Literary Giants Literary Catholics

by Joseph Pearce

  Although both biographies were enjoyable and sympathetic, Ingrams’ bore the mark of the tried and tested journalist, while Wolfe’s bore the stamp of the true and trusty scholar. Ingrams waxed eloquently and entertainingly while barely paying lip service to scholarly standards of annotation and source citation; Wolfe wrote well, and with equal eloquence, without ever compromising the highest standards of scholarship. Ingrams was somewhat sketchy in his coverage of the full panorama of Muggeridge’s multifaceted life, providing good coverage of some periods but inadequately patchy coverage of others; Wolfe covered every period with detailed dexterity and wove them all together into a perfectly proportioned tapestry. It is, therefore, a real boon for twentieth-century literary scholarship that ISI Books has resurrected Wolfe’s wonderful work.

  Wolfe sets the tone (if the obscure Irish pun can be forgiven!) in the very opening paragraph of the first chapter.

  In 1903, the year Malcolm Muggeridge was born, George Bernard Shaw published his play, Man and Superman. Malcolm’s father, H. T. Muggeridge, would boast to his friends that he had published his own Superman in 1903. . . . H. T.’s bon mot. . . concealed a world of hopes and ambitions for his son. It foreshadowed nearly all of the conflicts and tensions that would be played out in Malcolm’s life.

  In these few lines, Wolfe succeeds in setting the scene for the whole of the life he is about to present to the reader. He sets the scene not merely physically but metaphysically. As Wolfe informs us, Shaw was not only “the leading socialist intellectual of the time”, he also “symbolized everything that H. T. fervently admired”. Shaw was the hero of Muggeridge’s father’s generation. He was the prophet of the Nietzschean notion of the superman. The young Muggeridge was born into a world that idolized the myth of “progress” and the perfectibility of mankind. Man, so the theory insisted, would outgrow the primitive superstitions of the past and would evolve into an advanced superintelligent being. Man would become superman. Muggeridge would spend the rest of his life unlearning these dogmas that dogged his childhood. Eventually, and progressively, he would see beyond the chimera of the Shavian “superman” and discover the reality of the essentially unchanging and everlasting “man” that predates and postdates the Nietzschean nonsense of his father’s generation. Eventually. And progressively. But it would take him a lifetime of soul-searching and intellectual probing to do so. This book takes us on that exhilarating journey as we watch Muggeridge’s Dantean progress from the hell of man’s insurrection to the heaven of God’s resurrection. From Fabian socialist to Roman Catholic convert, and all stops in between, we see the travels and travails of a soul in search of its source.

  Muggeridge’s journey, or perhaps we should say his pilgrimage, is also interesting for the people who accompanied him along the way. He was born in the same year as Evelyn Waugh and George Orwell, and a year before Graham Greene, and his relationship with these literary giants, his exact contemporaries, is one of the most illuminating and engrossing aspects of his life. There is also a wonderful, if somewhat voyeuristic, account of Muggeridge’s encounter with the aging Winston Churchill and his sudden vision of Churchill as Shakespeare’s King Lear, a pathetic figure, “imprisoned in the flesh, in old age, longing for a renewal of the disease of life, all passion unspent” (263).

  I note, as a postscript, upon perusing my 1984 edition of Chambers Biographical Dictionary, that there is no entry for Muggeridge. It skips from Robert Mugabe to Ladowick Muggleton. The former, as the butcher and tyrant of Zimbabwe, needs no introduction, but who on earth is the latter? I know now, of course, because I have the dictionary open in front of me, but why, I wonder, does the obscure founder of an obscure seventeenth-century puritan sect called the Muggletonians take precedence over a writer as important as Malcolm Muggeridge? Why indeed? I note upon further perusal that Muggeridge’s aforementioned contemporaries—Greene, Orwell and Waugh—all merit reasonably sized entries in the selfsame dictionary. Perhaps this is fair enough. Perhaps it is true that Muggeridge has not bequeathed to posterity literary classics of the caliber of Brighton Rock, Nineteen Eighty-Four and Brideshead Revisited. His legacy is, however, of a different sort. Aside from his works of real literary merit, of which there are several, he was a pioneer of quality television in the days of the medium’s infancy, and, more important, he was, and remains, a towering figure as a fearless dissident against the decadence of his age and ours.

  As a prophet, his reputation stands secure. He is a modern-day Jeremiah, or, perhaps, England’s answer to Solzhenitsyn. Either way, his reputation merits resurrection.

  As a writer who has specialized in writing biographies of literary converts to Catholicism, I would have relished the challenge of writing a life of Malcolm Muggeridge. It is, however, too late. The challenge has already been met. The definitive biography has already been written. Indeed, my only complaint is that Gregory Wolfe’s book has the wrong title. It is not “a biography”—it is the biography of Malcolm Muggeridge.

  PART FOUR

  J. R. R. TOLKIEN AND THE INKLINGS

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  INKLINGS OF GRACE

  THE FIRST HALF of the twentieth century was marked by a battle for the very soul of English literature. The early years of that century were remarkable, principally, for the battle of wits and the war of words between the prophets of secularist “progress” and those of dynamic orthodoxy. In the former camp were the literary giants H. G. Wells and George Bernard Shaw, urged on by the “progressive” socialists of the Fabian Society; in the latter camp were giants of at least equal stature in the pyrotechnic personalities of G. K. Chesterton and Hilaire Belloc.

  Two distinct literary “movements” were, in some respects, the inheritors of this struggle. On the side of those who shared Shaw’s belief in the perfectibility of man into a mythical superman, and who shared Wells’ faith in the benevolence of “progress” or at least his contempt for the past, were the small group of writers and artists that became known, collectively, as the Bloomsbury group. These included Virginia Woolf, Vita Sackville-West, Duncan Grant and, perhaps most notoriously, the archcynic and cultural iconoclast Lytton Strachey. The group’s moral relativism, which found expression in a bland blend of subtle subversion and pathetic perversion, was a natural prerequisite for the nihilism of deconstructionism. The other group, far healthier in outlook and far closer to reality, was the Inklings, who included in their number J. R. R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis and Charles Williams.

  The cult of “deconstruction” now exerts a grip on the discipline of literary criticism that is vicelike, in both senses of the word. In fact, and ironically, “deconstruction” is best expressed through the deconstruction, anagrammatically, of the word itself. Deconstruction is the “destruction con”. It is the confidence trick by which the edifying edifice of culture is destroyed in the name of “cultural” dissection. It is the destruction of art for “art’s” sake. These cultural vivisectionists, practicing their “criticism” much as Josef Mengele practiced his “science”, treat artistic works as objects on which to experiment with their existential prejudices. It is literary criticism as cultural abuse. Art as victim.

  It was, I think, C. S. Lewis who wrote, no doubt with the cultural abusers in mind, that there are two types of people in the world, those who do things to books and those who allow books to do things to them. The Bloomsbury group and their relativist ilk represent those who do things to books, whereas the Inklings represent those who let books do things to them. The former abuse tradition, molding it into their own pathetically deformed image; the latter use tradition as a mold, forming themselves in the space it provides, enabling its light to shed illumination on both the self and the not-self, that is, on both the subjective and the objective. As such, the Inklings represent not only the antithesis of the Bloomsbury group but also the antidote to its poison. The Inklings represent the power of civilized reconstruction amid the barbaric wasteland of deconstruction. They offer inklings of grace to a sceptic-s
oiled world.

  Lewis disliked those who did things to books, and not merely because what they did to the books was often unmentionable. Apart from the fact that such people were often vandals or vivisectionists, they were also depriving themselves, and those influenced by them, of the enormous benefit that the books could bestow on them. A good book enables the reader to enlarge his experience of life; it enables him to share the life experience and the wisdom of another, namely, the author. The better the book, or the author, the greater the benefit to the reader—but only if the reader is prepared to let the book be a teacher. If he approaches the book with the humility of receptivity, or the receptivity of humility, he will receive its riches in abundance. The book will provide metaphysical nourishment, and this spiritual nutrition will enable him to grow. It will enable him to ennoble himself. If, however, he insists on squeezing the square peg of the book into the round hole of his own preconceptions, he will be severely limiting his ability to benefit from the book’s beauty or its wisdom. He will be too busy making the book small enough to fit into the narrow confines of his own prejudices to enjoy the nourishing fruits it has to offer. And there’s the rub. In doing things to books, we prevent books from doing things to us, and for us. In the penury of our selfishness, we are depriving ourselves of the many riches to be derived from selflessness. And this is the paradox at the very heart of Lewis’ statement. In humility there is reception; in pride there is only self-deception.

  Thus, for instance, Wells’ blind faith in scientism, the belief that “progress” is both inexorable and inexorably beneficent, led inexorably to his inability to view or value the treasures of the past or the accumulated wisdom of the ages. Thus Shaw’s belief in man’s perfectibility, that man can become superman, blinded him to the base and basic reality of man’s weakness, and this in turn hardened his heart and hindered his ability to sympathize and empathize with beleaguered humanity. Thus Strachey’s cynical prejudice against the Catholic Church rendered it impossible for him to understand the great mind and heart of that truly eminent Victorian Cardinal Manning. Prejudice prejudges, and one who prejudges is not fit to judge.

  Of course, the secularists and deconstructionists will counter that the Christianity of Chesterton, Belloc and the Inklings meant that they were as prejudiced in their assumptions as were their enemies. Indeed, those secularists who, in spite of their prejudices, have read the Bible, might remind us—no doubt with a smile of triumphalism—that we should examine the plank in our own eye (perhaps, in fact, two planks hammered together in the shape of a cross) before pointing out the motes in the eyes of others. Our reply, of course, should be, “Of course!” It’s our duty to remove these planks. They are merely a metaphor, a euphemism, for the pride that must be overcome with the paradoxical strength of meekness in order that the clarity of charity might be attained. If we do not remove the planks from our eyes, we will find ourselves doing things to books, not letting books do things to us. Planks impair vision!

  The difference between Christians and secularists does not lie in the existence of the planks, which afflict the vision of believers and unbelievers alike, but in their attitude toward the planks. Christians know that the planks are a recurring problem, that we must be on our guard against their return, and that when we discover their return it is our duty to remove them so that we can restore the clarity of our vision. The problem that our opponents must overcome is much more serious. Many are not aware that planks are a problem. Indeed, many are blinded by the belief that the planks do not exist! If the planks are a euphemism for pride, those who fail to see that pride is a problem, still less a mortal sin, will hardly be bothered to remove them. Those who are proud of their pride are scarcely seeking humility. They might even cherish the plank in their eye as a precious possession and make it the prism through which they view “reality”. This is, in fact, exactly what the deconstructionists are doing. They make themselves the sole arbiters of “reality”. Their “truth”, even if they admit reluctantly that it may not be the only “truth”, is, they say, at least as valid as all the others. In subjecting truth to their own prejudices, they are denying, implicitly at least, the validity of objective criteria. The plank in their eye has become the touchstone of reality. Thus, we see (even if they don’t) that prejudice is the product of pride. In this way, the cross, far from representing a plank (or two) in our eyes, serves rather as a telescopic sight enabling us to see more clearly.

  Ultimately the cross is the very crux of the matter, in the sense that a paradox of cross purposes is at the center of the problem. It is, in fact, not only a paradox of cross purposes but a paradox of crossbeams. The beam in the eye of the proud can be removed only by the beam of light that enters the eye of the humble. The blindness of Bloomsbury is curable only through the inklings of grace.

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  FROM THE PRANCING PONY TO THE BIRD AND BABY

  Roy “Strider” Campbell and the Inklings

  ON 3 OCTOBER 1944, during the final months of the Second World War, J. R. R. Tolkien and Charles Williams called in at the Eagle and Child pub in the center of Oxford for their customary pint of ale. They and the other Inklings met on a regular basis in this particular pub, which was known affectionately as the Bird and Baby. On this occasion, however, Tolkien and Williams arrived at noon and were surprised to find C. S. Lewis and his brother “already ensconced”. The conversation was “pretty lively”, and Tolkien noticed “a strange tall gaunt man half in khaki half in mufti with a large wide-awake hat, bright eyes and a hooked nose sitting in the corner. The others had their back to him, but I could see in his eye that he was taking an interest in the conversation quite unlike the ordinary pained astonishment of the British (and American) public at the presence of the Lewises (and myself) in a pub.” The stranger reminded Tolkien of Strider in The Lord of the Rings, the mysterious Ranger who eavesdropped on the conversation of the hobbits at the Prancing Pony at Bree.

  All of a sudden he butted in, in a strange unplaceable accent, taking up some point about Wordsworth. In a few seconds he was revealed as Roy Campbell. . . . Tableau! Especially as C.S.L. had not long ago violently lampooned him in the Oxford Magazine. . . There is a good deal of Ulster still left in C.S.L. if hidden from himself. After that things became fast and furious and I was late for lunch. It was (perhaps) gratifying to find that this powerful poet and soldier desired in Oxford chiefly to see Lewis (and myself).

  The “violent lampoon” to which Tolkien referred was Lewis’ poetic riposte to Campbell’s long poem Flowering Rifle. Campbell’s poem, published five years earlier, was a robust and often embarrassingly jingoistic eulogy to the victorious Nationalist forces in the Spanish civil war. In a poem entitled simply “To the Author of Flowering Rifle”, published in The Cherwell magazine on 6 May 1939, Lewis had condemned Campbell’s lack of charity, reminding him that “the merciful are promised mercy still”. Campbell was a “loud fool” who had learned the art of lying from his enemies on the left,

  since it was from them you learned

  How white to black by jargon can be turned.

  Lewis had retained his early admiration for Campbell’s poetic powers, declaring that his verse “outsoars with eagle pride” the “nerveless rhythms” of the left-wing poets. Yet his “shrill covin-politics” and that of his enemies were “two peas in a single pod”:

  —who cares

  Which kind of shirt the murdering Party wears?

  Although Lewis’ critique of Campbell’s harshness and lack of charity in Flowering Rifle was justified, his simplistic approach to the religious and philosophical dynamics of the war in Spain exposed his own political naïveté. Campbell was actually living in Spain when the war began, and he and his family were lucky to escape with their lives. Many of their friends were not so lucky. The priest who had received Roy and Mary Campbell into the Church in 1935 was murdered in cold blood in the following year by communist militiamen, as were the Carmelite monks whom Roy and Mary ha
d befriended in Toledo. In seeing the war in Spain as a fight to the death between traditional Christianity and secular atheism, Campbell was closer to reality than was Lewis with his simplified depiction of a battle between “left” and “right”. The war was beyond politics. It was a struggle for the religious heart and soul of Europe.

  Campbell had read Lewis’ attack on him, but it seems, from Tolkien’s rendition of events, that he had taken the criticism in good spirits and that it was Lewis who became aggressive during the “fast and furious” discussion in the Bird and Baby. In spite of their differences, Lewis invited Campbell to a gathering of the Inklings in Lewis’ rooms in Magdalen College two days later. Again, it was Lewis who became aggressive. According to Tolkien, Lewis “had taken a fair deal of port and was a little belligerent”. He insisted on reading out his lampoon again, but Campbell laughed the provocation aside.

  If Lewis was belligerent toward Campbell, Tolkien was transfixed by him, listening intently, as the assembled Inklings “were mostly obliged to listen to the guest”. Paradoxically, Tolkien felt that Campbell was “gentle, modest, and compassionate”, even though he and the others spent most of the evening listening to Campbell’s embellished and highly romanticized account of his own life. Tolkien’s report of the biographical monologue is awash with the combined effects of Campbell’s exaggeration and Tolkien’s faulty memory.