In Which I must Admit: It's Complicated

(Thoughts on Belloc, Part 3)

Most people are complicated, and you must follow them down to the end of their road and everywhere else in between, withholding final judgement all the while, if you are to 'know' them. And even then? Mystery will remain.

The more intuitive of us might make many astute assumptions and think we have all the pieces fitted together - might have pegged our specimen to the board and pronounced him ‘known’. But as dear Henri Fabre once remarked about insects - they will not reveal their living nature if pinned to a board. You must watch their actions. You must be patient. Living things beg to be observed carefully and quietly over a long period of time in anticipation of the hidden qualities they will slowly reveal - to your utter surprise, I might add. Why then, not man, the best of living things? This is what Belloc's life is teaching me.

Three chapters ago, I was ready to pigeon hole Hilaire in the category of wordy, blowhard "boor". Decidedly pinned! Or so I thought. Now, I have changed my tune. Belloc is so layered, it is hard to grasp the whole of him at any given time. One minute I am yelling "Huzzah!" and the next I am growling "insufferable". And would it kill him to smile in a photograph once in a while?

It was one little sentence pronounced by his wife Elodie, however, that caught me fast and made me look closer - perhaps consenting to unpin Hilaire and letting him fly a bit. She simply said as she gazed upon a picture of him, "Ah, those are the sad eyes I love. Those are the eyes I married." Elodie knew he was passionate, melancholic to a fault, loud, opinionated, masterful with a sentence: both spoken and written. She of all people knew he was a poet in a statesman's body. That he loved beer and lots of it. That he could lilt a tune with his surprisingly tenor voice. That he loved both her and his children deeply but could not always translate it into an open and ready affection. With these telling words of hers, Elodie isn't just 'putting up with him' as we might assume - she married him because of these things, knowing full well the annoyances they might engender for her as a by product. For her it was worth the risk. She seems to have had no illusions about this man, but she admired him no end, and he returned love for love in the way she knew he could. It is a realistic view of marriage. And I have come to admire it in both of them.

There are subtle little clues that he is beautifully tender under his gruff way. His daughter Eleanor recalls one of her favorite Christmas memories after they moved to the countryside of Sussex and had found a home. There was a windmill on the property, and Eleanor describes how her parents told the children that Father Christmas had certainly put the tree in a most peculiar place this year. They processed to the windmill and up the winding stairs and THERE in all its glory was a candlelit Christmas tree. Eleanor was given a "delectable blue satin bag" of chocolates and she pulled out one of the best to hold up to her father. Belloc was lost in thought, gazing with tender amazement at the candles on the tree. He did not hear her at first. But suddenly he saw her, thanked her warmly, touched her cheek tenderly and put his large hand into the bag and popped a chocolate in his mouth - and then returned to his thoughts. Eleanor wondered even as an adult, “what was he thinking?”

Belloc was known to show up at Chesterton's office unannounced, anxiously seeking illustrations for one of his books. The secretary relates that Chesterton let him in and she heard a whole afternoon of uproarious laughter, much talk, and a bit of friendly sparring. He emerged from that office in the twilight with all his drawings under his arm and a triumphant smile on his face, as Chesterton, all smiles, puffed his pipe behind. They were so ONE in friendship and thought, that people took to calling them Chesterbelloc. By all the accounts of so many men who knew him, he was a loyal and fast friend. He understood the word friendship in all its nuances.

Frances Chesterton loved having 'dear' Belloc and Elodie over for dinner. The Belloc children would take Chesterton upstairs to the nursery and he would play with all the dolls in the dollhouse and make up stories with ALL the voices, and laugh even louder than the children at his own jokes. He would sit his huge frame into their tiny nursery chairs and they would giggle at the effort. Belloc would laugh uproariously at the antics.

After their house caught fire in London, Belloc got Elodie her dream home in the countryside of Sussex. They took many an excursion - looking at more than 82 houses before they fell in love with THE ONE. Elodie loved the country and the solitude and puttering in her garden and letting her children run barefoot - and not having to "dress up for dinner". Hilaire, though quite in love with the bustle and energy of London, understood this, her own desire and gifted it to her. She had a faith as large and militant as his and he praised her often for it. He suddenly took her on holiday to rest a bit from having borne five children in seven years, "because poor Elodie has not had many holidays". He had his great moments of attentiveness.

He was always worried about money and debts and being able to support his family. For this I so commiserate with him! He was so in demand as a speaker and a writer, but it did not add up to a steady income. He had to suffer that realization and come to terms with the fact that his particular gifts were not those that made a man financially comfortable. He struggled with being an absentee father for a time just to make money on the lecture circuit. It nearly killed him with exhaustion. This the worry of every father and husband - providing for his own.

He always loved his faith above any other thing. I want to be so much like him in this. He defended it. He expended great energy in supporting all the Catholic English families who wished only to bring up their children and educate them in the faith. He gave many a speech in this regard. It cost him popularity in Parliament. England was still quite prejudiced against Catholics.

He was physically brave and tried new things. He learned to ride a horse, he walked miles and observed all the beauties of his home of Sussex and wrote about them as only an eloquent Englishman could. He loved his home, his wife, his religion, his country with the passion of a Greek poet singing their praises. He lived life. He did not just talk about it. For that, I love him very much. It is what I would like said of me.

I still might have found him 'too much' - too gruff perhaps if I met him face to face. Too much of a GUY. Except for those eyes that saw poems in the world to write. And for that large hand reaching into a blue satin bag for a chocolate to please a child. And that man of friendship who spent an afternoon with Chesterton in his study. I don't think they make them like this so much anymore. Well, even back then, perhaps they didn't either.

I know better now why Elodie loved him. And if Elodie, then who am I to keep him pinned to my one dimensional board? I have let him fly free and have found the true beauty of a man who also bore the fault of Adam - like each of us. And I have to say at the last - it’s complicated.

I do not feel inclined at this time to have a paid substack. But if we were together in a cafe discussing all these thoughts, I would not be opposed to you buying me a cup of coffee - with cream, of course. In that spirit, if any of my posts resonate with you and you feel so inclined, you can donate here: buymeacoffee.com/denise_trull