10th. A soul, hitherto idle and omnivorous but now happy enough to be ashamed of itself.
11th. A body, equally idle and quite equally omnivorous, absorbing tea, coffee, claret, sea-water and oxygen to its own perfect satisfaction. It is happiest swimming, I think, the sea being about a convenient size.
12th. A Heart — mislaid somewhere.
And that is about all the property of which an inventory can be made at present. After all, my tastes are stoically simple. A straw hat, a stick, a box of matches and some of his own poetry. What else does man require …?
It has never been fully explained why Frances destroyed so much of the poetry and the romantic notes which she received from Gilbert. Part of her reason was the grief which followed his death; but material was also lost or thrown away before Gilbert’s death. The more personal revelations in the love letters were only for the eyes of Gilbert and Frances, and not for the inquisitive mentality of posterity; Frances had no intention of letting future generations dwell on her secrets and her husband’s most heartfelt desires.
Nevertheless, some of the writings have survived, and illuminate with at least a ray of light the tracks of their journey together. Gilbert would often hide his true feelings behind a mask of humour, or diminish their intensity by placing them in the middle of a light-hearted verse or boyish giggle. He employed euphemism. Chivalry in the abstract was not a stranger to Gilbert, but the reality of winning another heart proved a different matter. In the early days of the courtship he built up a transparently ridiculous scenario, believing that by showing equal affection — or what he took to be equal affection — to Frances’s sisters as well as to her, he would be able to advance his suit without the least hint of embarrassment.
His early poems to Frances were seldom forthright, and often coy to the point of childishness. He occasionally managed to please both himself and his love
’Twixt Bedford Park and Westminster
Oft would a lady hurry,
Inside she was divine and deep
And outside green and furry.
The golden armoury of God
In truth was round her buckled.
The son of man that is a worm
He blew his nose and chuckled.
For weary weeks and maddening months
In sunny days and shady
That amateurish Satan bored
That green and brown young lady.
And he would slay the cynic thought
That whispered Ver non semper
Viret — The spring will lose its crown
And she will lose her temper.
In the notebook, often snatched from a cupboard the moment he returned home from visiting Frances, would be more colourful, more honest recordings of his sentiments; the poems written only for his eyes also tended to be of a higher quality, as though the thought of such an important and exclusive audience marred his verses for Frances. Two connected but distinct loves were taking place. One involved Gilbert’s active pursuit of Frances and his strategy for gaining her. The other was for a woman who, though she happened to be Frances Blogg, was in reality a product of Gilbert’s own imagination and desire; his dream partner would adapt to fit Miss Blogg, and vice versa. The twin romances taking place in Gilbert’s mind would frequently show themselves almost simultaneously. On a Monday he would write of his ideal woman, the stuff of teenage longings and perfect balance between man and woman. On Tuesday morning he would compose a sonnet to Frances, the flesh-and-blood reality of his love life. He perceived no conflict, perhaps there was none. In a notebook poem entitled “Madonna Mia” he wrote
About Her whom I have not yet met
I wonder what she is doing
Now, at this sunset hour,
Working perhaps, or playing, worrying or laughing,
Is she making tea, or singing a song, or writing, or praying, or reading?
Is she thoughtful, as I am thoughtful?
Is she looking now out of the window
As I am looking out of the window?
And in “To My Lady,” written a short while later
God made you very carefully,
He set a star apart for it,
He stained it green and gold with fields
And aureoled it with sunshine;
He peopled it with kings, people, republics,
And so made you, very carefully.
All nature is God’s book, filled with
His rough sketches for you.
The poetry continued apace. When Gilbert had finally made up his mind to ask Frances for her hand in marriage he experienced a sudden attack of anxiety. He worked through it, as ever, by thinking and writing long and hard about his future. Serenity returned to him, and he celebrated his decision with a much longer poem, fully prepared and constructed, taking time and wine. He called it “In The Balance”
A poet scrawled upon a page of verse
Wherein a priest and king battled: whose bones
Are grown to grass for eight dead centuries
The words that through the dark and through the day
Rang in my ears.
Even as Becket, graced
By perilous pleasure of the Angevin —
Cried out “Am I the man for cross of Christ?”
In the vast fane filled with one presence dark
That spoke and shook the stars … “Thou art the Man.”
So do I stand.
A mitre and a cross!
God’s blood —! A cross is but a pair of sticks,
A mitre is a fool’s cap out of school,
Candles are fireworks — fling them in the street —
Why should he fear to fill so poor a place?
When I stand up ’neath seven staring heavens,
Naked and arrogant and insolent
And ask for the crown jewels of the Lord.
Lord I have been a Waster of the sun
A sleeper on the highways of the world
A garnerer of thistles and of weeds
A hewer of waste wood that no man buys
A lover of things violent, things perverse
Grotesque and grinning and inscrutable
A savage and a clown — and there she stands
Straight as the living lily of the Lord.
O thy world-wisdom speak — am I the man?
Lo: I am man, even the son of man
Thou knowest these things: in my blood’s heritage
Is every sin that shrieked in Babylon,
All tales untold and lost that reddened Heaven
In falling fire above the monstrous domes
Of cities damned and done with … there she goes
White in the living sunlight on the lawn,
Alive and bearing flowers … My God … my God,
Am I the man?
Strong keeper of the world,
O King thou knowest man of woman born,
How weak as water and how strong as fire,
Judge Thou O Lord for I am sick of love,
And may not judge: …
Comparisons between his love for a woman and the martyrdom of Thomas Becket may appear to be rhetorical, even presumptuous. He considered his sacrifice, his commitment, to be that of vocation. Love was not in question, but a lifelong partnership with Frances was a matter of frightening proportions. The poem articulated those fears, which were overcome. Once his future was decided he felt a huge sense of release, of liberation. He could now run, tumble, into marriage.
The actual spot chosen by Gilbert to propose to Frances was, and is, one of the most beautiful and mysterious locations in all of London. In a warm summer lunch-hour in 1898 Gilbert met Frances from work, and they walked together to St James’s Park. It is perhaps the finest small park in the world, with a fairy-tale-like view of Buckingham Palace at one end, the red, royal road of the Mall running alongside it, Whitehall and Horse Guard’s Parade to one side, and the magnificent Admiralty Arch at the other. In the 1890s it was not uncommon to see a
cabinet minister hurrying through the Park’s green paths from his ministry of state towards Downing Street for a prime-ministerial consultation, or a royal escort on horseback out for an early afternoon exercise. The Park vibrated with romance; with its fountains, young couples, ripples of importance and glamour. On a small bridge near the middle of St James’s it is possible to stand so as to see only the tall towers of Whitehall, the higher trees at the edge of the Park and the cascading water forced up from the lake. Here the London of times gone can be imagined, and no traffic — either motorised or horse-drawn — is visible. In this charming place Gilbert asked Frances if she would marry him. Her reply was swift, and certain. Eleven hours later on that same night the sleepless Gilbert wrote his new fiancée a letter.
You will, I am sure, forgive one so recently appointed to the post of Emperor of Creation, for having had a great deal to do tonight before he had time to do the only thing worth doing. I have just dismissed with costs a case between two planets and am still keeping a comet (accused of furious driving) in the ante-chamber.
Little as you may suppose it at the first glance, I have discovered that my existence until today has been, in truth, passed in the most intense gloom. Comparatively speaking, Pain, Hatred, Despair and Madness have been the companions of my days and nights. Nothing could woo a smile from my sombre and forbidding visage. Such (comparatively speaking) had been my previous condition. Intrinsically speaking it has been very jolly. But I never knew what being happy meant before tonight. Happiness is not at all smug: it is not peaceful or contented, as I have always been until today. Happiness brings not peace but a sword; it shakes you like rattling dice; it breaks your speech and darkens your sight. Happiness is stronger than oneself and sets its palpable foot upon one’s neck.
When I was going home tonight upon an omnibus — a curious thing came upon me. In flat contradiction to my normal physical habit and for the first time since I was about seven, I felt myself in a kind of fierce proximity to tears. If you knew what a weird feeling it was to me you would have some idea of the state I am in.
Another thing I have discovered is that if there is such a thing as falling in love with anyone over again, I did it in St James’s Park. (St James seems to be our patron saint somehow — Hall — Station — Park, etc.) I think it is no exaggeration to say that I never saw you in my life without thinking that I underrated you the time before. But today was something more than usual: you went up seven heavens at a run. I will tell you one thing about the male character. You can always tell the real love from the slight by the fact that the latter weakens at the moment of success; the former is quadrupled. Really and truly, dearest, I feel as if I never thought you so brave and beautiful as I do now. Before I was only groping (frantically indeed) for my own soul.
I will not say that I am unworthy of all this, for that suggests that some-one might be thought worthy of it. But this love is not bought, dear. Even mine you could not have bought with all your virtues. Somewhere in Addison’s tragedy of Cato (which you read every morning in the train) that person is made to say — “’Tis not in mortals to command success, but we’ll do more, Sempronius, we’ll deserve it.” As an epigram it is well enough, but as a philosophy I think it most impudent, and if applied to success in things like ours, downright indecent. Allow me to express my attitude in this amendment — “’Tis not in mortals to deserve Miss Blogg, but we’ll do more, Sempronius — we’ll obtain her.” Which strikes me as much more humble and reverent — and also much more fun. But Cato was never in love and was an old fool — which is, in fact, the same thing.
I cannot write connectedly or explain my position now; we will have sensible conversation later. I am overwhelmed with an enormous sense of my own worthlessness — which is very nice and makes me dance and sing — neither with great technical charm. I shall of course see you tomorrow. Should you then be inclined to spurn me, pray do so. I can’t think why you don’t but I suppose you know your own business best.
People are shouting for me to go to bed, and they ought to be listened to. It will be their turn to listen soon. Don’t worry about your Mother; as long as we keep right she is sure to be with us. God bless you, my dear girl.
Indeed it would be the turn of other people to listen soon. Because Gilbert and Frances decided to delay the announcement of their engagement for a while; and neither of their mothers had indicated any enthusiasm for the marriage in the past. It was Gilbert’s responsibility to break the news, and as responsibility was never his strongest quality procrastination drew on and on. Frances was at times upset, other times angry at the hiatus between their private decision and public acknowledgment. “Please tell your mother soon,” she wrote. “Tell her I am not so silly as to expect her to think me good enough, but really I will try to be.”
Marie Chesterton had witnessed her first son’s attitude to crushes and childish affection and infatuation in the past, and was convinced that the entire affair with Frances was based upon similar lines. She had expected a marriage between Gilbert and Annie Firmin, and was firmly in support of such a bond. She did not see a grown man when she looked at untidy, short-sighted Gilbert; only an over-grown boy, full of play and pleasantries, but not a suitable husband or father. During a family holiday at Felixstowe Gilbert took the plunge, but in his own particular style felt the water inch by inch. Instead of speaking to his mother he wrote to her, despite her being in the same seaside house where they were staying. He explained his actions in the first paragraph of the letter by saying that by discovering the news of the engagement in letter form she would have time and opportunity to dwell on the matter, before replying. He went on
I am going to tell you the whole of a situation in which I believe I have acted rightly, though I am not absolutely certain, and to ask for your advice on it. It was a somewhat complicated one, and I repeat that I do not think I could rightly have acted otherwise, but if I were the greatest fool in the three kingdoms and had made nothing but a mess of it there is one person I should always turn to and trust. Mothers know more of their son’s idiocies than other people can, and this has been peculiarly true in your case. I have always rejoiced at this, and not been ashamed of it: this has always been true and always will be. These things are easier written than said, but you know it is true, don’t you?
I am inexpressibly anxious that you should give me credit for having done my best, and for having constantly had in mind the way in which you would be affected by the letter I am now writing. I do hope you will be pleased. [Such preambles when writing to his mother, and often when talking to her about matters of importance where he knew she might disagree, are especially defensive to modern eyes and minds. Gilbert’s relationship with his mother was particularly close, she was a woman of strength and character, and it was an age when filial loyalty and respect was expected.]
About eight years ago, you made a remark — this may show you that if we “jeer” at your remarks, we remember them. The remark applied to the hypothetical young lady with whom I should fall in love and took the form of saying “If she is good, I shan’t mind who she is.” I don’t know how many times I said that over to myself in the last two or three days in which I have decided on this letter.
Do not be frightened; or suppose that anything sensational or final has occurred. I am not married, my dear mother, neither am I engaged. [The fear he had for his mother is clearly on display; he was engaged, and was telling a lie, albeit a small one — a highly unusual act for Gilbert.] You are called to the council of chiefs very early in its deliberations. If you don’t mind I will tell you, briefly, the whole story.
You are, I think, the shrewdest person for seeing things whom I ever knew: consequently I imagine that you do not think that I go down to Bedford Park every Sunday for the sake of the scenery. I should not wonder if you know nearly as much about the matter as I can tell in a letter. Suffice it to say, however briefly (for neither of us care much for gushing: this letter is not on Mrs Ratcliffe lines), that the fir
st half of my time of acquaintance with the Bloggs was spent in enjoying a very intimate, but quite breezy and Platonic friendship with Frances Blogg, reading, talking and enjoying life together, having great sympathies on all subjects; and the second half in making the thrilling, but painfully responsible discovery that Platonism, on my side, had not the field by any means to itself. That is how we stand now. No one knows, except her family and yourself.
My dearest mother, I am sure you are at least not unsympathetic. Indeed we love each other more than we shall either of us ever be able to say. I have refrained from sentiment in this letter — for I don’t think you like it very much. But love is a very different thing from sentiment and you will never laugh at that. I will not say that you are sure to like Frances, for all young men say that to their mothers, quite naturally, and their mothers never believe them, also, quite naturally. Besides, I am so confident, I should like you to find her out for yourself. She is, in reality, very much the sort of woman you like, what is called, I believe, “a Woman’s Woman,” very humorous, inconsequent and sympathetic and defiled with no offensive exuberance of good health.
He ended the letter by explaining that he had thought of little else but Frances and his mother for the past week; and then thanked her for the cup of cocoa she had just handed to him.
Gilbert had stage-managed the announcement — the hour, the means, the delivery — so as to minimise any risk of an argument. His mother’s precise reaction is not known, because neither Gilbert nor Cecil recorded it. Could it be that the anger of her reply made such a recollection too painful to put down on paper? Frances was not informed of her prospective mother-in-law’s response in writing, and the engagement was not seriously questioned by the Chesterton family. We can only assume that parental permission was granted. More than that, Edward Chesterton always had a special place in his affections for Frances. He detected her sense of loneliness when in the middle of the exuberant Chesterton clan and endeavoured to compensate for his wife’s lack of warmth. Both Cecil Chesterton and his future wife disliked Frances, the former not understanding her at all, the latter being vindictive at times towards a gentle, loving woman. Marie Louise never grew to like or love Frances, a continuous source of pain and confusion for Gilbert.
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