Gilbert: The Man Who was G. K. Chesterton Read online

  He showed this clearly enough when composing his youthful outline of religious freedom. He quoted from Macaulay’s monumental speech in favour of admitting Jews into Parliament. “The points on which Jews and Christians differ have a great deal to do with a man’s fitness to be a bishop or a rabbi, but they have no more to do with his fitness to be a member of parliament than with his fitness to be a cobbler.” He reacted with emotion and bewilderment to the news of the pogroms, those hellish massacres and violent attacks which the Ukrainian, Russian and Polish Jews had to suffer at the hands of the mob and the government-backed Black Hundreds, morbid bands of manic anti-Semites; one report forced him to write: “Made me feel strongly inclined to knock somebody down, but refrained.” This predicament in Eastern Europe, which was provoking hundreds of thousands of Jews to emigrate from their adopted homes to the United States, Britain and any nation with doors open, remained on Gilbert’s mind. He penned a poem called “Before a Statue of Cromwell, At the Time of the Persecution of the Jews in Russia;” in which he recalled how Oliver Cromwell had enabled the Jews to settle in England in the 1650s and contrasted this with the murderings in Russia, “While a brave and tortured people cry the shame of men to God!” There are indications here of an early leaning towards the paradox as a literary style, a fascination with the medieval world and a faith in the “ordinary” people of England who have not yet spoken.

  As the Debater increased its importance and its circulation it was decided to improve the quality of its appearance. A professional printer, J.W. Wakeham of Bedford Terrace, Kensington, was awarded the task. Gilbert’s writings had so impressed his contemporaries that he was persuaded to send one of his poems to the Speaker, a radical magazine then circulating. It was published.

  God has struck all into chaos, princes and priests down-hurled,

  But he leaves the place of the toiler, the old estate of the world.

  When the old Priest fades to a phantom, when the old King nods on his throne,

  The old, old hand of labour is mighty and holdeth its own.

  Gilbert’s view on labour and socialism were undergoing a period of acute ambivalence. He wrote to Lawrence Solomon: “With what you say about Socialism I most cordially assent. It is utterly impracticable as things stand: that is why I am so fond of it. It is almost as impracticable as Christianity.” The members of the club were not political on a party basis and seldom held constant beliefs. Gilbert was enamoured with some of the trappings of the theory, never seriously with the realities of it. It was the camaraderie of the group which for Gilbert had a socialistic appeal; whereas in reality the J.D.C. was exclusive, elite and individualistic. The singing of songs, which was to be so important in the Distributist days of the future, transported Gilbert into an egalitarian life of healthy peasants and earthy honesty. That the entire enterprise took place in one of the most conservative and class-ridden establishments in the country made little impression. The boys sang, and sang with conviction

  I’m a Member, I’m a Member, Member of the J.D.C.

  I’ll belong to it for ever,

  Don’t you wish that you were me?

  The drinking of tea was compulsory and almost oriental in its significance. So important was the ceremony of liquid refreshment that the boys put it to music and lyric. The last verse went as follows

  Then pass the cup, debaters all

  And fill the tea-pot high,

  And o’er the joy of wild debate

  May hours like moments fly.

  As critics quiet and composed,

  As brothers kind and free,

  Join hand in hand the tea-pot round.

  Joy to the J.D.C.

  The ranks of the Junior Debating Club rose as one man in 1892 to share in Gilbert’s glory when he was awarded the Milton Prize for English verse at St Paul’s School. Issue no. 15 of the Debater announced that “as we go to press we hear the pleasant news that our Chairman, Mr Chesterton, has gained the Milton Prize … the subject for treatment being St Francis Xavier, the apostle of the Indies …” The giving of the prize to Gilbert came as a shock, even a minor scandal, to the school as the Milton Prize had in the past been jealously in the preserve of the Eighth form. There was a deal of snobbery about it, and the bad feeling which was shown towards Gilbert by the boys who were also in the running left an unsavoury taste in the mouths of those who knew that his writing and imaginative skills were far in excess of anything any rival could offer. He had exhibited a depth of understanding of Xavier which was extraordinary for a teenager, even though it may have been overly romantic and lacked the realism which he was to demonstrate later when writing of St Francis and St Thomas Aquinas. Bentley remembered Gilbert “wiping the sweat from his brow as he stood, tall, gawky and untidy, reading the poem to a great audience of parents as well as boys at the end of the school year.” The original copies have been lost, the only remaining version being that recorded by Maisie Ward, which had the warning “This is not exactly the same as given in the prize poem” written over it. He began the piece with

  He left his dust, by all the myriad tread

  Of yon dense millions trampled to the strand,

  Or ’neath some cross forgotten lays his head

  Where dark seas whiten on a lonely land:

  He left his work, what all his life had planned,

  A wanting flame to flicker and to fall,

  Mid the huge myths his toil could scarce withstand,

  And the light died in temple and in hall,

  And the old twilight sank and settled over all.

  And concluded the fifty-four line poem with

  This then we say: let all things further rest

  And this brave life, with many thousands more,

  Be gathered up in the eternal’s breast

  In that dim past his love is bending o’er:

  Healing all shattered hopes and failure sore:

  Since he had bravely looked on death and pain

  For what he chose to worship and adore,

  Cast boldly down his life for loss or gain

  In the eternal lottery: not to be in vain.

  High Master Walker took good notice of the achievement, and posted on the school bulletin board that “G.K. Chesterton to rank with the Eighth.” Gilbert never did reach that academic position, remaining in form 6B, some two years behind most boys of his own age, but now enjoying the privileges which the members of “the Eighth” coveted so dearly. It was a confused, confusing period for Gilbert; judged a boy genius by some, a slow learner well below the average by others. At least Frederick Walker began to back this St Paul’s enigma, and when Gilbert’s mother met him in 1894 to discuss her son’s future life and education he was to reply, “Six foot of genius. Cherish him, Mrs Chesterton, cherish him.”

  III - Learning and Lunacy

  Gilbert was never fully aware of the importance and prestige attached to literary prizes, and certainly failed to appreciate just how influential the Milton Award was in shaping other people’s opinions of him as a poet and a character. It is to his credit that modesty, and a degree of naïveté, dominated the youthful personality who was generally regarded as a promising writer and thinker. Edward Chesterton recognised the talent, but preferred to pay more attention to his son’s skills with the brush and pencil. Gilbert’s short-term future would be decided for him. But first came a holiday, and a gift. For winning the Milton and for graduating — he would not be returning to St Paul’s the next term — Gilbert was taken to France, his first journey out of the country. Father and son took the train to Rouen, visited some picturesque towns in the Normandy countryside and then travelled to Paris. France and the French had long been a subject of deep interest for Gilbert, and a fascination with the French Revolution was never to leave him. He liked the people of France, found them to be attractive and amusing, but detected a habit of talking too much. At Notre Dame Cathedral he was entertained by a kindly tour guide, and was touched by his willingness to compromise with the Eng
lish language. He recorded his impressions in letter form, to E.C. Bentley.

  A foreign town is a very funny sight with solemn old abbes in their broad brims and black robes and sashes and fiery bronzed little French soldiers staring right and left under their red caps, dotted everywhere among the blue blouses of the labourers and the white caps of the women. [And after encountering a pair of young French boys] My pater having discovered that the book they had with them was a prize at a Paris school, some slight conversation arose. Not thinking my French altogether equal to a prolonged interview, I took out a scrap of paper and began, with a fine carelessness, to draw a picture of Napoleon …

  On arriving back in England Gilbert was faced with the most difficult period of his early years. It was a time of change, and here was a young man who was always more comfortable with evolution rather than revolution, no matter how much he waxed lyrical about great movements forward or backward. The first few months in London are vaguely recorded, with little more known than what was noted at the meetings of the Junior Debating Club. On 16th December 1892 a meeting argued over the very existence of itself: “A constitutional discussion was held regarding the future of the Club. This was opened by the Secretary, who remarked on the necessity for holding such a discussion, as members were already beginning to leave St Paul’s School, and in a year or so more would be scattered over different parts of the world.” The Debater closed its pages. The final issue appeared in the February of 1893, and announced that “With this number the Debater ceases to exist. Regretful though we may be at losing our Magazine, we may still claim that enthusiasm which prompted us to start it, and a belief that the idea which it was intended to embody, has been helped rather than hindered by its championship.” It was a depressing day for Gilbert.

  His sense of isolation began to grow again, a feeling which had entirely left him since the beginning of his friendship with Bentley and the others in the J.D.C. Unsure as to where his real talents lay, he knew he had a contribution to make to the world but had no idea where, or why. All he could realistically see about him was a break-up of contentment and joy. He hadn’t questioned the life-style of debate, walks with good friends, comfortable argument and the warm safety of home and companions. He was confused, facing a painful experience without any weapons to fight back. He turned to his notebooks, treasure chests of revelation and explanation. His drawings in these are expertly crafted, sensitive and sanguine at times, horribly grotesque and dark at others. At all times they are clever and worked with an easy expertise. He was to turn to them more and more in the coming, unhappy months.

  In his Autobiography he would write: “I deal here with the darkest and most difficult part of my task; the period of youth which is full of doubts and morbidities and temptations; and which, though in my case mainly subjective, has left in my mind for ever a certitude upon the objective solidity of Sin …” The notebooks reveal this. Devils and goblins rival each other in degrees of terror, angels join combat with soldiers and quite lovely depictions of the Virgin Mary. And there are shapeless creatures as well, undefined in form or gender, looking out of the pages in wonderment and fear. He was writing in the books too. Often only half sentences or a few words would be recorded, sometimes the beginnings of novels, poems and diatribes on any matter which sparked off an interest or a thought. There are no dates on the exercise books, and the only reliable, or almost reliable, method of placing them in any chronological order is to judge by the handwriting of the author. Gilbert’s St Paul’s writing was always accomplished in a large, untidy, scribbled type of scrawl, readily announcing his outward style. He later wrote in a form of italic, neat but sometimes difficult to read. The notebooks written up until the age of around seventeen, are full of flying dreams and typical teenage attitudes. He did write “Half-hours in Hades, an Elementary Handbook of Demonology,” but it has no real bearing on his inner pain and suffering which was to ensue. There were verses as well, some clumsy and sloppy, others not so.

  O strange old shadow among us, O sweet-voiced mystery,

  Now in the hour of question I lift my voice unto thee.

  Stricken, unstable the creeds and old things fall and are not.

  The temples shake and groan and whisper we know not what.

  The shapes and the forms of worship wherein the divine was seen

  Are scattered and cast away on the fields of the things that have been …

  In the notebooks which cover the following year and a half certain themes appear again and again. People with hands bound behind them, awaiting punishment, or pleasure. Knights in armour gallop across the page, ladies in distress cry out for help and revenge. Naked figures are tormented and whipped, murdered and chastised. The sexual motive is obvious, though to dwell too much on this obscures the reality. If Gilbert were not undergoing that intricate transformation of sexuality at this stage in his life there would be a problem; the fact that he was experiencing conflicting emotions and desires is healthy and understandable. That a young man thinks of sadistic, or masochistic, images during his private times has little influence on his sexual maturity, any more than a schoolboy who sniggers at a softly pornographic magazine in the playground will be obsessed with hard pornography as an adult. What was far more damaging was the loneliness which he was to face as a result of his educational future.

  In the 1890s a young man fresh out of public school who desired a career requiring an education, or a wealthy teenager who simply looked for three or four years of learning in beautiful and comfortable surroundings, would opt for a place at Oxford or Cambridge. This was what the majority of Gilbert’s close friends did, along with thousands of others. For a boy with a middle- or upper-class background and a good brain it was natural, expected. Not so Gilbert. He was to attend art school, and learn the trade to which his father was so devoted. Edward Chesterton had influenced his son. It was a close, loving relationship and Gilbert’s arm was not twisted, no bumptious pressure was brought to bear. If there is criticism of Edward Chesterton it must be in the realm of the child living out the parent’s hopes. Edward was dedicated to his art, and would have much preferred to have studied and become a professional than waste early years in a business and then indulge himself as a gifted amateur. Gilbert may have been fired with the control of words, but he could also control the pencil. It was not an evil decision, but it was a short-sighted one.

  He first studied at a small art college in St John’s Wood which boasted a fine reputation and called itself “Calderon’s,” after its leading light and teacher. Less an art college, more a band of artists with like-minded tastes and aspirations, it was known locally and amongst the artistic community as the “St John’s Wood Clique,” and its reputation did not outlive its existence. A number of practical jokes took place, and from the cartoons in Gilbert’s notebooks no alteration in style as an artist is apparent; work was seldom allowed to interfere with play. In the middle of 1893 the Chestertons took a holiday in the lowlands of Scotland. Gilbert attempted the game of golf, and was confirmed in his view that sport was not his particular vocation. He wrote to Bentley, as always. “I am enjoying myself very much down here, though our time is drawing to a close. One of the nicest things about it is the way you mix with strangers and the absence of the cursed class feeling which makes me feel as if we were all humbugs. Whenever I feel tired of writing the novel [he had been working on this project for some time] I sally out in the evenings and play with children on the sands: coastguards’ and visitors’ children alike, except that the coastguards’ are rather the more refined. Our Christian names are known all over the sands, and we behave generally like the inhabitants of one sandy nursery.” It is a description of “merrily doing nothing.” For Gilbert was drifting without purpose, and purpose was just what his contemporaries had in abundance.

  Friends wrote to him from Oxford University, enthusiastic and fully in love with their colleges and studies. Agonising to Gilbert was the information that “a younger brother” of the J.D.C. had b
een formed at Oxford, obviously without Gilbert. Had then he been necessary in the debating club at St Paul’s? He was evidently not necessary now. The world was continuing without him, the life which he had enjoyed so much still moved along, but without Gilbert. The emptiness which this made him feel was not unlike that felt by a lover after a broken romance, the belief that for the other person everything continued with the same gusto and warmth, whereas for the lover all was broken and destroyed. He had built a pyramid of values, with the J.D.C. and his friends, particularly Bentley, placed at the very top. When they suddenly disappeared the rest became meaningless, without merit or reason. He had no faith at the time, no spiritual lifeline, and no telescope of ambition to maintain his mental health. There was too little to share, too few to share with. Bentley wrote from Merton

  You will be charmed to hear that the Human Club exists … It was decided that it would be well to discuss things, and read papers, until it got homogeneous enough to come together for the fun of the thing alone, like the J.D.C. — one of the surest indicia of the remarkable effect of that club on its members, don’t you think? We are asking people to join whom we like, no intellectual standard, I needn’t say. We come to bring not the etc., but and so forth. The title exercised us much. Vernède suggested the Whitmen; ruled out as being of an exclusive sound. Oldershaw wanted the S.U. (Some of Us) or the Hugger Mugger Club … very Eighteenth-Century. I suggested the Tinkling Symbols. Vernède said the Cosmic Club was rather good. I had a long series of names, among them the Christ and Culture, the Anti-Philistines, and finally, by a sudden flash of memory, the Human Club … By the way, will you write to Vernède and tell him there is a God? He’s getting frightfully dogmatic in his Agnosticism and wants somebody to unreason with him on the point.