25 by Beverley Nichols — Read

Among the questions which will present themselves to the future literary historian, none will be more difficult to answer than ‘Was Mr. G. K. Chesterton afraid of his wife? ' There are several passages in his books which indicate that the answer will be in the affirmative, and among them one might quote that charming essay from _Tremendous Trifles_ which is called ‘On Lying in Bed. ' He confesses to an overwhelming desire, while lying in bed, to paint the ceiling with a long brush. ‘But even,' he adds, ‘my proposal to paint on it with the bristly end of a broom has been discouraged -- _never mind by whom_; by a person debarred from all political rights.'

The first time I ever asked myself this question was in Cornmarket Street at Oxford, on a windy night in May. G. K. Chesterton was alighting, with a certain amount of difficulty, from a taxi-cab, and as soon as he had safely emerged, he stood in the gutter, his mackintosh flapping loudly in the wind, while he assisted a charming and diminutive figure in a cloak. The diminutive figure was his wife. But even in these strange circumstances, with the wind tying her cloak into knots, and the rain-spots slashing against her veil like cold bullets, she seemed completely mistress of the situation of the moment, which was ‘When should the car come back to fetch them?'