precious, too dainty, to knock about like the other things.’
He shook his head. ‘She’s not going to stay here,’ he said. ‘I made her
for a friend who has been very kind to me.’
That was like Masefield, I thought, to spend weeks and weeks of labour
to please ‘a friend who had been kind to him.’
* * * * *
Anybody more different from Masefield than the Poet Laureate, Robert
Bridges, it would be difficult to imagine. One was always longing to
put him on a pedestal, to thrust a sceptre into his hand, and a crown
on his head, and then to wait for the lightning. A most leonine and
noble gentleman. Even when he wandered round the streets of Oxford clad
in shabby knickerbockers, with a large, dirty satchel full of books
on his bent back, it was impossible to forget either his great height
or the immense head, modelled after Meredith, with a snowy beard and
silvery locks, flowing with just that touch of abandon which made one
wonder if, after all, Nature had not been a little improved upon.
Just as Masefield’s favourite word was Beauty, so, according to
popular tradition, Bridges’ favourite word was Damn. We all know his
celebrated retort to Horatio Bottomley, who had suggested in the House
of Commons that in view of the exceedingly limited output of the Poet
Laureate, it might be advisable to grant him, instead of his salary,
the ancient Poet Laureate’s privilege of an annual cask of wine, in
order that his tongue might be a little loosened. Bridges, in reply to
all these criticisms, merely wrote and said, ‘I don’t care a damn.’
It was typical of him, but most of us thought that the criticism was
justified, for, at the time, there _was_ a war on, he _was_ Poet
Laureate, and he _wasn’t_ writing a word.
The only time I ever heard Bridges deliver himself of this word was at
a tea-party at his house on Boar’s Hill. He damned the Press, he damned
the university, he damned, also, more than one of the modern poets whom
we were so ill-advised as to mention. When I mentioned Masefield he was
most generous to him, which made me realize how little truth there was
in the story which some wit had sent round the university at the time,
concerning Bridges’ criticism of Masefield. However, though fictitious,
it is amusing enough to recall.
‘“Masefield’s Sonnets”?’ he is alleged to have said. ‘Ah! yes. Very
nice. Pure Shakespeare. Masefield’s “Reynard the Fox”? Very nice too.
Pure Chaucer. Masefield’s “Everlasting Mercy”? Mm. Yes. Pure Masefield.’
The other literary celebrity who at this time had chosen Oxford for a
home was the Irish poet, W. B. Yeats. Yeats always seemed to me to move
in a mist.
He was like ‘men as trees walking.’ He certainly did not do it on
purpose, as Bridges may have done. He would wander along the street
with his head in the air and his hands behind his back, always wearing
an overcoat, even in the warmest weather, with a long loose bow, and a
mouth perpetually open. To walk behind him was in itself an adventure,
for when he crossed the street he never took the faintest notice of any
traffic that might be bearing down upon him, but dawdled over oblivious
of the stream of cars, bicycles, horses and motor-lorries that were
rushing past.
A lovable man, Yeats, but, I should imagine, that some people would
have found him a trying fellow to live with. When I left my college
rooms I went to a divine old house with a rickety staircase, and low
ceilings, which looked out on to one of the fairest views in Oxford,
the Sheldonian library. To this house after a little time, drifted
Yeats, complete with his wife and his baby. It was a time when the
servant problem was at its height, and occasionally, if the house was
more than usually under-staffed, all the undergraduates and other
occupants of rooms, including Yeats himself, used to gather to eat a
communal luncheon.
On the first of these luncheons, Yeats arrived very late, and after
absently toying for a few moments with a little cold asparagus, turned
to me and said:
‘Were you at the Union last night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, what did you think of it?’
It was difficult to say what one thought of it. The debate had centred
round the ever-green subject of Ireland. There had been a great deal
of bad temper, and not very many arguments. Before I could reply Yeats
said:
‘I thought it was terrible. The appalling ignorance of English Youth
about anything remotely connected with Ireland. I was astonished. Why,
they don’t know the first thing about us.’
He darted a limp stick of asparagus into the open mouth, looked away
for a moment and then said:
‘Why can’t they understand that the Irish people are Irish, and not
English? Why can’t they realize that over there they’ve got a race of
peasants who believe in fairies, and such-like, and are quite right
to do so? Why, I’ve seen myself the saucers of milk which the Irish
peasants have put outside their doors for the pixies to drink.’
He talked absently for a little longer, and then said, in a dreamy
voice:
‘_If the English could only learn to believe in fairies, there wouldn’t
ever have been any Irish problem._’
However, Yeats was not made entirely from dreams. He had a good
business streak in him as well. He knew to a ‘T’ the best market for
his poems, although like all poets he also knew from bitter experience
that verse as a means of livelihood was impossible.
‘America pays best for poetry,’ he said to me once; ‘but even America
pays badly. They will give you twice as much for a poem in America as
in England. But for an article they will give you three times as much.
I wonder why?’
* * * * *
Among the most entertaining people in Oxford at this time (and, I
may add, among the most entertaining people in Europe), were the
brothers Sitwell. I suppose the Sitwell trio--Osbert, Sacheverell, and
sister Edith, have been talked about as much as any literary family
in England. Apart from their merits, they have had a great advantage
over most writers to whom publicity is not distasteful--they possess
a label. A label is tremendously important if you want to impress
yourself on the British public. It seems that there are a certain
number of niches in the contemporary temple of Fame, and that unless
you fit into one of these niches you will never be recognized. There
is a niche labelled ‘Paradox Mongers,’ another niche labelled ‘Psychic
Storytellers’ and a whole series of geographical niches labelled
‘Dartmoor Scribes,’ ‘Irish Prophets,’ ‘Sussex Poets,’ ‘East End
Recorders,’ ‘Yorkshire Romancers,’ etc. If by any chance, a describer
of Sussex gorse strayed into the Dartmoor heather, he or she would be
disowned. If Mr. Michael Arlen were to get into the wrong omnibus and
be observed alighting guiltily at Selfridges, his reputation would be
tarnished beyond hope. And if a man who had gained a reputation as a
writer of ghost-stories began to make paradoxes, the result, as they
say in the Bible, would be confusion.
The particular niche which the Sitwells occupy is that of ‘Chelsea de
Luxe.’ It is a very definite and not unprofitable niche. At the time
of which I am writing nobody was inclined to take them seriously. In
fact, we used to think that if the Sitwells’ papa had been anything
else but a baronet with fierce ginger hair, if they themselves had
dropped their h’s instead of dropping their rhymes, their united
efforts would not have created much of a stir, and that _Wheels_ (the
only true schoolboys’ magazine published outside a school) would have
been passed over in comparative silence. Since then, however, Osbert
has written some of the finest short stories in the English (or the
French) language, and Sacheverell has produced a work of real genius in
_Southern Baroque Art_.
Sacheverell was ‘up’ at Oxford at the same time as myself, and
introduced a very pleasant flavor of Bohemianism--(there really is
no other word)--into those dingy quarters. He hung his rooms with
drawings by Picasso and Matisse, which were the subject of lewd comment
among the more athletic members of the college. There was one drawing
by--I believe, Picasso--called Salome, which represented a skinny and
exceedingly revolting old lady prancing in a loathsome attitude before
certain generously-paunched old men who looked like the sort of people
you meet at a Turkish Bath when your luck is out. One day a certain
charming don--(an ardent Roman Catholic)--strolled into Sacheverell’s
rooms, saw the picture, paled slightly and then asked him what it was
all about.
Sacheverell said something about ‘line.’
And then the don let go. ‘Line,’ he said, was the excuse for every
rotten piece of work produced by modern artists. If a leg was out
of drawing, or a face obviously impossible, if the whole design was
grotesque and ridiculous, the excuse was always ‘line.’ And he stamped
out of the room leaving untouched the very excellent lunch which
Sacheverell had prepared for him.
But Sacheverell stood his ground in all his conflicts with the
authorities. At the end of every term a terrible ordeal takes place
known as ‘collections,’ or more colloquially, ‘collecers,’ which
consists of an examination on the work done during term. When
Sacheverell came up for his viva voce, he was greeted with black faces
and remarks of that strange and curdled quality which, in academicians,
passes for sarcasm. ‘As it is obviously superfluous to comment on your
knowledge--which is non-existent--we are only left with your style, Mr.
Sitwell,’ said one of the examiners. ‘You appear to write very much in
the manner of Ouida.’
‘That,’ remarked Sacheverell calmly, ‘is my aim.’
I am not surprised that Sacheverell describes himself in _Who’s Who_ as
‘Educated Eton College, Balliol College, Oxford. Mainly self-educated.’
Osbert, Sacheverell’s brother, is the wittiest of God’s
creatures--(forgive me, Osbert, for that expression)--whom I have
ever met. He has infused even more wit than Sacheverell into _Who’s
Who_--that badly constructed work of fiction. As far as I know, the
editor of _Who’s Who_ is not aware of the pranks which Osbert has
played in the 1925 edition. May I enlighten him?
Take first that wonderful phrase ‘Fought in Flanders and farmed
with father.’ One day I am going to write a beautiful fugue in F to
accompany that phrase, but at the moment it is only necessary to call
attention to the source from which it sprang. For that, you must cast
your eye to the preceding paragraph, which is devoted to Osbert’s papa.
There you will read: ‘Being unfit for service, farmed over 2,000 acres,
producing great quantities of wheat and potatoes.’
Take again ‘Founded Rememba Bomba League in 1924.’ It sounds so exactly
like the sort of thing which most of those who appear in _Who’s Who_
would do. There is no such organization as the ‘Rem....’ No, I won’t
be quite as obvious as that. But I might explain that the telegraphic
address ‘Pauperloo,’ which appears at the bottom of the paragraph,
being interpreted, means ‘Pauper Lunatic Asylum.’
‘Deeply interested in any manifestation of sport.’ One has a feeling
that Osbert’s page has got muddled with that of Lord Lonsdale, or Dame
(Clara) Butt. Until finally, one is informed that his recreations are:
‘Regretting the Bourbons, repartee, and Tu Quoque.’
Repartee, most certainly. I have laughed as much with Osbert as with
anybody in the world. I shall never forget his reply to a certain
publisher, who had been endeavouring, unsuccessfully, to shield the
body of W. J. Turner from the darts of scorn which Osbert was aiming
at it. ‘Personally,’ said the publisher (and when people begin with
that word one always knows they have nothing to say), ‘personally, I
find W. J. Turner rather a lovable person.’
Osbert put his head on one side and smiled. ‘I know what it is,’ he
said, with an air of discovery, ‘you used to keep tadpoles.’
He once told me, with that perfect modesty which his enemies find so
disarming, that he gave his superior authorities more trouble during
the War than any other officer they had ever known. I suppose it _must_
have been a little trying to the colonel who came up to him and asked
if he were fond of horses to be told ‘No. But I adore giraffes.’ And it
must have been positively exasperating to the outraged military police
to find him, an officer in the Grenadiers, carrying on an intimate
conversation with a very private soldier in a very public place. Even
worse, when at the subsequent cross-examination, the private soldier
turned out to be Epstein (whose taste in birds differs so strangely
from that of the British public).
He began a naughty movement during the War to urge that all those who
had served in France and had no desire to serve again should first
be voluntarily denationalized and then compulsorily deported. It
never came to anything. But in spite of its failure, he survived, and
still walks from time to time down the grey pavements of Piccadilly,
negligently tripping up an occasional poetaster or Royal Academician
who has the temerity to cross his path.
One more story. It is set on the said grey pavements, and Osbert was
walking over them with another man who was staying with him. There
came into sight a mutual acquaintance, whom we will call Lady C. Now
Lady C. knew perfectly well that Osbert’s friend was staying with him,
but she calmly ignored Osbert and said to the friend, ‘Do come and dine
with me on Friday.’ The invitation was accepted. They passed on.
The day of the dinner arrived, and with it, a postcard from Lady C. on
Osbert’s breakfast table saying, ‘I should be so glad if you would come
and dine to-night as well as Mr. --’
This was too much. Osbert went grimly to the telephone.
‘Hullo? Is that Lady C.? I’m sorry, but I shan’t be able to dine
to-night. But listen.... Will you lunch with me last Thursday?’
Yes--England needs its Sitwells.
CHAPTER FIVE
In which Mr. G. K. Chesterton reveals his Fears and his Hopes
Among the questions which will present themselves to the future
literary historian, none will be more difficult to answer than ‘Was Mr.
G. K. Chesterton afraid of his wife?’ There are several passages in
his books which indicate that the answer will be in the affirmative,
and among them one might quote that charming essay from _Tremendous
Trifles_ which is called ‘On Lying in Bed.’ He confesses to an
overwhelming desire, while lying in bed, to paint the ceiling with a
long brush. ‘But even,’ he adds, ‘my proposal to paint on it with the
bristly end of a broom has been discouraged--_never mind by whom_; by a
person debarred from all political rights.’
The first time I ever asked myself this question was in Cornmarket
Street at Oxford, on a windy night in May. G. K. Chesterton was
alighting, with a certain amount of difficulty, from a taxi-cab, and as
soon as he had safely emerged, he stood in the gutter, his mackintosh
flapping loudly in the wind, while he assisted a charming and
diminutive figure in a cloak. The diminutive figure was his wife. But
even in these strange circumstances, with the wind tying her cloak into
knots, and the rain-spots slashing against her veil like cold bullets,
she seemed completely mistress of the situation of the moment, which
was ‘When should the car come back to fetch them?’
Chesterton turned to me--(for he had come to debate with us at the
Union)--‘When _shall_ we want it, do you think?’ he said, a little
pathetically.
Before I could reply the diminutive figure said, in a sweet, firm voice:
‘When will the thing be over?’ (a great deal of feminine contempt in
that sentence).
‘At eleven. But there’s a sort of reception afterwards.’
She immediately turned to the driver. ‘Be here at eleven.’
‘But ...’ began Chesterton.
‘And,’ said Mrs. Chesterton, ‘is this the way in? It’s raining, and my
husband has a cold.’
So we meekly followed her to the debating hall.
One has so often been told that Chesterton is an enormous,
elephantine creature, that the actual sight of him is really a little
disappointing. He _is_ a big man, of course, but not as big as all
that. If it were not for his cloak, and his longish hair, and the bow
which he sometimes wears, one would not say that he was an exceptional
figure in any way. It seemed to me that he took a secret joy in
making himself as large as possible, like some little boy who stuffs
his overcoat with cushions. G.K.C. has such a passionate love of the
grotesque that if it were suddenly ordained that he should be four
times his present size he would give a whoop of joy.
Yes. The more one thinks of it--the more it seems that he _did_
purposely accentuate his largeness. His mackintosh was the mackintosh
of a man several sizes larger than he. The wide-brimmed Homburg hat
seemed specially designed to exaggerate his face. Even his glasses
could, without difficulty, have been cut in half. And I noticed that
he took a sort of impish delight, as soon as he was introduced to the
committee, of placing himself next to the Junior Librarian, a very
diminutive young man, whom he addressed as from a pinnacle, holding
himself well erect, swelling his shoulders, and even puffing his
cheeks, to improve upon the already imposing body with which nature had
provided him.
We all trooped into the debating hall, which was absolutely packed,
for Chesterton’s paradoxes are always a draw with youth. The subject
for debate was ‘That this house considers that the granting of any
further facilities for divorce will be against the true interests of
the nation,’ or words to that effect. I was speaking against this
motion (being one of those who have never seen how the interests of the
nation are served by perpetuating the union between a sane husband and
a lunatic wife, or a law-abiding wife and a murderer husband), and as
soon as my speech was over I went to the ‘Ayes’ side of the house where
Chesterton was sitting and sat beside him.
‘You shouldn’t have referred to me as eloquent,’ he said. ‘Wait till
you hear me speak. I’m not a bit eloquent. I can’t speak off the bat. I
must always have notes.’
I looked down and saw that he had a sheet of paper in his hand, on
which he had been scribbling in pencil. But the ‘notes’ were not words,
they were little pictures. A grotesque dragon had been hastily drawn
in one corner, and a tiny sketch of a very fat man in another. There
were also several comic faces, among which I recognized that of the
secretary, who was sitting with his profile to us. It was typical of
him to call these sketches his ‘notes,’ and it was even more typical
when he got up to make a very brilliant speech, that he left his notes
behind him.
I forget what he said except that it struck one as irrelevant. To hear
Chesterton speak is in itself an explanation of his writing. He pours
out his words, suddenly says something which pleases him by its touch
of fantasy, pauses, and then with a face that grows more and more
smiling and eyes that grow more and more bright, proceeds to develop
the idea, to chase it, to leap ponderously after it, so hurl paradoxes
in its wake, to circumvent it with every ingenious conceit. For
example, he said, almost in an aside, that doubtless divorce would soon
be part of the regular curriculum at Oxford, and when he had said it,
was so entranced by the prospect opening up before him, that he almost
lost his head, and ended by drawing for us a picture of the future
in which M.A. instead of meaning Master of Arts should mean ‘married
again’ and should be accompanied by the B.A., three months later, which
would mean ‘bachelor again.’
Perhaps his most vivid conversation came after the debate was all over.
When we were standing in the hall, waiting for the car, he delivered
himself of a second speech which so interested me that afterwards I
went straight home to write it down.
‘Somebody said in the debate,’ he remarked, ‘that I am the slave of
symbols, that I believed in magic, that in a ceremony or an institution
or a faith I merely examined what was on the surface and took it all
quite literally, like a peasant in the Middle Ages.
‘But it isn’t I who am the slave of symbols. It is you. I venerate the
idea which lies behind the symbol, you only venerate the empty shell.
Take this case of monarchy. Somebody remarked to-night that we had
taken away half the duties and prerogatives of the King, and that the
monarchy still remained. They went on to say that we could take away
half the duties and prerogatives of marriage, and that marriage would
still remain. Perhaps it will, but what will be the use of it?
‘Because I bow down to the sceptre, and because I take the words
“honour and obey” quite literally, you say that I am the slave of the
symbol. But I bow down to the sceptre because I believe in the power
that lies behind it. I keep to the smallest details of the marriage
service because I believe in marriage. If you believe neither in the
sceptre nor in the service, and yet bow down to them, then you are the
slave of the symbol.’
He looked away. Somebody presented him with his mackintosh. He
struggled into it, got it half on, and then, with one arm still waving
in the air he exclaimed:
‘A time will come--very soon--when you will find that you want this
ideal of marriage. You will want it as something hard and solid to
cling to in a fast dissolving society. You will want it even more
than you seem to want divorce to-day. Divorce ...’ and here, with a
sort of groan, he thrust his second arm through his mackintosh--‘the
superstition of divorce.’
The small figure of Mrs. Chesterton appeared in the doorway. She, as
usual, was quite unperturbed. The fiery words, the tangled eloquence of
the evening seemed to have passed over her unnoticed.
‘The car is here,’ she said, ‘and we are already five minutes late.’
G.K.C. shook hands hurriedly, and vanished through the door. The last I
saw of him was the flap of his mackintosh in the wind.
CHAPTER SIX
In which Mrs. Asquith behaves with characteristic Energy
Oxford at this time was a ferment of political activity. It was full of
young ex-soldiers, who considered, with pardonable presumption, that
having endured Hell for five years, they were justified in suggesting
the lines along which the New England (the Lloyd-Georgian England) was
to be remodelled. And so we formed ourselves into clubs, concocted
newspapers, wore ties varying from the noblest shade of blue to the
bloodiest tint of red, and extracted a great deal of pleasure out of it.
On the outskirts of Oxford lived Mr. and Mrs. Asquith, watching with
interested eyes this ferment of budding talent. I do not know if Mr.
Asquith ever actually said ‘Catch ’em young,’ but, to use his own
type of phraseology, he was not unaware of the advantages which might
conceivably be expected from a judicious sowing of the Liberal Seed
among mentalities still unprejudiced and alert. It was only to be
expected therefore that when I, in company with two staunch friends of
the same College, formed the Oxford University Liberal Club, he should
accept the position of President with alacrity.
As soon as the club was formed, we arranged a monster meeting in the
Oxford Town Hall, and decided that it would be rather fun to have a
thoroughly pompous dinner beforehand. We therefore invited various
celebrities, who all, to our astonishment, accepted; and when the
plans were well in hand, I departed to tell the Master’s wife of our
intentions.
Now, it has been suggested to me that the Master’s wife did not
absolutely ‘appreciate’ Mrs. Asquith. At any rate, although it was
understood that Mrs. Asquith was to dine at Balliol, there was trouble.
So much trouble, in fact, that it seemed as though the dinner could not
take place at all.
This was a dreadful situation. We had already asked Mrs. Asquith to
dine. She had already accepted. It was quite impossible to put her off.
What was the matter?
It was afterwards suggested to me, by an ingenious scholar of Balliol,
that the college authorities feared that Mrs. Asquith would have a
disruptive influence on callow youth. A foolish reason, of course. If
we wanted, we could have asked Mrs. Asquith to dine with us in our
rooms on every day of the week, Sundays included. She would not have
accepted, but that is another story.