HILAIRE BELLOC
Hilaire Belloc
So long and persistently has Hilaire Belloc been associated in the public mind with G. K. Chesterton—one ingenious jester has even linked and locked them together in an easy combination as the Chesterbelloc—that quite a number of people now have a vague idea that they are inseparables, collaborators, a sort of literary Siamese twins like Beaumont and Fletcher or Erckmann-Chatrian; and the fact that one appears in this volume without the other may occasion some surprise. Let it be confessed at once that Chesterton’s omission from this gallery is significant only of his failure—not in modern letters, but to keep any appointments to sit for his photograph.
I regret his absence the less since it may serve as a mute protest against the practice of always bracketing his name with that of Hilaire Belloc. The magic influence of Belloc which is supposed to have colored so many of G. K. C.’s views and opinions and even to have drawn him at length into the Roman Catholic community, must be little but legendary or evidence of it would be apparent in his writings, and it is no more traceable there than the influence of Chesterton is to be found in Belloc’s books. They share a dislike of Jews, which nearly equals that of William Bailey in “Mr. Clutterbuck’s Election”; Chesterton has illustrated some of Belloc’s stories, and Belloc being an artist, too, has made charming illustrations for one of his own travel volumes. All the same, there is no more real likeness between them than there was between Dickens and Thackeray, or Tennyson and Browning, who were also, and are to some extent still, carelessly driven in double harness. Belloc’s humor and irony are hard, often bitter; they have none of the geniality, nimbleness, perverse fantasy of Chesterton’s. The one has a profound respect for fact and detail, and learns by carefully examining all the mechanical apparatus of life scientifically through a microscope; while the other has small reverence for facts as such, looks on life with the poet’s rather than with the student’s eye, and sees it by lightning-flashes of intuition. When Chesterton wrote his History of England he put no dates in it; he felt that dates were of no consequence to the story; but Belloc has laid it down that, though the human motive is the prime factor in history, “the external actions of men, the sequence in dates and hours of such actions, and their material conditions and environments must be strictly and accurately acquired.” There is no need to labor the argument. “The Napoleon of Notting Hill” is not more unlike “Emanuel Burden” than their two authors are unlike each other, individually and in what they have written.
Born at St. Cloud in 1870, Belloc was the son of a French barrister; his mother, an Englishwoman, was the grand-daughter of Joseph Priestley, the famous scientist and Unitarian divine. She brought him over to England after the death of his father, and they made their home in Sussex, the country that has long since taken hold on his affections and inspired the best of his poems. I don’t know when he was “living in the Midlands,” or thereabouts except while he was at Oxford, and earlier when he was a schoolboy at the Birmingham Oratory and came under the spell of Cardinal Newman, and I don’t know when he wrote “The South Country,” but not even Kipling has crowned Sussex more splendidly than he crowns it in that vigorous and poignant lyric—
“When I am living in the Midlands,
That are sodden and unkind,
I light my lamp in the evening;
My work is left behind;
And the great hills of the South Country
Come back into my mind.
The great hills of the South Country
They stand along the sea,
And it’s there, walking in the high woods,
That I could wish to be,
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Walking along with me....
If ever I become a rich man,
Or if ever I grow to be old,
I will build a house with a deep thatch
To shelter me from the cold,
And there shall the Sussex songs be sung
And the story of Sussex told.
I will hold my house in the high wood,
Within a walk of the sea,
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Shall sit and drink with me.”
Nowadays, he has to some extent realized that desire, for he is settled at Horsham, in Sussex again, if not within a walk of the sea. But we are skipping too much, and will go back and attend to our proper historical “sequence in dates.” His schooldays over, he accepted the duties of his French citizenship and served his due term in the Army of France, as driver in an Artillery regiment. These military obligations discharged, he returned to England, went to Oxford, and matriculated at Balliol. He ran a dazzling career at Oxford, working assiduously as a student, carrying off the Brackenbury Scholarship and a First Class in Honor History Schools, and at the same time reveled joyously with the robust, gloried in riding and swimming and coruscated brilliantly in the Union debates. His vivid, dominating personality seems to have made itself felt among his young contemporaries there as it has since made itself felt in the larger worlds of literature and politics; though in those larger worlds his recognition and his achievements have never, so far, been quite commensurate with his extraordinary abilities or the tradition of power that has gathered about his name. In literature, high as he stands, his fame is less than that of men who have not a tithe of his capacity, and in politics he remains a voice crying in the wilderness, a leader with no effective following. Perhaps in politics his fierce sincerity drives him into tolerance, he burns to do the impossible and change human nature at a stroke, and is too far ahead of his time for those he would lead to keep pace with him. And perhaps in literature he lacks some gift of concentration, dissipates his energies over too many fields, and is too much addicted to the use of irony, which it has been said, not without reason, is regarded with suspicion in this country and never understood. Swift is admittedly our supreme master in that art, and there is nothing more ironic in his most scathingly ironical work, “Gulliver’s Travels,” than the fact that Gulliver is only popular as an innocently amusing book for children.
Belloc began quietly enough, in 1895, with a little unimportant book of “Verses and Sonnets.” He followed this in the next four years with four delightfully, irresponsibly absurd books of verses and pictures such as “The Bad Child’s Book of Beasts,” “More Beasts for Worse Children,” publishing almost simultaneously in 1899 “The Moral Alphabet” and his notable French Revolution study of “Danton.” In a later year he gave us simultaneously the caustic, frivolous “Lambkin’s Remains” and his book on “Paris,” and followed it with his able monograph on “Robespierre.” It was less unsettling, no doubt, when “Caliban’s Guide to Letters” was closely succeeded by the first and most powerful of his ironic novels, “Emanuel Burden,” but serious people have never known where to have him. He collects his essays under such careless titles as “On Nothing,” “On Anything,” “This and That,” or simply “On”; and the same year that found him collaborating with Cecil Chesterton in a bitter attack on “The Party System,” found him collaborating with Lord Basil Blackwood in the farcical “More Peers,” and issuing acute technical expositions of the battles of Blenheim and Malplaquet.
His novels, “Emanuel Burden,” “Mr. Clutterbuck’s Election,” “A Change in the Cabinet,” “The Mercy of Allah,” and the rest, satirize the chicanery and humbug rampant in modern commerce, finance, politics, and general society, and are too much in earnest to attempt to tickle the ears of the groundlings.
For four years, in the first decade of the century, Belloc sat in Parliament as Member for Salford, but the tricks, hypocrisies, insincerities of the politicians disgusted and exasperated him; he was hampered and suppressed in the House by its archaic forms, and instead of staying there stubbornly to leaven the unholy lump he came wrathfully out, washing his hands of it, to attack the Party system in the Press, and inaugurate The Witness in which he proceeded to express himself on the iniquities of public life forcefully and with devastating candor.
No journalist wielded a more potent pen than he through the dark years of the war. His articles in Land and Water recording the various phases of the conflict, criticizing the conduct of campaigns, explaining their course and forecasting developments drew thousands of readers to sit every week at his feet, and were recognized as the cleverest, most searching, most informing of all the many periodical reviews of the war that were then current. That his prophecies were not always fulfilled meant only that, like all prophets, he was not infallible. His vision, his intimate knowledge of strategy, his mastery of the technique of war were amazing—yet not so amazing when you remember his service in the French Army and that he comes of a race of soldiers. One of his mother’s forbears was an officer in the Irish Brigade that fought for France at Fontenoy, and four of his father’s uncles were among Napoleon’s generals, one of them falling at the head of his charging troops at Waterloo. It were but natural he should derive from such stock not merely a love of things military but that ebullient, overpowering personality which many who come in contact with him find irresistible.
As poet, he has written three or four things that will remain immortal in anthologies; as novelist, he has a select niche to himself; “The Girondin” indicates what he might have become as a sheer romantist, but he did not pursue that vein; his books of travel, particularly “The Path to Rome” and “Esto Perpetua,” are unsurpassed in their kind by any living traveler; as historian, essayist, journalist, he ranks with the highest of his contemporaries; nevertheless, you are left with a feeling that the man himself is greater than anything he has done. You feel that he has been deftly modeling a motley miscellany of statuettes when he might have been carving a statue; and the only consolation is that some of the statuettes are infinitely finer than are many statues, and that, anyhow, he has given, and obviously taken delight in the making of them.