was found, but not the clues. The participants insisted on taking them; some for the purpose of remembering a notable day, others for a later sale and a tidy profit.
Gilbert made a speech on behalf of the Sailors’ Charity Fund during the sailing, delighting the crew and passengers. He joined in the singing of songs, and took part in horseracing games. Turbulent seas did not bother him unduly, as they did others on board. Frances noted that the 7.00 A.M. Mass was interrupted a quarter of the way through when the priest suddenly ran from the room to vomit over the side of the ship. She thought it a “great disappointment to the nuns who are on board.” Gilbert continued his devotions in private, respectful of the sacrament of priesthood, but mindful of the humour of the situation.
When they arrived in Quebec there was little time to explore very much of the province, or to attempt to come to terms with the then highly Catholic area and its unique inhabitants. Gilbert was fascinated by this oasis of French-speaking, agriculturally based people in the massive bloc of English-speaking North America. He did, however, visit the monuments to Wolfe and Montcalm, and was moved by their respective sacrifices. He referred to General Wolfe as “that noble young man,” and thought of his as the best of the British imperial tradition. In Montreal and Toronto enthusiastic audiences of over four thousand people greeted him as the best of the British literary tradition. He was speaking and working well, but Frances was tiring easily and beginning to bring her physically sympathetic husband down with her.
They moved on to Indiana and the University of Notre Dame. Gilbert had been invited to lecture to the students of the University for a six-week period on the subjects of Victorian history and literature. He was by this time in his life turning down the majority of the lecture offers which were proposed, finding the travel and organisation too much of a strain on his health and his home life. The appeal of the American series was that all of the lectures took place in the same university
, and hence his peripatetic past could be forgotten. He underestimated his own value, and other people’s perception of it, in the United States. Lecture agent Lee Keedick managed to persuade him to undertake a tour, stressing that it would be short and the work load negligible. A more artful man than Gilbert would have realised that both claims could hardly have been true or else it would not have been worth Keedick’s trouble to organise such a venture. When the Chestertons arrived at Notre Dame they also found that they were not even to be housed together, with Gilbert living in college rooms, and Frances having to go to the Infirmary, managed by nuns, because no women were allowed into the college itself. Frances was outraged, and Gilbert was incredulous. They refused to tolerate such circumstances, and insisted on alternative arrangements. These took the form of a stay with a family named Bixler who lived at South Bend, and with whom the Chestertons became good friends.
Gilbert’s average working day on the tour was finely organised. He would write and rehearse during the day, sometimes writing one essay or book while dictating a second to Dorothy Collins and preparing notes for a third on rough paper. After tea, at around 4.00, he would go to a dinner, usually with local notables or with visiting Catholic or literary celebrities. He drank steadily throughout these meals, without harming his delivery at the evening lectures. At the weekend he would travel to neighbouring institutions to deliver more lectures, much to the annoyance of Frances. His travels took him to Illinois, Michigan and Wisconsin, and later to Ohio. At Notre Dame he delivered thirty-six lectures, to audiences of over five hundred people. On one night he would speak of nineteenth-century morality, on another, the imperialism of the Victorians, on still another, Dickens and his legacy. It was an exhausting itinerary, but one he relished. His ardour was reciprocated, and in November 1930 he was made an honorary doctor of law by the university. The same thing happened in New York, and in Pittsburgh and Philadelphia he was toasted as a “great man” of the century. Such was the success of the campaign that Gilbert was asked to extend his talks to the South and West. He agreed. After a rest period over Christmas and New Year’s, he began 1931 with more engagements which took him to Vancouver, San Francisco and Portland. For those votaries who followed him from town to town, the remarkable aspect was that he appeared to alter the theme of his lecture each night. He would write later
Gilbert: The Man Who was G. K. Chesterton Page 29
