CHAPTER NINE

AT NOTRE DAME.

Chesterton was guest lecturer at Notre Dame University for the first semester of the 1930–1 school year, delivering eighteen lectures on English history, and the same number on the Victorian age of English literature.

Visiting Beaconsfield a few years ago, Father John F. O’Hara, President of the University, told Chesterton that he had received “numerous letters from former students who were just beginning to appreciate the lectures he had given them. Chesterton was that way. One was forced to remember his striking sentences, and the underlying truth forced itself on the mind of the undergraduate when greater experience made understanding possible.”

As Chesterton walked out on the stage and faced his first Notre Dame audience, he leaned upon the lectern and said, “Until quite recently, I was not at all certain that I would be able to be here tonight. Had I not come, you would now be gazing upon a great yawning void instead of myself.”

This bit of humor and the manner in which it was expressed gave Father Charles Morton the feeling that here was a man of rare humility and of the simplicity which always accompanies genuine culture. As the lecture series progressed, two other qualities became prominent,--brilliance of mind and a profound Catholic faith. No matter what the subject of his lecture was, whether in the field of literature or of history, he invariably found a way at the end to relate all he had said to some profound religious truth. That people should praise him as a learned man was a source of genuine embarrassment to him. It amused him to be addressed as “professor,” and he invariably referred to himself as a “mere journalist.”

Father Patrick J. Carroll looked upon Chesterton, master of antithesis “as himself the antithesis. A large lumbering hulk of a man, you would expect from him a deep, thundering speech. You are mistaken: his language is swift, sudden, arresting. Epigram follows epigram, until you get tired of brilliance, and begin to wonder if this big man is not more concerned with his sword play than with the serious business of defending truth against truth’s enemies. That is how you sometimes think: but, of course, your thinking is wrong.”

Prof. Norbert Engels of the College of Arts and Sciences recalls that “at every lecture knowledge poured forth. He never used a paper, a note, or a reference of any kind. He would quote extremely long passages of poetry or prose with utmost ease. I did not tire of his use of paradox as he used it with such consummate art. Those are inadequate judges of his genius who pronounce upon him from his writings only. To know Chesterton fully, besides his works, one should have heard him lecture, in order to catch the spirit of the man.”

All the breath and flavor of ages of Christian culture came with Chesterton in the opinion of Father Charles M. Carey, “he entered our campus like some great Catholic warrior stepping down from the centuries that date back to a time when England was really ‘Merrie England.’ Huge in girth and mind and heart, he was the embodiment of all that was good in that splendid Catholic heritage.

“As his vast physical bulk lumbered from the wings to the rostrum, then slouched down in his chair, he threw a ruddy scowl across the rows of young University men before him, and a great feeling of awe swallowed up the idle chatter. There was not a single heart in that young Catholic audience that did not somehow experience the presence of greatness in our midst. To the man who knew little of the great apologist, it may have been a moment of confused terror and curiosity. To anyone who had read but a paragraph from his pen, it was the moment which finds one helplessly silent in the presence of a superior being.

“‘So,’ I thought to myself, as Chesterton thundered and swayed slightly to his place, his bushy hair in its own convenient parting and his wrinkled and baggy clothing left to look after itself with a pronounced abandon, ‘can this be the man that is so mentally nimble, so sure footed in thought, so precise in diction, so accurate in his thrusts, so merciless in heaping wrath on adversaries, and so loud in his frequent laughter at the absurdity of those who oppose his Christian fighting?’”

Once he began to speak, Chesterton’s eyes lit up with a joy born of that common bond that is the Catholic faith, thus destroying all barriers of racial differences because, as he said, “Under the portals of our Lady’s Shrine, all men are at home.” That was the spirit that characterized his stay at Notre Dame. To his young listeners he was an inspiration. Every word that he uttered had a clear, certain and convincing ring in it that made for conviction. He was thoroughly Catholic. For him life was full of faith and beauty and romance. Every word that he uttered had a freshness and wonder about it. His adroit phraseology, his accent and his inexhaustible flow of genuine humor quickened his youthful audience to frequent bursts of applause and measured gaiety.

Chesterton had the honorary degree of Doctor of Law conferred upon him Wednesday afternoon, November 5, 1930, in Washington Hall. Many honorary degrees had been conferred by Notre Dame, but this was the first time in the history of the University that a special convocation of the Faculty had been called to participate in the conferring of a degree.

At four-thirty the academic procession left the University parlors and made its way to Washington Hall where members of the Senior Class and the guests were assembled. After an introductory musical program had been given by the student orchestra and Glee Club, Father J. Leonard Carrice, Director of Studies, announced the conferring of the degree,

“The University of Notre Dame, in this special convocation of the Faculty, confers the degree of Doctor of Law, =honoris causa=, on a man of letters recognized as the ablest and most influential in the English-speaking world of today, a defender of the Christian tradition, whose keen mind, right heart, and versatile literary genius have been valiantly devoted to eternal truth, goodness and beauty, in literature, and in life--Gilbert Keith Chesterton, of London, England.”

After receiving the Degree from Notre Dame’s President, the Rev. Charles L. O’Donnell, Doctor Chesterton replied,

“I only wish it were possible for me to say, as you have suggested, something of what is in my heart in the way of gratitude. Gratitude is what I feel most deeply at present, and it is the irony of human fate that it is perhaps the only thing that cannot be expressed. If I said all the things which are usually said on these occasions, I should only be expressing my feelings, for in my case, they happen to be perfectly true. It is usual to say that one is not worthy of such an honor, and the vividness of my own unworthiness is so acute in my own mind that I find it almost impossible to express it and to thank you for the far too generous things which have been said. I have given a series of lectures on a subject on which a number of you are much better acquainted than I. If I happen to say something about the history of the Victorian age, the history which I am supposed to talk about, or if I happen to say something about the Victorian age in literature, I am all too painfully reminded that you have learned history and have studied literature. If I mention the Province of Canada, I am reminded that you have studied geography. Therefore I am afraid that I am not only unworthy but almost in a false position before you. I am a journalist, and the one thing I can claim is that I have endeavored to show that it is possible to be an honest journalist. Therefore, a great academic distinction of this kind gives me a very strong sense of gratitude. I can only thank you from the bottom of my heart, not only for this favor extended to me, but also for the very great patience with which you have listened to my lectures.

“There is always a bond between us that would make you tolerant of me, I know. I have only once before gone through a ceremony of this kind and that was at the highly Protestant University of Edinburgh, where I found that part of the ceremony consisted of being lightly touched on the head with the cap of John Knox. I was very much relieved to find that it was not part of the ceremony on the present occasion that I should, let us say, wear the hat of Senator Heflin! I remember that, when I came to America before, about nine years ago, when I was not a catholic, and when I had hardly realized that there were Catholics in America, my first sensation in this country was one of terror. I recall the first landing and that great hotel in New York, the Biltmore, the name of which held for me such terrifying possibilities. (Surely there would not be =more= of it!) It all seemed alien, although I quickly discovered what kind and generous people the Americans are. I did not feel at all like that when I came to America for the second time. If you want to know why I felt different, the reason is in the name of your University. That name was quite sufficient as far as I was concerned. It would not have mattered if it had been in the mountains of the moon. Wherever She has erected Her pillars, all men are at home, and I knew that I should not find strangers. And, if any of you who are young should go to other countries, you will find that what I have said is true.”

Prof. Daniel O’Grady was invited to a social evening with Chesterton at Notre Dame’s Sorin Hall ... among those present were the host Charles Philips, Paul Fenlon, Pat Manion, John Frederick, Lee Flateley, John Connolly, Steve Roney, Rufus Rauch ... all either professors or students. The affair started at nine in the evening and lasted until almost three in the morning.

When Manion asked whether liquor in England produced immorality, G. K. C. replied,

“Undoubtedly it does in certain London districts. When I stayed at the Royal York in Toronto on my way down to Notre Dame I noticed something oligarchical about the Ontario system inasmuch as there was a dance on and those who could afford a room left the ballroom on occasion and went upstairs for a nip displaying visible evidences thereof as one met them in the hall. Moreover in Ontario a permit was necessary whereas in Catholic Quebec this Protestant condition did not prevail.

“I live near Oxford, and I often visit friends there. In Cambridge too I know and admire many men, such as the poet A. E. Housman, and the historians George M. Trevelyan and Holland Rose, the great Napoleonic authority. Speaking of the latter place you know the old yarn about the Italian doctor on his way to Cambridge to debate some don there. On stopping to inquire directions of some pedestrians he was answered in Greek verse by Cambridge students disguised as workmen, whereupon he ordered the coachman to turn around and go back because said he, if the laborers are so learned, what must the dons be?...”

When O’Grady said he had heard that the difference between the two schools was that an Oxford man went around as though he owned the place, while a Cambridge man acted as though he didn’t give a damn who did, Chesterton retorted,

“And both about equally obnoxious!”

When the discussion turned to some well known Englishmen, Chesterton said,

“If my description of Lord Beaverbrook was based on his journalistic methods I would have to call him a guttersnipe. I feel that Bertrand Russell is a disgrace to English literature, not only on account of his writings, but also because of his way of life.”

“Masefield’s a fine fellow and a good writer,” said Chesterton in reply to another question, “but Ramsay MacDonald had to choose Masefield as Poet Laureate, there being no other poet so sympathetic to Labor. However, Yeats was by far our best poet. Yet hardly ever has the best poet been made laureate. There is too much politics in the appointment, just as is the case with the appointment of the Anglican bishops. One need only consider Barnes of Birmingham. The idea of calling York’s archbishop ‘by divine permission’ and Canterbury’s ‘by divine consent,’ has always seemed to me rather far-fetched.”

When reference was made to Rebecca West’s resigning from the “Bookman” because the editorial policy favored the New Humanists, Chesterton remarked,

“How extremely foolish that is--as though that affected your contributions!”

Asked about Lord Beaverbrook who had but recently died, Chesterton reflected,

“Birkenhead has always been a puzzle to me because he was cynical and worldly ambitious, and yet, it must be confessed, overfond of his liquor. One expects such a weakness only from a poet or one who has the poetical imagination.”

A comparison being made between certain types of Russian and English characters, Chesterton went on to say,

“The Russians in their writings are always brooding over fate or some silly thing. For the most part the English gentry are fine, sensible fellows, although, of course, there are some bounders amongst them. You will now find not a few Catholics among them, although for many years the only Catholics were either English aristocrats or Irish paupers.”

Asked if he found the Americans all very mad in the pursuit of money, he shook his head with a smile,

“Quite the contrary, I find the Americans less worshipful of money than my fellow English. However, I do prefer even our English gentry although mad about money, to some of your vulgar and blatant millionaires.”

During a discussion of the Church and State, Chesterton remarked,

“I read the other day of a western magistrate who sentenced a woman to go to Church for the next fifty Sundays. I wondered at the time whether that was consistent with the American doctrine of the separation of Church and State. Even though we have a state church in England, I do not think that an English judge would have given such a sentence.”

In autographing a book just before the party broke up, Chesterton threw a lot of ink on the floor, but merely remarked,

“I’m always cluttering up people’s carpets.”

His hostess rather prim and proper, kept shoving ash-trays at him which he completely ignored and continued dropping ashes from his cigarettes all over the floor. But no one minded this little thoughtlessness of genius.

As he put on his Inverness cape and black sombrero-like hat he shouted out in merry tones,

“If anyone ever tries to tell me Catholicism is inconsistent with fun and play, I’ll say did you ever hear of the University of Notre Dame?”

Before Chesterton left the University, Mr. William L. Piedmont had a pleasant chat with him. Asked what he thought of our great American sports, G. K. C. answered,

“I witnessed the Notre Dame-Navy game, and was much impressed by the popularity that your game of football enjoys. In my youth I played English football and even rounders which might be described as an English equivalent of baseball.”

“I very gravely doubt if the nations are becoming closer and closer together,” declared Chesterton when the conversation touched the League of Nations. “Quite the contrary, I feel the various countries are becoming more national. An example would be in the literary fact that in my youth Thoreau, Hawthorne, Mark Twain and the rest were as widely known and read in Europe as in America, while today the strange and awful stuff of American writers is unknown abroad with very few exceptions. I attribute this to the fact that America has become so different and in Europe the news hasn’t gotten through yet as to what it’s all about in America.”

On being asked if he thought the world (and especially, the United States) possessed any great thinkers, he replied humorously,

“If there are any people in the world today who do think, witness my ‘Age of Unreason,’ I feel America can certainly claim some of them.”

After confessing that he read very few novels, but mentioning the works of Sheila Kaye-Smith with approbation, he went on to say,

“But I consider Rebecca West the most interesting woman writer, if for no other reason than because she is gradually becoming more respectable. I suppose (with a characteristic chuckle) that her marrying a banker is not really the cause of respectability, even though marrying a banker may be a sort of worldly parallel to being confirmed in grace!”

Of the winner of the Nobel prize for literature, he said,

“On the whole, I think Sinclair Lewis is the scourge of God--a calamity in some respects like the Great Fire of London. I do not believe that Mr. Lewis has enough sympathy with the Middle West people of whom he writes, nor has he the right slant on the people of Main Street--as I have observed them during my sojourn in America. I think it about time somebody made fun of the greasy optimism prevalent in recent novels. Lewis has a good deal of righteous indignation, but what he lacks is the positive moral idea which should be found in the representative literature of every nation. I like Lewis when he is simply humorous like in “The Man Who Knew Coolidge,” but in general the bestowal of the prize is like giving a medal to a great scavenger.”

When he arrived in Washington, D. C. to lecture at Trinity College, Chesterton gave Miss Syd Walsh an interesting and picturesque description of Notre Dame,

“I think the faculty and students awfully jolly people and the campus itself a bit of medievalism with its constant stream of youths in bright colors pouring in and out of old stone buildings with gilded domes. As long as I live I will never forget their way of letting off fireworks before a big game and generally playing the goat in a cheery way.”

[Illustration: FACSIMILE WRITING

of

MR. AND MRS. G. K. CHESTERTON]