The Code of the Woosters by P.G. Wodehouse (1938)

The sinister affair of Gussie Fink-Nottle, Madeline Bassett, old Pop Bassett, Stiffy Byng, the
Rev HP (‘Stinker’) Pinker, the eighteenth-century cow-creamer and the small brown leather-covered notebook.
(Bertie summarises the plot at the beginning)

‘Man and boy, Jeeves,’ I said, breaking a thoughtful silence which had lasted for about eighty-seven
miles, ‘I have been in some tough spots in my time, but this one wins the mottled oyster.’
(and the plot hasn’t really kicked in yet)

‘Travel is highly educational, sir.’
‘I can’t do with any more education. I was full up years ago.’
(Servant and Master repartee)

‘Good old blackmail ! You can’t beat it. I’ve always said so and I always shall. It works like magic in an emergency.’
(Aunt Dahlia proving what a good egg she is)

‘Didn’t you tell me once that the Code of the Woosters was “Never let a pal down”?’
(Stiffy explaining the title of the book)

‘The Code of the Woosters’ is the third full-length novel to feature Bertie Wooster and his valet Jeeves.

The Jeeves and Wooster narratives come in two forms: in the 1920s Wodehouse published about 35 J&W short stories; thereafter he switched to novels and wrote 11 novels (from 1934 to the last one, in 1974). What’s interesting is the way the novels refer back to events in the short stories. It’s as if the short stories defined a sort of palette of colours, which he then invoked in the larger canvases of the novels. To be less pretentious, the novels regularly refer back to incidents featured in the stories, say something like ‘Remember old so-and-so; it was him I was involved with in the adventure of the so-and-so’. Thus at various points Bertie, the posh dim narrator, reminds us:

  • that his Aunt Dahlia edits a lady’s magazine to which he once contributed an article (as told in ‘Clustering Round Young Bingo’)
  • that Madeline Bassett’s father is a judge who once fined him £5 for disorderly conduct (as told in ‘Without The Option’)
  • of the occasion when Gussie Fink-Nottle gave a speech at a school prize-giving while very drunk (in the previous novel in the series, ‘Right Ho, Jeeves”))
  • (twice) of the time Roberta Wickham persuaded him to sneak into the bedroom of a fellow guest at a country house and puncture his hot-water bottle with a darning-needle on the end of a stick (‘Jeeves and the Yule-Tide Spirit’)
  • of the time when the American millionaire J. Washburn Stoker kidnapped Bertie who escaped by blacking up with boot polish to pretend to be part of a minstrel party (‘Thank You, Jeeves’)
  • the time a temporary replacement for Jeeves named Brinkley, tried to attack Bertie with a carving knife then set fire to his cottage (‘Thank You, Jeeves’)
  • the time Bertie had to look after his Aunt Agatha’s dog (‘Jeeves and the Dog McIntosh’)
  • the time Bertie saved the Cabinet Minister A.B. Filmer from a wild swan (‘Jeeves and the Impending Doom’)

The effect is very much to create a world of its own, full of references to a fairly small number of characters in its orbit. Bertie himself is made to notice the fact:

It bore out what I often say—viz, that it’s a small world.

Except that it is very much not a small world. It is a very big world with over 8 billion people in it who mostly speak languages you and I can’t speak, and hold values and beliefs we can’t relate to. Which is why it’s so comfy and reassuring to retreat to a small, hermetically sealed and safe place like WoosterWorld.

The cup of tea on arrival at a country house is a thing which, as a rule, I particularly enjoy. I like the crackling logs, the shaded lights, the scent of buttered toast, the general atmosphere of leisured cosiness.

Nothing wrong with that. Highfalutin’ critics like to claim that fiction engages with the world, subverts this or that power structure etc, missing the obvious point that sitting in a quiet room or train or plane, quietly reading a novel is more or less the opposite of engaging with the world.

The Mixture as Before

When Somerset Maugham published a volume of short stories in 1936 The Times rather rudely described it as ‘the mixture as before’. This nettled Maugham so much that he titled his next short story The Mixture As Before. The same could be said of Wodehouse’s Jeeves and Wooster novels. He had established a set of comic conventions for the series, including:

Bertie struggles to find the right word

  • There was a brief and—if that’s the word I want—pregnant silence.
  • A confirmed recluse you would have called him, if you had happened to know the word.
  • She made what I believe is known as a moue…. Is it moue?.. Shoving out the lips, I mean, and drawing them quickly back again.
  • ‘What? Incredulous!’
    ‘Incredible, sir.’
    ‘Thank you, Jeeves. Incredible!’
  • ‘Spode, qua menace… is it qua?’
    ‘Yes, sir. Quite correct.’
    ‘I thought so.’

Bertie struggles with classic quotes

‘You remember that fellow you’ve mentioned to me once or twice, who let something wait upon something? You know who I mean the cat chap.’
‘Macbeth, sir, a character in a play of that name by the late William Shakespeare. He was described as letting ‘I dare not’ wait upon ‘I would, ‘like the poor cat i’ th’ adage.’
‘Well, that’s how it is with me. I wabble, and I vacillate—if that’s the word?’
‘Perfectly correct, sir.’

The joke in this one is you have to know that ‘The Sensitive Plant’ is the name of a poem by the Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, the kind of thing soppy Madeline knows and Bertie is clueless about.

‘I remembered something Jeeves had once called Gussie–’A sensitive plant, what?’
‘Exactly. You know your Shelley, Bertie.’
‘Oh, am I?’

Shelley crops up again later on:

After what Gussie had said, I ought to have been expecting Stiffy, of course. Seeing an Aberdeen terrier, I should have gathered that it belonged to her. I might have said to myself : If Scotties come, can Stiffy be far behind?

Which is a reference to Shelley’s well-known poem, ‘Ode to the West Wind’, the line being ‘If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?’ Mind you, Bertie can pull off the big quotes when he wants to; in a previous novel he referred to Keats’s sonnet ‘On First Looking Into Chapman’s Homer and he goes to town on the key lines here.

Pop Bassett, like the chap in the poem which I had to write out fifty times at school for introducing a white mouse into the English Literature hour, was plainly feeling like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken, while Aunt Dahlia and Constable Oates resembled respectively stout Cortez staring at the Pacific and all his men looking at each other with a wild surmise, silent upon a peak in Darien.

And it’s not just Bertie who struggles with classic quotes and has to be put right by Jeeves. Here’s Stiffy struggling to remember the right name of a literary character:

You remind me of Carter Patterson… no, that’s not it… Nick Carter… no, not Nick Carter… Who does Mr Wooster remind me of, Jeeves?’
‘Sidney Carton, miss.’
‘That’s right. Sidney Carton.’

That would be the Sidney Carton who ends up being the hero of Charles Dickens’ novel ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ by offering to lay down his life to be executed by the French revolutionaries so that the male lead of the story, Charles Darnay, can escape. Not that Bertie sees him as the hero. Later on he reflects:

I drew no consolation from the fact that Stiffy Byng thought me like Sidney Carton. I had never met the chap, but I gathered that he was somebody who had taken it on the chin to oblige a girl, and to my mind this was enough to stamp him as a priceless ass.

Jeeves’s literary quotes

It feels slightly new that Jeeves recites famous literary quotations in their entirety, not prompted by Bertie, with the comic intention of showing that Bertie hasn’t a clue what he’s on about. Mostly from Shakespeare because it’s a fair bet that Wodehouse’s original audience should have known their Shakespeare:

‘I quite understand, sir. And thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pitch and moment in this regard their currents turn awry and lose the name of action.’
‘Exactly. You take the words out of my mouth.’
(Shakespeare: Hamlet)

‘Childe Roland to the dark tower came, sir,’ said Jeeves, as we alighted, though what he meant I hadn’t an earthly.
(Shakespeare: King Lear)

I remember Jeeves saying to me once, apropos of how you can never tell what the weather’s going to do, that full many a glorious morning had he seen flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye and then turn into a rather nasty afternoon.
(The italicised phrase is from Shakespeare, Sonnet 33)

Jeeves and clothes

In almost all the stories, right at the start Jeeves and Bertie have a falling out over an item of clothing, there follows the long complicated narrative, and by the end of the story Bertie is so grateful to him for solving everything that he gives in. Not in this one. But there are still some choice ‘clothes moments’. Bertie is getting dressed for dinner when Jeeves advises a quarter inch adjustment in the trousers, prompting Bertie to say:

‘There are moments, Jeeves, when one asks oneself “Do trousers matter?”‘
‘The mood will pass, sir.’

In this case, the plan which starts the story, Jeeves’s wish which Bertie categorically refuses but then, by the end of the complex series of events, finds himself exhaustedly acquiescing in, is the idea of going on a cruise.

The comic strategy of stating the obvious

I call her a ghastly girl because she was a ghastly girl. The Woosters are chivalrous, but they can speak their minds.

The antique shop in the Brompton Road proved, as foreshadowed, to be an antique shop in the Brompton Road.

I spoke with satirical bitterness, and I should have thought that anyone could have seen that satirical bitterness was what I was speaking with.

He had been looking like a man who had missed the finer shades, and he still looked like a man who had missed the finer shades.

Clash of registers

It’s a tried and tested comic trope to have two characters who speak in different registers – the straight man who expresses things in a high-falutin pretentious style, and then the comic who puts it in the crudest demotic. Jeeves and Wooster embody a variation on this comic trope. Bertie expresses something in his poshboy slang and then Jeeves repeats the same idea but expressed in his refined, restrained, verbosely intellectual manner. The result = comic contrast.

‘You agree with me that the situation is a lulu?’
‘Certainly a somewhat sharp crisis in your affairs would appear to have been precipitated, sir.’

The village constable

Speaking of registers, Wodehouse briefly gives the village constable a comic accent, the tone of the officious provincial copper.

‘I was proceeding along the public highway,’ he began, in a slow, measured tone, as if he were giving evidence in court, ‘and the dorg leaped at me in a verlent manner. I was zurled from my bersicle.’

Abbreviations

Either a) trimming a word of a few syllables or b) paring it right back to the first letter. Sometimes a little hard to follow.

Trimmed

And now it was plain that he was hep.

I uttered an exclamash.

That is the posish, I fear.

I had managed to put in two or three hours’ sleep in my cubicle, and that, taken in conjunction with the healing flow of persp. in the hot room and the plunge into the icy tank, had brought the roses back to my cheeks to no little extent.

The gravity of the situash had at last impressed itself upon her.

It was entirely owing to Stiffy that I found myself in my present predic.

One letter

I told the man to take me to the nearest Turkish bath. It is always my practice to linger over a Turkish b.

That sojourn of mine in the T. bath had done much to re-establish the mens sana in corpore
what-not.

I sank into a c. and passed an agitated h. over the b.

‘Let me explain, aged r.’

I sank into the chair which she had vacated, and mopped the b.

The sight of Gussie and Madeline Bassett sitting side by side at the other end of the table turned the food to ashes in my m.

‘You’re talking absolute rot,’ she said, but it was with a quaver in the v.

I turned on the h. again.

Kipling was right. D. than the m. No getting round it.

I proceeded to work off the pent-up f’s.

I let out a mirthless l.

Formulaic phraseology

Homer is famous for coining poetic phrases or formulas to describe common objects (rosy-fingered dawn, wine-coloured sea) and Wodehouse does something similar by devising humorous phrases for common elements in Bertie’s life. They’re a sort of Metonymy which is ‘a figure of speech where a word or phrase is replaced by another’, in this instance by related adjectives but shorn of the expected noun – so in that respect also a kind of abbreviation.

I was able to imbibe about a fluid ounce of the hot and strengthening before he spoke. [tea]

Her eyes were misty with the unshed, and about the size of soup plates. [tears]

Inappropriate

Related to which is using inappropriate terminology, often using phrases normally used to describe inanimate objects to people, as if from sales brochures advertising houses or cars.

I looked round. Those parted lips… Those saucerlike eyes… That slender figure, drooping slightly at the hinges

For Madeline Bassett was undeniably of attractive exterior—slim, svelte, if that’s the word, and bountifully equipped with golden hair and all the fixings.

Slang phrases

Sometimes Bertie uses phrases which may reflect the slang of his class but are obscure to us.

In that shop, on the other hand, he had given the impression of a man who has found the blue bird. [?]

After that exhibition of his at the prizegiving, she handed Gussie the mitten. [dumped him]

The news of the betrothal was, therefore, conveyed to him by letter, and I imagine that the dear girl must have hauled up her slacks about me in a way that led him to suppose that what he was getting was a sort of cross between Robert Taylor and Einstein. [boasted]

‘Suppose old Bassett does find that book, what do you think will ensue?’ I could answer that one. ‘He would immediately put the bee on the wedding.’ [cancel]

‘Consult Jeeves, you mean?’ I shook the lemon. [head]

Stiffy’s map, as a rule, tends to be rather grave and dreamy. [face]

I can testify that when you are riding [a bicycle] without your hands, privacy and a complete freedom from interruption are of the essence. The merest suggestion of an unexpected Scottie connecting with the ankle-bone, at such a time, and you swoop into a sudden swerve. And, as everybody knows, if the hands are not firmly on the handlebars, a sudden swerve spells a smeller.

The nibs [higher-ups, those in authority, clever ones, superiors]

‘Ha!’ said Spode, and biffed off with a short, sharp laugh. [left, walked away]

I got into the full soup and fish, and was immediately conscious of a marked improvement. [evening dress]

Brass rags had been parted by the young couple… [they’d broken up]

I racked the bean. [head, brain, mind]

‘Who do you think you are, coming strolling into a girl’s bedroom, sticking on dog about the right way and the wrong way of pinching helmets?’

I lit a cigarette and proceeded to stress the moral lesson to be learned from all this rannygazoo.

Aunt Dahlia’s insults

In the second novel it became noticeable how Aunt Dahlia lost no opportunity to cheerfully insult Bertie and the pattern continues here. She calls him:

  • ‘Hello, ugly’
  • my little chickadee
  • young hound

What feels new is that Bertie feels confident enough to bandy friendly nicknames right back at her, to her face calling her:

  • aged relative
  • my fluttering old aspen
  • my dear old mysterious hinter
  • old ancestor
  • old flesh and blood
  • old thicker than water
  • My dear old faulty reasoner
  • my misguided old object

Jeeves’s wisdom

‘We are as little children, frightened of the dark, and Jeeves is the wise nurse who takes us by the hand and–’,
‘Switches the light on?’
‘Precisely.’

Sir Roderick Spode

Rather surprisingly, this Sir Roderick Spode turns out to be leader of a Fascist party i.e. is a satire on the real-world English fascist leader, Oswald Mosely.

‘Don’t you ever read the papers ? Roderick Spode is the founder and head of the Saviours of Britain, a Fascist organization better known as the Black Shorts. His general idea, if he doesn’t get knocked on the head with a bottle in one of the frequent brawls in which he and his followers indulge, is to make himself a Dictator.’

Bertie clarifies an important element:

‘By the way, when you say ‘ shorts,’ you mean ‘ shirts,’ of course.’
‘No. By the time Spode formed his association, there were no shirts left. He and his adherents wear black shorts.’
‘Footer bags, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘How perfectly foul.’
‘Yes.’
‘Bare knees?’
‘Bare knees.’
‘Golly!’
‘Yes.’

Spode is a huge, threatening bully right up to the moment when Bertie discovers he has a dark secret and threatens to reveal it – at which point he becomes oilily sycophantic i.e. like all bullies, can be instantly deflated. When pressed, right at the end of the novel, Jeeves reveals Spode’s guilty secret: it is that he moonlights as a designer of women’s underclothing and is the uncredited owner of the emporium in Bond Street known as Eulalie Soeurs. Would ruin his reputation as a manly Fascist if that ever came out. A ludicrous puncture of his sub-Mussolinian braggadocio.

Plot

This third Jeeves and Wooster novel feels longer and even more insanely complicated than its predecessors. Wodehouse has this reputation for comedy and I start off loving the tone and characters but do rather find that halfway through the novels they begin to seem quite long, and the blizzard of farcically improbable twists and turns does, eventually, become quite wearing. I’m always very relieved as I enter the final furlongs.

As briefly as I can:

Uncle Tom Travers is a collector of silverware and has his eye on a fine silver cow creamer at an antique shop on the Brompton Road. His wife, Bertie Wooster’s Aunt Dahlia, wants Tom not to buy it, as she needs to touch him for money to fund her magazine, Milady’s Boudoir, particularly as she has just signed up an expensive lady novelist to write some articles for it.

In the event the cow creamer is purchased by Sir Watkyn Bassett, the odious magistrate who fined Bertie £5 for drunkenly stealing a policeman’s helmet a few years earlier, and who has now retired to his country estate, Totleigh Towers. This Bassett has a daughter, soppy Madeline Bassett, who’s still in love with the hopeless newt-fancier, Bertie’s friend Gussie Fink-Nottle, who Sir Watkyn thoroughly disapproves of. At the same time, Bassett’s niece, Stephanie ‘Stiffy’ Byng, who lives at the Towers, is in love with the local curate, another old college pal of Bertie’s, one Harold ‘Stinker’ Pinker. Another guest of Sir Watkyns is a giant of a man called Roderick Spode—leader of a silly fascist organisation called the Black Shorts—who takes an instant dislike to Bertie when he happens to bump into him in the Brompton Road antique shop, and keeps a fierce and jealous eye over Stephanie Byng. There’s one last element which is that Gussie, a guest at Totleigh Towers, has been keeping a notebook containing very unflattering portraits of both Bassett and Spode.

Right. That’s a summary of the cast and main issues. The ball gets rolling when Bertie is summoned to Totleigh by a telegram from Madeline, asking his help to sort out her troubled engagement to Gussie; but he has simultaneously been instructed to get his hands on the silver cow creamer, in order to placate her husband Tom. Then Stiffy arbitrarily decides to test her boyfriend Harold’s devotion to her, by demanding that he knock off and steal the helmet of the local constable, Oates, because she thinks he’s been beastly to her beloved dog, Bartholomew. Then Gussie stupidly manages to lose the notebook full of incriminating descriptions of Bassett and Spode.

For an impressive 300 pages, Wodehouse manages to wring every conceivable variation on these themes, having all the couples fall out with each other, make impossible demands, threaten Bertie, while the silver cow, the notebook and the policeman’s helmet all get stolen, stolen again, hidden, found, searched for, accompanied by all manner of threats and blackmail between various characters far too complicated to set down in detail.

In the end it is Jeeves who saves the day, managing to blackmail both Sir Watkyn (with a suit for malicious libel and damages) and Spode (with revealing his guilty secret) into acquiescing in the marriages of the two young couples, and releasing Bertie from the various charges he faced. This is because, at various points, Bertie is angrily accused of stealing all the two central objects – the cow creamer and the policemen’s helmet – which he keeps being caught red-handed with because the actual thieves (Aunt Dahlia and Stiffy, respectively) dump them on him at incriminating moments – anyway, once all the comic complications have been utterly wrung out of the plot, Jeeves manages to get Bertie cleared of all charges, in return for which, as I mentioned above, Bertie acquiesces in Jeeves’s wish to go for a big cruise.

Cast

  • Bertie Wooster – narrator of the stories, amusingly dim upper-class layabout
  • Jeeves – his suave and hyper-intelligent valet
  • Aunt Dahlia aka Mrs Dahlia Travers
  • Uncle Tom Travers – her husband, famous for his delicate digestion, and (newly introduced in this novel) a keen silverware collector:

This uncle is a bird who, sighting a nephew, is apt to buttonhole him and become a bit informative on the subject of sconces and foliation, not to mention scrolls, ribbon wreaths in high relief and gadroon borders, and it seemed to me that silence was best.

  • Anatole – their legendary cook, from Provence
  • Gussie Fink-Nottle – ‘a fish-faced pal of mine who, on reaching man’s estate, had buried himself in the country and devoted himself entirely to the study of newts’
  • Madeline Bassett – ‘A droopy, soupy, sentimental exhibit, with melting eyes and a cooing voice and the most extraordinary views on such things as stars and rabbits’
  • Sir Watkyn Bassett, CBE – retired judge, father of Madeline, residing at Totleigh Towers, Totleigh-in-the-Wold, Gloucestershire
    • Butterfield – his butler
  • Sir Roderick Spode – guest of Sir Watkyn’s and leader of the Fascist organisation, the Saviours of England; according to Bertie a ‘Big chap with a small moustache and the sort of eye that can open an oyster at sixty paces’
  • Pomona Grindle – popular novelist – funny how popular novelists like Wodehouse or Agatha Christie, enjoy putting fictional popular novelists into their novels to satirise
  • Miss Stephanie Byng aka Stiffy – Madeline’s cousin, who lives at Totleigh Towers
    • Bartholomew – her dog
  • Constable Oates – the local policeman
  • Harold Pinker aka Stinker Pinker – village curate who Stiffy’s engaged to – ‘a large, lumbering, Newfoundland puppy of a chap—full of zeal, yes—always doing his best, true, but never quite able to make the grade; a man, in short, who if there was a chance of bungling an enterprise and landing himself in the soup, would snatch at it’

The Junior Ganymede club

The Junior Ganymede is a club for gentlemen’s personal gentlemen in Curzon Street, to which Jeeves has belonged for some years. Under Rule Eleven, every new member is required to supply the club with full information regarding his employer. This not only provides entertaining reading, but serves as a warning to members who may be contemplating taking service with gentlemen who fall short of the ideal.

Menus

I have often lamented that in the majority of Great Literature people regularly have meals, lunches and dinners, but the author never tells you what they ate, which is extremely frustrating. In this book there’s a rare mention of a complete menu of a country house dinner:

  • Grade A soup (content unknown)
  • a toothsome fish (species unknown)
  • a salmi of game which
  • asparagus
  • a jam omelette
  • some spirited sardines on toast

A jam omelette?

On aunts

One minute aunts are the bane of his life:

‘If I had my life to live again, Jeeves, I would start it as an orphan without any aunts. Don’t they put aunts in Turkey in sacks and drop them in the Bosphorus?’
‘Odalisques, sir, I understand. Not aunts.’
‘Well, why not aunts ? Look at the trouble they cause in the world. I tell you, Jeeves, and you may quote me as saying this—Behind every poor, innocent, harmless blighter who is going down for the third time in the soup, you will find, if you look carefully enough, the aunt who shoved him into it.’

But on the other hand:

‘I should have known better than to doubt Aunt Dahlia. Aunts always know. It’s a sort of intuition.’

Why so many aunts? And why are aunts such figures of fun? Aunts dominate almost all the J&W stories and crop up in many others outside the series. They are also prominent in works by other popular authors as figures of fun, such as Agatha Christie. Why? Two big reasons.

1. Because aunts are parent replacements. They are parents but without the strict control of parents. They are representatives of the older and so, in theory, controlling generation, the generation which should bridle and control the young, but without any of an actual parent’s actual legal responsibilities and duties. This is partly why they’re figures of fun: they’re parents but stripped of all actual parental authority.

2. Because they’re female. A hundred years ago fathers were figures with total legal control over their children until they reached the age of 21, as well as dominating moral and psychological power. An uncle is a male authority figure from the parental generation but, typically, stripped of responsibility, is classically considered a more approachable and sympathetic figure, someone you can turn to for help and advice, maybe. Whereas an aunt is two times removed from the figure of authority being a) not the legal guardian and b) a female, and so one step removed from the classically male patriarchal authority role.

Why are they funny, exactly? Tradition

P.S. Mind you, the whole point of the 1920s was the widespread feeling that the younger generation scorned parental control, something Bertie himself comments on:

A glance at her [Madeline] was enough to tell one that she belonged to that small group of girls who still think a parent should have something to say about things…

Bertie on girls and women

This aunt is a formidable old creature, when stirred.

Earnest Americans, academics and feminists have plenty of ammunition to denounce Bertie – and through him, Wodehouse – as a misogynist. Certainly he misses no opportunity to roll his eyes about women, and the underlying premise of the stories is his morbid fear of ever losing his bachelor status and getting hitched to a woman. I read it, I’m aware of it, but I read it as a comic trope, like Bertie’s own stupidity, his heedless drunkenness, like Jeeves’s Godlike omniscience, like the bad-tempered old judge, the priceless chef, and so on. They’re all stereotypes. But for the record I’ll record some of the grosser incidences.

I stared at the young pill, appalled at her moral code, if you could call it that. You know, the more I see of women, the more I think that there ought to be a law. Something has got to be done about this sex, or the whole fabric of Society will collapse, and then what silly asses we shall all look.

When you really read many of these comments them, you realise the real victim of them is Bertie, because any time he expresses any opinion about anything, he reveals what a dimwit he is.

‘I am implying nothing derogatory to your cousin Madeline, when I say that the idea of being united to her in the bonds of holy wedlock is one that freezes the gizzard. The fact is in no way to her discredit. I should feel just the same about marrying many of the world’s noblest women. There are certain females whom one respects, admires, reveres, but only from a distance. If they show any signs of attempting to come closer, one is prepared to fight them off with a blackjack.

If you wanted to take a feminist line, I suppose you could say that, no matter how humorously intended, the anti-women sentiments which are found throughout Wodehouse’s works are just one more brick in the huge wall of misogynistic patriarchy which dominated British society until late in the 20th century and can, of course, still be found in many places. I.e. the humorous context doesn’t count, or doesn’t invalidate the essentially negative attitude. Whether funny or not, it’s still negative.

‘You know, Jeeves,’ I said, ‘when you really start to look into it, it’s perfectly amazing how the opposite sex seems to go out of its way to snooter me. You recall Miss Wickham and the hot-water bottle?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And Gwladys what-was-her-name, who put her boy friend with the broken leg to bed in my flat?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And Pauline Stoker, who invaded my rural cottage at dead of night in a bathing suit?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What a sex! What a sex, Jeeves! But none of that sex, however deadlier than the male, can be ranked in the same class with this Stiffy.’

Or:

‘She wasn’t kidding. She meant business. She was fully aware that she was doing something which even by female standards was raw, but she didn’t care. The whole fact of the matter is that all this modem emancipation of women has resulted in them getting it up their noses and not giving a damn what they do. It was not like this in Queen Victoria’s day. The Prince Consort would have had a word to say about a girl like Stiffy, what?’

It’s a literally humourless interpretation, but I’m sympathetic to it…

Bertie and Sherlock and Hercule

In my review of the previous novel, ‘Right Ho, Jeeves’, I pointed out the surprisingly large influence on Wodehouse of Sherlock Holmes, so much so that Bertie refers to his adventures as ‘cases’ and the people who come to him and Jeeves for help as ‘clients’. And very obviously the entire idea of a partnership solving problems, one of whom is the super-intelligent problem-solver while the other is his dim sidekick (i.e. Jeeves and Wooster), obviously echoes Holmes and Watson.

The Holmes influence is toned down in this novel so that there’s only one reference to Watson and one to Holmes. Instead what surprised me is that Wodehouse chucks in a reference to Hercule Poirot! It’s an interesting indication of how Christie’s detective had penetrated so deeply into popular culture that he could be jokily referenced in other popular fiction.

I mean, imagine how some unfortunate Master Criminal would feel, on coming down to do a murder at the old Grange, if he found that not only was Sherlock Holmes putting in the weekend there, but Hercule Poirot, as well!

But in fact there’s more to it than that. Wodehouse deliberately drops a number of Christie references throughout the novel, turning the text itself into a sort of Christie-esque mystery.

Bertie is reading a murder mystery

To while away the time I pulled the arm-chair up and got out the mystery story I had brought with me from London. As my researches in it had already shown me, it was a particularly good one, full of crisp clues and meaty murders and I was soon absorbed.

And the novel even gives him clues what to do, as when he’s looking for the hidden notebook and the mystery he’s reading has the detective recommend looking on top of the suspect’s wardrobe.

Comparison with thrillers: Here’s Bertie recruiting Jeeves to help him write out a summary of the situation:

‘I think it would help if we did what they do in the thrillers. Do you ever read thrillers?’
‘Not very frequently, sir.’
‘Well, there’s always a bit where the detective, in order to clarify his thoughts, writes down a list of suspects, motives, times when, alibis, clues and what not. Let us try this plan. Take pencil and paper, Jeeves, and we will assemble the facts. Entitle the thing ‘ Wooster, B.—position of.’

That’s exactly what Poirot does in many of his stories.

Adversary Earlier there’d been a passing reference in a telegram. Bertie had described Bassett being suspicious of him as:

like ambassador finding veiled woman snooping round safe containing secret treaty.

This is precisely what happens in one of Christie’s early spy adventures, The Secret Adversary.

Fiddling Further, in chapter 4 while wondering what to do, Gussie stands at the mantlepiece and fiddles with a statuette on it. This is exactly what Poirot does in many of the Christie stories, rearranging bits and bobs on mantlepieces or desks under the influence of his symmetry obsessive compulsive disorder.

Little grey cells And it becomes unquestionable that Wodehouse is parodying Poirot when a moment later:

He pondered, frowning. Then the little grey cells seemed to stir.

This phrase is copyright Poirot, occurs in all the stories, and lays any doubt to rest.

Psychology Christie was at pains to distinguish Poirot from Holmes in all sorts of ways but one is to make Poirot focus not on material clues but on analysing the psychology of the murderer. Well, it’s no coincidence that throughout this novel Bertie, and others, insist on Jeeves’s superior reading of psychology. It is clearly meant to align him with Christie’s Poirot.

  • In these delicate matters of psychology [Jeeves] never errs.
  • ‘I think we can find one [a solution], sir, if we approach the matter from the psychological angle.’
    ‘Oh, psychological?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘The psychology of the individual?’
    ‘Precisely, sir.’
  • ‘Jeeves,’ I explained to Stiffy, who, of course, knew the man only slightly, scarcely more, indeed, than as a silent figure that had done some smooth potato-handing when she had lunched at my flat, ‘is and always has been a whale on the psychology of the individual. He eats it alive.’

Gooseflesher Incidentally, Bertie converts the thriller into his own poshboy argot and refers to it as a gooseflesher.

Comic phrases

About seven feet in height, and swathed in a plaid ulster which made him look about six feet across, he caught the eye and arrested it. It was as if Nature had intended to make a gorilla, and had changed its mind at the last moment.

I had described Roderick Spode to the butler as a man with an eye that could open an oyster at sixty paces, and it was an eye of this nature that he was directing at me now. He looked like a Dictator on the point of starting a purge.

‘Oh, Bertie,’ she said, in a low voice like beer trickling out of a jug, ‘you ought not to be here.’

She looked at me like someone who has just solved the crossword puzzle with a shrewd ‘Emu’ in the top right-hand corner.

Stiffy stood for a moment looking after him a bit yearningly, like a girl who wished that she had half a brick handy.

I turned to Aunt Dahlia, who was making noises like a motorbicycle in the background.

Animal similes

He paused, and swallowed convulsively, like a Pekingese taking a pill.

The Dictator had to shove his oar in. He asked if he should call a policeman, and old Bassett’s eyes gleamed for a moment. Being a magistrate makes you love the idea of calling policemen. It’s like a tiger tasting blood.

I turned to Gussie, who was now looking like a bewildered halibut.

He gave me a hard stare. The eyes behind the spectacles were cold. He looked like an annoyed turbot.

Old Bassett had been listening to these courtesies with a dazed expression on the map—gulping a bit from time to time, like a fish that has been hauled out of a pond on a bent pin and isn’t at all sure it is equal to the pressure of events.

I now gazed at him hopefully, like a seal awaiting a bit of fish.

However, the last female had no sooner passed through the door than Gussie, who had been holding it open, shot after her like a diving duck and did not return.

He was staring incredulously, like one bitten by a rabbit.

She snorted like a bison at the water-trough.

Old Bassett, who had gone into a coma again, came out of it and uttered a sound like the death-rattle of a dying duck.

There came the sound of furniture being dragged away, and presently the door opened and his head emerged cautiously, like that of a snail taking a look round after a thunderstorm.

I don’t say I didn’t leave my chair like a jackrabbit that has sat on a cactus.

The Drones club

Wodehouse’s fictitious Drones Club was located in Dover Street, off Piccadilly. A drone is a male bee that does no work and lives off the labour of others so the name is a satire on the 1920s stereotype of rich, idle young men. The Drones Club appears in not just the Jeeves and Wooster stories, but the Psmith and Blandings series, as well as others. Members mentioned in this book are:

  • Bertie
  • Freddie Widgeon
  • Bingo Little
  • Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright
  • Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps
  • Oofy Prosser

Addresses

Bertie’s address:

Bertram Wooster
Berkeley Mansions
Berkeley Square
London

Aunt Dahlia’s address:

Mrs Dahlia Travers
47 Charles Street
Berkeley Square
London.


Credit

‘The Code of the Woosters’ was published in 1938 by Herbert Jenkins. I read it online.

Related links

Related reviews

This lax post-war world

She was naming the Price of the Papers. In other words, after being blackmailed by an aunt at breakfast, I was now being blackmailed by a female crony before dinner. Pretty good going, even for this lax post-war world.

Thank You, Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse (1934)

‘Can you keep a secret?’
‘No.’

‘Bertie.’
‘Hallo?’
‘Ever been hit over the head with a chair?’
‘No.’
‘Well, you soon may be.’
I began to see she was in difficult mood.

‘If cooks would stick to their roasts and hashes,’ I said rather severely, ‘and not waste their time in
psychical research, life would be a very different thing.’

‘Mr Wooster is an agreeable young gentleman, but I would describe him as essentially one of Nature’s bachelors.’

After writing 35 short stories about Jeeves and Wooster (1915 to 1930), ‘Thank You, Jeeves’ is the first of the 11 full-length Jeeves and Wooster novels Wodehouse wrote. All the mannerisms we saw in the short stories are here: farcical plots based on the complicated misunderstandings of posh young people falling in love and managing their eccentric parents, all refracted through the ludicrously upper class attitude of the wonderfully dim and self-deluding narrator, the upper-class idler Bertram ‘Bertie’ Wooster. And all the usual stylistic elements:

Comically dim references to classical literature

‘Well, let me tell you that the man that hath no music in himself…’ I stepped to the door. ‘Jeeves,’ I called down the passage, ‘what was it Shakespeare said the man who hadn’t music in himself was fit for?’
‘Treasons, stratagems, and spoils, sir.’
‘Thank you, Jeeves. Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils,’ I said, returning.

And:

‘Jeeves,’ I recollect saying, on returning to the apartment, ‘who was the fellow who on looking at
something felt like somebody looking at something? I learned the passage at school, but it has escaped me.’
‘I fancy the individual you have in mind, sir, is the poet Keats, who compared his emotions on first reading Chapman’s Homer to those of stout Cortez when with eagle eyes he stared at the Pacific’

So it’s a running gag that Bertie regularly wants to quote some gem of English literature but can never remember the actual details. And a variation on it is when characters (often but not always Bertie) offer to quote literary classics at inopportune moments and are told to shut up.

‘What you want on an occasion like this, Chuffy, old man,’ I said, ‘is simple faith. The poet Tennyson tells us…’
‘Shut up,’ said Chuffy. ‘

Or:

‘Feminine psychology is admittedly odd, sir. The poet Pope …’
‘Never mind about the poet Pope, Jeeves.’
‘No, sir.’
‘There are times when one wants to hear all about the poet Pope and times when one doesn’t.’
‘Very true, sir.’

Climaxing with:

‘Reminds one of that thing about Lo somebody’s name led all the rest.’
Jeeves coughed. He had that informative gleam of his in his eyes.
‘Abou ben Adhem, sir.’
‘Have I what? said old Stoker, puzzled.
‘The poem to which you allude relates to a certain Abou ben Adhem, who, according to the story, awoke one night from a deep dream of peace to find an angel…’
‘Get out!’ said old Stoker, very quietly.
‘Sir?’
‘Get out of this room before I murder you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And take your angels with you.’
‘Very good, sir.’

Forgetting words

Forgetting famous quotations is one aspect of the broader comic topos of Bertie forgetting words and needing to be corrected.

I was impatient with this – what the dickens is the word I want?

Analysing this (if analysing is the word I want)…

What is Jeeves, after all? A valet. A salaried attendant. And a fellow simply can’t go on truckling – do I mean truckling? I know it begins with a ‘t’ – to his valet for ever.

I wished to disabuse him (if disabuse is what I’m driving at) of the idea that any such infatuation existed.

Most of the time he just sat and champed in a sort of dark silence, like a man with something on his mind. And when he did speak it was with a marked what-d’you-call-it.

What are those sore things people find themselves in?’
‘Straits, sir.’
‘I am in the sorest straits, Jeeves.

‘No imagination, that kid. No vision. I’ve often noticed it. His fancy is – what’s the word?’
‘Pedestrian, sir?’
‘Exactly.

‘Jeeves,’ I said, ‘we require your co-operation and advice.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘To begin with, let me give you a brief synopsis… do I mean synopsis?’
‘Yes, sir. Synopsis is perfectly correct.’
‘… a brief synopsis, then, of the position of affairs.’

‘You wanted to hit him over the head with a spade or something. All wrong. What is needed here is… what’s the word, Jeeves?’
‘Finesse, sir.’
‘Exactly. Carry on, Jeeves.’

The ‘the’

A really prominent part of Bertie’s diction (defined as: ‘the choice and use of words and phrases in speech or writing’) is his insistent use of ‘the’ where a possessive pronoun such as ‘my’ or ‘his’ would be more conventional;

I shook the head.

I raised the eyebrows.

I confess that it was in sombre mood that I assembled the stick, the hat, and the lemon-coloured some half-hour later and strode out into the streets of London.

I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said that a great peace enveloped the soul.

Where Bertram could find only a tentative ‘Pip-pip!’ she bounded forward, full of speech, and grabbed the old hand warmly.

I wiped the brow. ‘Jeeves,’ I said, ‘this calls for careful thought.’

At seven on the dot, accordingly, I stepped aboard the yacht and handed the hat and light overcoat to a passing salt. It was with mixed feelings that I did so, for conflicting emotions were warring in the bosom.

It being reasonable to suppose by then that the coast was clear, I poked the head up over the desk.

The pride of the Woosters

Bertie’s comic exaggeration of his family’s, and his, abilities:

As I turned the corner into Piccadilly, I was a thing of fire and chilled steel; and I think in about another half-jiffy I should have been snorting, if not actually shouting the ancient battle cry of the Woosters, had I not observed on the skyline a familiar form.

This parting of the ways with Jeeves had made me feel a bit as if I had just stepped on a bomb and was trying to piece myself together again in a bleak world, but we Woosters can keep the stiff upper lip.

Half a dozen sentences start with the formula ‘we Woosters’ before going on to boast of their accomplishments. This exaggerated reverence of the Wooster lineage and qualities struck me as new-ish, or made more prominent for this book format.

Bertram

Then there are the many times he refers to himself in the third person, mockingly but also seriously, as ‘Bertram’.

Something was being kept from Bertram.

Nothing of the dog in the manger about Bertram.

There was something in his manner that gave me the idea that he considered Bertram eccentric.

Those who know Bertram Wooster best are aware that he is a man of sudden, strong enthusiasms and that, when in the grip of one of these, he becomes a remorseless machine – tense, absorbed, single-minded.

All this ‘pride of the Woosters’ and referring to himself in the third person like Julius Caesar is, of course, in stark contrast with the opinion of him held by all the other characters who, without exception, think him a fool and an idiot, ‘you poor goof’, ‘you poor ditherer’, ‘damned sooty-faced imbecile’ and many more. A typical opinion being:

‘Bertie!’ he [Chuffy] said, in a sort of moaning way. ‘My God! I might have guessed it would be you. You really are without exception the most completely drivelling lunatic that was ever at large.’

And:

Bertram Wooster is not accustomed to causing convulsions in the gentler sex. As a matter of fact, usually when girls see me, they incline rather to the amused smile, or, on occasion, to the weary sigh and the despairing ‘Oh, are you here again, Bertie?’

Registers

The book makes Bertie aware of the different registers or tones he uses i.e. characters notice and comment on it.

‘I always esteemed you most highly.’
‘You did what? Where do you pick up these expressions?’
‘Well, I suppose from Jeeves, mostly. My late man. He had a fine vocabulary.’

This influence Jeeves has on the speech patterns of those around him becomes a minor recurring theme. When Stoker talks to Bertie on his yacht, a few days after Jeeves has started working for him (Stoker), Bertie notices straightaway that his diction has improved, become more highfalutin’.

I mean to say, this man had had the advantage of Jeeves’s society for only about twenty-four hours, and here he was… talking just like him!

We see this in practice on the occasions when Jeeves explicitly corrects Bertie’s phraseology – or at least suggests alternative and better phrases. This becomes a running gag.

‘I admit that this change of heart is welcome. It has come at the right time. I shall accept his invitation. I regard it as…’
‘The amende honorable, sir?’
‘I was going to say olive branch.’
‘Or olive branch. The two terms are virtually synonymous. The French phrase I would be inclined to consider perhaps slightly the more exact in the circumstances – carrying with it, as it does, the implication of remorse, of the desire to make restitution. But if you prefer the expression “olive branch”, by all means employ it, sir.’
‘Thank you, Jeeves.’
‘Not at all, sir.’

Or:

‘Can’t you see? It’s all very well for old Stoker to talk – er—’
‘Glibly, sir?’
‘Airily.’
‘Airily or glibly, sir, whichever you prefer.’
‘It’s all very well for old Stoker to talk with airy glibness about marrying us off…’

Jeeves’s role as indicated by his language

Jeeves’s interventions to correct Bertie’s speech, to suggest the correct word or phrase, to supply the quotations Bertie has forgotten, all these are verbal indications or equivalents of his role in the stories.

To put it another way, all the characters have their own idiolects (‘the speech habits peculiar to a particular person’), from Bertie and Chuffy’s absurd poshness, through Sir Rodney Glossop’s outrage, the rough Cockney of the crook Brinkley, and the two examples of Americans – blustering millionaire J. Washburn Stoker and the affronted bright young woman tones of his American daughter, Pauline Stoker.

The point I’m trying to make is that Jeeves’s tone is always unshakeably factual, accurate and complete. Logical and clear and precise, with none of the slang all the other characters are liable to. So his speech is like a lighthouse on an island in a storm, battered by the raging idiolects of all around him, but shining a clear, logical light through every storm and fog. (‘I got the voices but I missed the play of expression. And I’d have given a lot to be able to see it. Not Jeeves’s, of course, because Jeeves never has any.’)

And this clarity of speech and thought is of course a verbal or tonal indicator of the structural role Jeeves plays in the stories, as the controlling mind who masters every situation and finds a solution to every problem.

Slang

Thus Jeeves stands completely aside from the bombardment of posh slang which characterises Bertie’s narrative (and often the dialogue of his posh friends).

As to slang, slang is (mostly) delightful because it is language cavorting and making free with itself. The best kind of slang is a sign of energy and life. And its domination of the text embodies the exuberance and delight of the stories. Whatever’s going on in the plot, we are always delighted with Bertie’s never-ending supply of inventive and entertaining phrases.

‘Jeeves has nothing to say on that or any other subject. We have parted brass-rags.’

‘He had the immortal rind to tell me that if I didn’t give up my banjolele he would resign.’

There never had been anyone like Jeeves, I felt, as I climbed sombrely into the soup and fish, and there never would be.

It was about as juicy a biff as I had had for years.

I removed the lid with as much courtly grace as I could muster up, but the face had coloured with embarrassment and I was more or less gasping for air.

I know that for years and years I have been trying to lend him of my plenty, but he has always steadfastly refused to put the bite on me.

‘Why all this fuss about money? After all, plenty of bust blokes have married oofy girls before now.’

I rose accordingly, and was just about to ankle upstairs…

It is plain to me that Miss Stoker is the one who will require the persuasive word, the nicely reasoned argument – in short, the old oil.

I mean to say, a fellow closely connected by ties of blood with a man who used to walk about on his hands is scarcely in a position, where the question of sanity is concerned, to put on dog and set himself up…

I emitted a hollow g.

I don’t know how long it was that I stood there, rooted to the s.

He stirred in the darkness. I fancy he was mopping the b.

The next moment I was feeling that nothing mattered in this world or the next except about a quart of coffee and all the eggs and b. you could cram onto a dish.

‘What I’m driving at is that you couldn’t by any stretch of the imag. call him slender and willowy.’

In my heart I was convinced that the fellow had gone off his onion.

He would have been on velvet.

I hitched myself into position forty-six in the hope that it would be easier on the f.p’s than the last forty-five, and had another shot at the dreamless.

Then the barrier of kipper gave way, and one of the most devastating yowls of terror I’ve ever heard in my puff ripped through the air.

These breathers with Brinkley take it out of a man.

When he spoke, there was something so subdued, so what you might call quavering, about his voice that I came within a toucher of placing a kindly arm round his shoulder and telling him to cheer up.

I could not only have scoured the face but could have hopped into the old two-seater, which was champing at its bit there, and tooled off to London by road…

Of all the unpleasant contingencies which could have arisen, this seemed to me about the scaliest.

She cheesed it in mid-sentence, deeply moved.

A little note on ‘binge’ which in Bertie’s hands seems to mean something very like that other ’20s and ’30s word, ‘stunt’.

‘What does she seem to feel about this buying the house binge?’

Words had passed. Relations had been severed. The whole binge was irrevocably off.

The plot

The plot is secondary to the manner, really. The point of the stories is Bertie’s ludicrous attitude and the tone of voice. But as to the plot, it is a preposterous farce of the silliest and most entertaining type.

Chuffy loves Pauline Like almost all the short stories (and most farces) it revolves around a frustrated love affair, between Bertie’s chum Marmaduke ‘Chuffy’ Chuffnell and an American heiress, Pauline Stoker, daughter of the calculating multimillionaire J. Washburn Stoker. The plot consists of a whole series of increasingly far-fetched and ridiculous obstacles placed in their way, along with various comic side-plots.

In terms of the core love story, the first obstacle is that Bertie himself was, a few months before the narrative commences, briefly engaged to this Pauline before her father called it off, under the influence of Bertie’s old nemesis, the nerve specialist (or ‘loony doctor’ as Bertie calls him) Sir Roderick Glossop who Bertie fell foul of in several of the short stories. At various points, the narrative makes it seem like Bertie and Pauline have fallen back in love, like the moment when Chuffy comes across them kissing in a garden, which makes Chuffy break off their engagement with all manner of ensuing complications.

In the end they young couple are, of course, happily reunited but not before loads of farcical incidents.

Jeeves leaves Bertie In rather the same way, early on in the narrative the far more important couple of Bertie and Jeeves are separated. As the pretext for this Wodehouse invents the notion that Bertie has become addicted to playing the banjolele, making a racket with his playing and the caterwauling he calls singing. This leads to protests from all his neighbours in the apartment block where he lives, Berkeley Mansions, West 1 (extremely posh Mayfair district of London). When the landlord gives him an ultimatum to either give up playing the banjolele or be evicted, Bertie very improbably says he’d rather move out than quit his artistic destiny.

Everyone goes to Somerset Two things result from this: 1) Bertie takes up an offer from his old pal, Chuffy, to move into one of the many cottages on the latter’s huge estate on the coast of Somerset, Chufnell Hall in the West of England. Almost the entire novel is set on this estate – at the big Hall, in Bertie’s cottage and various other buildings, and in the yacht moored in the harbour, the grand yacht belonging to J. Washburn Stoker who has sailed here to oversee the nuptials of his daughter and Lord Chuffnell (Chuffy). So much for the setting.

Jeeves quits 2) The second major consequence of Bertie’s decision is that Jeeves hands in his notice. In his muted logical way, he also cannot stand the racket of the banjolele and the thought of being locked up in a country cottage with Bertie playing it all day long is not bearable. So Jeeves announces to his shocked master that he is quitting and that he has already found a job working for Chuffy.

Thus all the ingredients are in place for farce. We are at a big country house. The young master is in love with a millionaire’s daughter. Her former fiancé (Bertie) is staying in a cottage in the grounds. And his former, valet, Jeeves, is now working at the house for the young master.

Incidentally, when I read that Jeeves quits and leaves I was sad because he is the anchor of the stories but need not have been because he, in fact, crops up in more or less every sticky situation and provides plans and solutions for everything. So he is pretty much as present in the narrative as in the short stories.

Complications

Now, not only is Chuffy in love with Pauline, but he is skint (broke, penniless). His estate is worth a fortune but he has no ready money. So he is negotiating a business deal whereby his fiancée’s father (J. Washburn) will buy the estate and lease it to Glossop to set up a sanatorium (that popular 1920s and ’30s’ institution) there. So it’s vital for Chuffy to keep both older men onside.

Also, Bertie discovers that although the young couple love each other, Chuffy hasn’t yet plucked up the nerve to propose to her because he is aware he is broke, so he wants to wait till the deal goes through. Typical of the farcical goings-on is that when Jeeves informs Bertie of this, Bertie conceives one of his cunning plans which is to arrange for Chuffy to see Bertie kissing Pauline in the garden which should trigger an outburst of passionate love and their engagement. Of course this goes wrong when the person who witnesses the kiss is none other than the girl’s father, J. Washburn Stoker, who is immediately convinced that Pauline is still in love with Bertie!

Meanwhile, both households have small boys of a similar age, for with Chuffy lives his Aunt Myrtle who has a young son, Seabury, while J. Washburn has brought over his young son, Dwight. Bertie hates children so he is delighted to hear from Jeeves that the boys started fighting and their fathers joined in, leading to Stoker being banned from Chufnell Hall, and retiring to his yacht anchored in the harbour.

This kicks off a major plot strand which is that Stoker decides to keep his daughter under a kind of house arrest, confining her to the yacht. But (as I write this I can see how improbable it is, but it works in the narrative) Jeeves swaps employment from Chuffy to Stoker, becoming his valet (!?) and in this capacity bears a love letter Chuffy has written to Pauline.

Touched by the letter, Pauline pops into a swimming costume, slips over the side of the yacht, swims to shore and the first thing we know about this is when Bertie arrives that evening at his cottage and finds her in his bed. At moments like this Wodehouse becomes bedroom farce and you can imagine the whole thing on the stage.

After he’s recovered from his initial surprise, Bertie does the honourable thing and says he’ll go and sleep in the car. But this triggers a comic sequence where he is plagued by the dim local police sergeant, Sergeant Voules, and his even dimmer constable (who happens to be his nephew) Constable Dobson. First of all they spot the broken window in Bertie’s cottage where Pauline broke in, and quiz him about that, Bertie assuring them there is no burglar within. Then, when Bertie goes to sleep in the car, he is woken by the flashlight of the sergeant who saw someone suspicious prowling around. And then when Bertie can’t sleep in the car and so removes to another outhouse, he is woken again by the sergeant and constable.

Full comic potential is milked from this situation because the cops tell Chuffy who arrives and declares Bertie must be drunk, and so the three of them pick him up, despite his protestations, and insist on carrying him back to the cottage and up to his bedroom. Of course the reader is anxiously expecting them to all discover Pauline in Bertie’s bed but, equally inevitably, she has made herself scarce and so all passes without mishap.

Except that Pauline had only been hiding and she emerges from her hiding place just as Chuffy returns and captures Bertie and Pauline apparently red-handed. Seeing Pauline wearing Bertie’s pyjamas, Chuffy draws the wrong conclusion (that they’ve been dallying) but when she realises this is what he’s thinking, Pauline is outraged with him for thinking so badly of her, the couple have a flaring standup row declaring the whole affair is off, Chuffy mistimes his steps and falls down the stairs and storms out into the night.

Ooops. Pauline decides the whole thing has been a mistake, slips back into her bathing costume and sets off to swim back out to the yacht. Meanwhile none other than the millionaire himself, Stoker, turns up at the cottage, having discovered that Pauline has absconded and – having witnessed them kissing in the garden – suspecting she’s made for Bertie’s cottage. Bertie is able to honestly say she isn’t there and show him round to prove it. Stoker grudgingly accepts this and he and Bertie are sort of friendly, shaking hands etc.

The next day Bertie is surprised to receive a gracious invitation from Stoker to have dinner on his yacht and prides himself on having befriended the rich man. In fact it’s to mark the birthday of little Dwight. Bertie assumes the man has realised what a good chap he is, dresses smartly and gets rowed out to the yacht. But he is surprised that nobody else has been invited and, when Stoker shows him round the yacht and shows off one of the grand bedrooms, Bertie is surprised to find himself locked in. He has been kidnapped!

This is because, after leaving Bertie’s cottage the night before, Stoker got back to his yacht and discovered Pauline had returned and learns all about her hiding out at Bertie’s cottage i.e. he lied to him, so he draws the conclusion that the pair must still be in love.

He has kidnapped Bertie in order to keep an eye on him until the wedding to Pauline can be arranged. Bertie is feeling very low about all  this when who should unlock and enter his cabin but… Jeeves! So this explains why he had (improbably enough) to be made to enter Stoker’s employment – so he can act as the genie who releases Bertie.

He does this through a further elaborate plan which is to have farcical consequences. It turns out that there is an entertainment group of minstrels who ‘black up’ to look like African Americans, touring the West Country, and Stoker has invited them over to his yacht to perform songs and sketches for his son (it’s an indication of how big the yacht is that it can accommodate so many people and such a show).

Anyway, Jeeves suggests that Bertie ‘blacks up’, using black boot polish, to look like one of the minstrels and so get smuggled off the boat when they all leave. The narrative in fact quickly jumps through all the practicalities of this, just telling us that the plan worked and jumping to Bertie safe and sound and back at his cottage.

However, there is a further bout of mayhem, this time genuinely strange. Ever since Jeeves quit, Bertie has been employing a new valet named Brinkley who, as the weeks have passed, he realises he doesn’t like. In fact he’s come to realise the man is something of a left-winger, a revolutionary, a Bolshevik, who regards him as a member of the parasite idle rich class.

Still, it’s a bizarre and inexplicable part of the plot when Bertie is upstairs trying to wash the boot polish off his face when he hears a huge rumpus downstairs and discovers that Brinkley has come back from a night down the pub roaring drunk and is smashing up the cottage! What? Not only that but when Bertie appears to him, he is of course still in blackface and the drunk Brinkley decides he is a devil and chases him up the stairs brandishing a carving knife! What!?

Bertie barricades himself in his bedroom from this maniac who blunders back downstairs and then smashes a lantern in order to set the cottage on fire!! What!??

Bertie is forced to make an escape through the cottage window and away, escaping fire and maniac. Now what? He has only the clothes he’s wearing, no ready cash, and his face is still black. Now Bertie has realised (in fact Jeeves told him) that mere soap and water won’t get the boot polish off his face. What he needs to get it off is butter. So he sneaks up to the Hall and knocks at the back door hoping to get a servant to give him some butter, but when the scullery maid opens it and sees a Black man, she has hysterics and faints.

So Bertie goes round to the front of the Hall. His best hope is to beg Chuffy for butter but he hesitates to knock on the door and terrify another servant. So he awaits events. And something indeed happens for what happens next is the front door opens and Sir Roderick emerges, and angrily departs.

Bertie manages to see Jeeves who explains that the brat Seabury had kicked up a fuss when he wasn’t invited to Dwight’s party and so, in an effort to placate him (and suck up to his mother, Lady Chuffnell) Sir Roderick had black up as well and put on a show. But not only did Seabury not like it but he set a trap, he buttered part of the Hall outside his door so that when Sir Roderick departed, he slipped and landed on his bottom. This made him very angry, Lady Chuffnell defended her son, and the upshot is that Sir Roderick was kicked out of the Hall, late at night, with nowhere to stay.

So we now have two posh men wandering round the grounds with blacked-up faces. See what I mean by farce?

I forgot to mention that much earlier in the evening, Jeeves, having rescued Bertie, told him he could clean and his face and catch the next available train back to London, where he’ll be safe from Brinkley, Stoker and the lot of them. Obviously, by now, that option has disappeared.

Jeeves suggests that Bertie goes and sleeps in the Dower House where Jeeves will bring him butter in the morning. But when Bertie arrives there, he a) discovers that Brinkley has taken possession of it and b) while he’s wondering what to do next, watches as Sir Roderick – who had obviously sought refuge there too – is unceremoniously booted out by the drunk pyromaniac.

Bertie makes himself known and the two men commiserate their fate, with Sir Roderick for the first time softening his attitude to Bertie. (In a colourful digression, he tells Bertie the Dower House is overrun with animals, including a monkey and hordes of mice, to please young Seabury.)

Sir Roderick asks if he can go to Bertie’s cottage to wash the boot polish off until Bertie tells him it’s been burned to the ground. Bertie further informs him that soap and water won’t be enough. After pondering a while. Sir Roderick suggests that petrol may do the trick and asks if Bertie’s garage is still standing. When told yes, he says he’ll head there to get petrol and a wash. But Bertie superstitiously suspects that if he goes anywhere near the smouldering ruins, he’ll be accosted by the ever-vigilant Sergeant Voules and declines to join him, preferring to go try and get some sleep in the summer-house.

Quite a night!

After a bad night’s sleep, Bertie is starving and so carefully makes his way back to the Hall. Through the window he watches the maid bring a tray of delicious hot breakfast into Chuffy’s empty study ready for the master. Hunger has made him reckless so Bertie breaks into the study and is about to wolf down the breakfast when, inevitably, he hears footsteps, so he ducks down behind the large study table. In fact a whole succession of characters now enter this study, again making it feel very much like a stage farce.

First up is Jeeves. Hearing his voice, Bertie is hugely relieved and pops up. They swap news, Bertie telling him about bumping into Sir Rodney and him going off to Bertie’s garage to try the petrol binge. They’ve just got up to speed when there are more footsteps, Bertie ducks out of sight again, and Mr Stoker is shown in by a servant.

Stoker is very cross with Jeeves who, he’s realised, helped Bertie escape from the yacht. In fact he threatens to wring his neck. But Jeeves, with typical mastery, turns the tables by claiming he did it solely to protect Stoker’s interests, pointing out that what he did was in fact kidnapping, which is a criminal offence in England which made him liable to a fine and possibly imprisonment. Put that way, Stoker backs down and grudgingly thanks Jeeves. He says he’ll go and try to find Bertie at the Dower House (whereas we know he’s hiding under the study desk and overhearing all this).

Barely has Bertie resurfaced than there are more footsteps, he ducks back down, and this time is it Stoker’s daughter, young Pauline! She engages Jeeves in conversation in which we realise learn she has absolutely no interest in marrying Bertie, which is a relief to the hidden eavesdropper. Pauline encourages Jeeves to go about his duties i.e. to leave the room and, as soon as he’s done so, springs on the breakfast which had been brought for Chuffy.

At which point Bertie startles her by springing up from behind the desk. This has a mixed effect. On the downside, it prompts Pauline to let out a yowl of terror. On the plus side, Chuffy finally walks through the door at just this moment and is able to rush to Pauline’s rescue and comfort. In a phrase which strongly suggests the staginess of Wodehouse’s imagination:

It coincided with the opening of the door and the appearance on the threshold of the fifth Baron Chuffnell. And the next moment he had dashed at her and gathered her in his arms, and she had dashed at him and been gathered. They couldn’t have done it more neatly if they had been rehearsing for weeks.

Bertie listens to the pair being revoltingly lovey-dovey before he intervenes. Stripped of the banter the situation is simple: they really do love each other (i.e. are fully reconciled after their bust-up in Bertie’s cottage) but the big problem remains how to persuade her father to let her marry Chuffy. In other words, the plot of more or less every comedy since the ancient Greeks.

And just as they’ve defined the problem, in walks in the shape of Mr Stoker himself. There is lots of dialogue but the bottom line is both young people make it clear that they want to marry. However there are several obstacles: one is that Stoker has argued with Glossop. Bertie is able to intervene and tell Stoker that Glossop himself had a big falling out with Lady Chuffly as a result of being humiliated by Seabury. Because Stoker’s was in a fight with Seabury, this endears Glossop to the American.

The next obstacle is that Stoker recalls Chuffy insulting him to his face, calling him ‘a pop-eyed old swindler’. This is a little hard to wriggle out of, but he said it in the context of the deal falling through. But Stoker keeps up his opposition to Chuffy on the basis that he is a gold-digger only after Pauline’s fortune. Pauline counters this by saying Chuffy very nobly did not propose (because he was poor) until he thought the deal to sell the Hall was agreed, whereupon he would be rich, whereupon he instantly proposed.

Also, Jeeves reappears with a telegram. This has come all the way from American and announces that Stoker’s brother intends to contest the will under which he (Stoker) is set to become a multi-millionaire. Stoker is appalled but Chuffy is over the moon. Why? Because if Stoker doesn’t inherit, then Pauline will not become a millionaire’s daughter, will be much more modestly funded, and so the couple can marry!

‘I’m broke. You’re broke. Let’s rush off and get married.’

Obviously Stoker himself is not so happy. He needs to prove that the men who left him the money, ‘Old George’, was not insane, as the rival inheritors are claiming. To prove this he needs Sir Roderick Glossop to testify in court that George was sane. And yet he’s just had a massive falling-out with Glossop, based on the way their respective sons had a fight. So now he needs to find Sir Roderick and be reconciled to him.

There is then a long comic passage where Stoker asks everyone present if they know where Glossop is, and they all throw out wild speculations until Jeeves, once again, trickles into the room to announce that Sir Roderick Glossop is presently… under arrest! For breaking and entering into Bertie’s garage. And being held in the potting shed in the garden owing to the fact that Sergeant Voules’s house, which also the village police station, was also burned down in the blaze which demolished Bertie’s cottage, so it’s the best place he and Constable Dobson could think of!

This further crushes Stoker because he was planning to bring Glossop into court as a reputable psychiatrist to testify that Old George was sane, and yet here is his ‘expert’, arrested for burglary while all blacked up! He will be laughed out of court. Again there’s a hubbub of suggestions until Bertie rings for Jeeves who, of course, has a plan. He points out that the cops don’t actually know who Glossop is yet, they think he’s one of the minstrels. Although Chuffy is the local Justice of the Peace, Glossop hasn’t yet been brought before him. So if they can liberate Glossop from the potting shed, wash his face and despatch him to London all will be well.

Stoker is full of praise for the plan but Bertie sees that this is the moment to force him to make promises: Bertie extorts Stoker’s word that he will 1) buy Chuffley Hall and 2) give permission for Pauline to marry Chuffy. Once these are in the bag, the plan can proceed.

Jeeves’s plan is to extract Glossop from the potting shed by distracting Constable Dobson by telling him that his paramour, the Hall parlourmaid Mary, was waiting for him in the bushes, and make her even more appealing by announcing she has ham sandwiches and coffee for him. In his absence our team will release Glossop. However, there’s a snag: when the cops spot that Glossop is loose they’ll institute a manhunt. Therefore Jeeves takes everyone’s breath away when he suggests that they replace Glossop with… Bertie! Another posh man in blackface! Even though Dobson will realise he’s a different man he won’t be able to admit it to his boss because he’ll give away the fact that he abandoned his post. Although he’s prepared to make a little sacrifice for his friends, Bertie understandably objects to going to prison for them. But Jeeves logically points out that he cannot be charged for breaking into his own garage! Once the cops realise they’re charging the owner of the property they’ll have to abandon the prosecution.

Sudden conclusion

Then, suddenly and abruptly, the novel is over. Having devoted to pages describing the minutiae of various preceding incidents, the final chapter completely jumps  over the enactment of this scheme, the deployment of the parlourmaid, the distracting of Constable Dobbs, the liberation of Sir Rodney, his replacement with Bertie… Instead we find ourselves transported to a few days later when Bertie has just demolished an enormous breakfast in Chuffnell Hall, chatting to Jeeves and it is revealed that everything went like clockwork, up to and including Bertie being brought before Chuffy, sitting on the bench wearing horn-rimmed spectacles in his capacity of Justice of the Peace, who made a stern speech and then let Bertie off without charge, fine or conviction.

As in the short stories, this brief coda also reveals that Jeeves played a larger role in orchestrating events than we realised. That cable from America which threatened to impoverish Stoker and forced him to seek out, liberate and reconcile with Glossop, not to mention promising to buy Chuffnell Hall and allow Chuffy and Pauline to marry – in solving all the problems at play in the story? Jeeves made it up, sent it to a pal in New York who sent it back so as to make it look authentic! As Bertie sums it up:

‘Once again you have shown that there is no crisis which you are unable to handle. A very smooth effort, Jeeves. Exceedingly smooth.’
‘I could have effected nothing without your co-operation, sir.’
‘Tush, Jeeves! I was a mere pawn in the game.’

Jeeves asks whether Bertie plans to stay in the country? No, he’ll return to ‘the metrop’. And will he resume playing the banjolele? No, his banjolele perished in the fire and one was enough. At which point Jeeves announces that he has quit Lord Chuffnell’s employment and could he come and work for Bertie again? Bertram’s joy is unbounded!

The cast

  • Bertie Wooster – private school, Eton and Oxford
  • Jeeves – his valet
  • Sir Rodney Glossop – nerve specialist (i.e early form of psychiatrist) and Bertie’s nemesis, who he describes as that ‘old pot of poison’ and ‘that old crumb’
  • Marmaduke Chuffnell aka ‘Chuffy’ – the fifth Baron Chuffnell – Bertie was at private school, Eton and Oxford with him
  • Dowager Lady Chuffnell aka Chuffy’s Aunt Myrtle
  • Seabury – Aunt Myrtle’s young son – ‘a smallish, freckled kid with aeroplane ears, and he had a way of looking at you as if you were something he had run into in the course of a slumming trip’
  • J. Washburn Stoker – American millionaire, ‘a cove who always reminded me of a pirate of the Spanish Main – a massive blighter and piercing-eyed, to boot’
  • Pauline Stoker – his daughter
  • Dwight Stoker – his young son
  • Brinkley – Jeeves’s replacement – ‘A melancholy blighter, with a long, thin, pimple-studded face and deep, brooding eyes, he had shown himself averse from the start to that agreeable chit-chat between employer and employed to which the society of Jeeves had accustomed me’ – turns out to be a left-wing, drunkard pyromaniac
  • Sergeant Voules – ‘a bird built rather on the lines of the Albert Hall, round in the middle and not much above’ – Uncle Ted to..
  • Constable Dobson – his nephew

Jeeves’s character

You can’t switch Jeeves off when he has something to say which he feels will be of interest. The only thing is to stand by and wait till he runs down.

Old Stoker breathed a bit tensely for a while, then he spoke in almost an awed voice. It’s often that way when you get up against Jeeves. He has a way of suggesting new viewpoints.

And mysterious qualities:

Said old Stoker severely. ‘Get out! We’re busy.’
The remark was addressed to Jeeves, who had come floating in again. It’s one of this man’s most
remarkable properties, that now you see him and now you don’t. Or, rather, now you don’t see him and now you do. You’re talking of this and that and you suddenly sense a presence, so to speak, and there he is.

Choice phrases

He made a noise like a pig swallowing half a cabbage, but refused to commit himself further.

The scullery-maid had set a mark at which others who met me suddenly might shoot in vain. But Pauline eclipsed her completely. She remained in Chuffy’s arms gurgling like a leaky radiator, and it was only quite some little time later that she began to regain anything of a grip on her faculties.

Stoker was staring with his left eye. The other had now closed like some tired flower at nightfall. I couldn’t help feeling that Brinkley must have been a jolly good shot to have plugged him so squarely. It’s not the easiest thing in the world to hit a fellow in the eye with a potato at a longish range. I know, because I’ve tried it. The very nature of the potato, it being a rummy shape and covered with knobs, renders accurate aiming a tricky business.


Credit

‘Thank You, Jeeves’ was published in 1934 by Herbert Jenkins.

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Selected Essays by Virginia Woolf – 4. Looking On

‘… to give up this arduous game… of assembling things that lie on the surface…’
(Woolf describing the effort required to hold her mind together, in ‘Flying over London’, page 211)

‘Mental fight means thinking against the current, not with it.’

The Oxford World Classic edition of ‘Selected Essays by Virginia Woolf’, edited by David Bradshaw, brings together 30 of her essays, reviews and articles and groups them under four headings:

  1. Reading and Writing
  2. Life-Writing
  3. Women and Fiction
  4. Looking On

Summarising each of the essays was taking so long that I broke my review of the book up into multiple blog posts. This post summarises and comments on the ten essays contained in the fourth and final section of the selection, titled ‘Looking On’. Unlike the essays in the previous sections, which closely addressed the relevant topic heading, the volume’s editor, David Bradshaw, has deliberately chosen these ones to be more diverse in subject matter and approach. The essays are:

  1. Thunder at Wembley (1924) [the British Empire exhibition at Wembley]
  2. The Cinema (1926)
  3. Street Haunting: A London Adventure (1927) [a walk from her home at Hyde Park Gate to the Strand one winter evening as night was falling]
  4. The Sun and The Fish (1928) [a solar eclipse and visit to London Aquarium]
  5. The Docks of London (1931)
  6. Oxford Street Tide (1932)
  7. Evening Over Sussex: Reflections in a Motor Car (1942)
  8. Flying Over London [an imagined flight in a small plane over London]
  9. Why Art Today Follows Politics (1936)
  10. Thoughts on Peace in an Air Raid (1940)

I keep reading references to Woolf being an ‘intellectual’ which astonishes me because she hardly anywhere mounts clear, sustained arguments, with reasons and evidence to support her. Even when she is making a point – as in her essays criticising the Edwardian novelists and promoting her new version of literature, or discussing what a feminist literature might be like – what her essays are far more noticeable for their slow beginnings, their whimsical digressions, her easy distraction by the surface of things, objects and phrases, by her indirections and odd approaches, which sometimes barely make sense.

This is more than usually true of these ten descriptive and impressionistic pieces.

If there’s one common theme or thread linking all of them, and maybe all her writing as a whole, I think it’s her mental illness. In Street Haunting, Sun and Fish and Evening over Sussex she describes having multiple ‘selves’, which initially sounds cool and post-modernist but, I think, was an aspect of her mental illness.

You particularly feel the struggle it involved when she talks about the need to marshal all these selves back together, to create a unified personality to face society with. This isn’t a criticism, it’s the opposite: it’s sympathy. Both my kids have mental health issues and I struggle sometimes. Maybe that’s why I’m making too much of it as an issue…

Anyway, my interpretation is that her obsessive listing of everything she sees, on all her walks and travels, her distraction by endless streams of shiny details, was both a symptom of her problems but also a way of coping with them. When the inner world gets cluttered with multiple selves all shouting at you, you take refuge in the ever-changing world outside you to try and regain, and hang onto, some calm, something outside yourself. I take this to be the message made explicit in ‘Street Haunting’ and lurking, implicitly, beneath all the other pieces; maybe, beneath her whole oeuvre.

1. Thunder at Wembley (1924: 3 pages)

A brisk description of attending the 1924 Empire Exhibition at Wembley. It has an odd tone. She mocks the organisers for not making the vast concrete edifice which enclosed the exhibition, sealed off from the sky, for making the error of letting nature intrude here and there: a few trees, some birds. But the real feeling that comes over is Woolf’s lofty snobbish view of the crowds who are attending it. The words vulgar and mediocrity recur. She ironically comments that the exhibition would have been much better if the organisers had only kept all the people out. In the last paragraph she becomes delirious and has a vision of the end of the world.

The sky is livid, lurid, sulphurine. It is in violent commotion. It is whirling water-spouts of cloud into the air; of dust in the Exhibition. Dust swirls down the avenues, hisses and hurries like erected cobras round the corners. Pagodas are dissolving in dust. Ferro-concrete is fallible. Colonies are perishing and dispersing in spray of inconceivable beauty and terror which some malignant power illuminates. Ash and violet are the colours of its decay. From every quarter human beings come flying—clergymen, school children, invalids in bath-chairs. They fly with outstretched arms, and a vast sound of wailing rolls before them, but there is neither confusion nor dismay. Humanity is rushing to destruction, but humanity is accepting its doom.

What?

The Cinema (1926: 5 pages)

It starts out in the typically frivolous and gaseous style which makes Woolf’s essays such a trial to read.

No great distance separates [we moderns] from those bright-eyed naked men who knocked two bars of iron together and heard in that clangour a foretaste of the music of Mozart. The bars in this case, of course, are so highly wrought and so covered over with accretions of alien matter that it is extremely difficult to hear anything distinctly. All is hubble-bubble, swarm and chaos. We are peering over the edge of a cauldron in which fragments of all shapes and savours seem to simmer; now and again some vast form heaves itself up and seems about to haul itself out of chaos.

?

Woolf briefly describes the black-and-white newsreels of the day. She begins to be interesting when she says that one of the disconcerting features of film is that it shows what life is like when we’re not there and a world which has gone.

But that’s newsreels and factual movies. As to the development of fiction movies, lots of other arts stood ready to help. Of course Woolf has only one art in mind, her own specialist subject, literature. But the marriage of literature and film has been a disaster. Why? Because literature shows people from the inside, shows us their minds and thoughts and emotions, whereas movies can only show them as stock figures from the outside.

So we lurch and lumber through the most famous novels of the world. So we spell them out in words of one syllable, written, too, in the scrawl of an illiterate schoolboy.

I’m sure all Hollywood screenwriters were flattered by this description. On the other hand, I like this next bit which I totally agree with, that movies simplify complex human emotions down into stock gestures and expressions.

A kiss is love. A broken cup is jealousy. A grin is happiness. Death is a hearse.

In Woolf’s view film needs to free itself from a literalistic interpretation of content from another medium, books, and free itself to explore its own language and vocabulary.

It seems plain that the cinema has within its grasp innumerable symbols for emotions that have so far failed to find expression… Is there, we ask, some secret language which we feel and see, but never speak, and, if so, could this be made visible to the eye? Is there any characteristic which thought possesses that can be rendered visible without the help of words?

Interesting thought. Obviously there’s been a hundred years of movies since Woolf wrote but you feel her point is still valid. Film ought to consist of more than just popcorn-munching, Technicolour-fabulous summer blockbusters, surely it does have the potential to convey human experiences in an utterly novel and revolutionary way. And yet it has failed. The movies I see nowadays (2025) are crushingly banal and familiar, and the whole concept of a ‘film’ is bleeding out into the extravaganzas shown on Netflix et al. There are more films than ever before but at the same time, a strong sense of exhaustion and repetition.

As usual, Woolf invokes Shakespeare, her go-to guy for symbolising the peak of literary complexity i.e. multiple associations are triggered in the brain by his verse. But it’s precisely the multi-faceted and evanescent and subjective nature of the reader’s response, which is unique to literature and cinema’s tactic of showing a man on a screen talking fails to convey.

Instead, she repeats the thought: surely there are visual symbols, maybe accentuated with music, which could convey complex emotions in a purely filmic way.

That such symbols will be quite unlike the real objects which we see before us seems highly probable. Something abstract, something which moves with controlled and conscious art, something which calls for the very slightest help from words or music to make itself intelligible, yet justly uses them subserviently – of such movements and abstractions the films may in time to come be composed.

Then indeed when some new symbol for expressing thought is found, the film-maker has enormous riches at his command.

All this guessing and clumsy turning over of unknown forces points at any rate away from any art we know in the direction of an art we can only surmise.

She concludes with the thought that cinema has been born the wrong way round: it demonstrates tremendous sophistication of technology, engineering, design and logistics, but has no soul, no content, no emotional complexity worth the name.

The mechanical skill is far in advance of the art to be expressed.

This falls into the category of one of her Hortative Essays. In linguistics, hortative modalities are verbal expressions used by the speaker to encourage or discourage an action. In more common speech, hortative is an adjective meaning something which to encourages, urges, or calls to action. So in an earlier section of the book, ‘Life-Writing’, we read her essay claiming that the genre of biography was poised at the dawn of a new era, which would require hard work and commitment but would lead through to a new vision. Same here. In her opinion film is just at the start of an era of innovation and discovery.

I guess she was right, insofar as film was poised on the brink of introducing talkies (published in 1926, this whole essay is based on the experience of only silent movies) and continued to evolve at a rate of knots throughout the twentieth century. But whether it ever developed the symbols and methods to really convey the human soul, as she hoped, is very much to be doubted. Maybe in lots of rarer, indie or art or non-American movies. One for film buffs to discuss forever.

3. Street Haunting: A London Adventure (1927: 11 pages)

How beautiful a London street is…

After a long day cooped up in a room writing, what better release than going for a ramble across London. Evening is best and winter the best season when there is magic in the air. The lamplight gives the bustling passersby a spurious glamour.

This is all unusually high-spirited and positive for Woolf and she deploys some stylish phrases.

Here under the lamps are floating islands of pale light through which pass quickly bright men and women, who, for all their poverty and shabbiness, wear a certain look of unreality, an air of triumph, as if they had given life the slip, so that life, deceived of her prey, blunders on without them. (p.178)

Once or twice she is tempted to imagine the lives of the people in the houses and has to remind herself to stay on the surface of things, an observer, a wandering eye, as the characters in so many of her books.

The eye is not a miner, not a diver, not a seeker after buried treasure. It floats us smoothly down a stream; resting, pausing, the brain sleeps perhaps as it looks… Let us… be content still with surfaces only—the glossy brilliance of the motor omnibuses; the carnal splendour of the butchers’ shops with their yellow flanks and purple steaks; the blue and red bunches of flowers burning so bravely through the plate glass of the florists’ windows.

For some reason she pops into a shoe shop and is there when a dwarf enters, accompanied by two normal-sized adults. Woolf describes her preening over he normal sized foot but when she goes back out into the street and Woolf follows her, she finds all the other passersby infected with the grotesque.

(This all reminds me of the French poet, Charles Baudelaire, famous for his visions of strange passersby in the streets of Paris, and of the whole French nineteenth century intellectual cult of the flaneur, all of which was being written about seventy years before Woolf wrote this essay.)

The dwarf had started a hobbling grotesque dance to which everybody in the street now conformed…

So she sees two drunk men pass by both leaning on a small boy, a stout woman dressed in shiny sealskin, a feeble-minded boy sucking the silver knob of his stick, an old man squatting on a doorstep as if suddenly overcome by the absurdity of the human spectacle – the randomness of these people seen in the street reminds me very much of all the background people who appear in her wandering-round-central-London novel, Mrs Dalloway.

In shops windows she sees good which spark fancies. Sofas and furnishings allow you to create and decorate a fantasy home of your own. When you wave that away, a glimpse of pearls in a jewellers’ window prompts visions of herself at a grand party in Mayfair, in June, looking out over the darkened streets while back in the main room the Prime Minister describes some political crisis to Lady So-and-So.

Why this continual turnover of fantasies? Because nature made human beings with ‘instincts and desires which are utterly at variance with his main being, so that we are streaked, variegated, all of a mixture’.

I’ve commented on how the same dozen or so ideas recur across Woolf’s oeuvre. Here she mentions the idea of multiple selves which features in the mature novels and Orlando.

Is the true self this which stands on the pavement in January, or that which bends over the balcony in June? Am I here, or am I there? Or is the true self neither this nor that, neither here nor there, but something so varied and wandering that it is only when we give the rein to its wishes and let it take its way unimpeded that we are indeed ourselves? (p.182)

Then she comes to the neighbourhood of second hand book shops and for a couple of page sings the delights of exploring the strange detritus of sold-off libraries and dead men’s collections, the eternal hope that you will take down some little treasure and be transported by dashing narratives or wonderful poetry, and all those travellers to far-off lands. But there’s no end to books and so after this cosy interlude in a warm second-hand bookshop, it’s back out into the streets.

She passes two women complaining about how selfish ‘Kate’ is, then they’re gone and she never finds out more. Two men discussing racing tips under a lamp-post. Thousands of other commuters, freed from work and thronging from the Strand over Waterloo bridge, who she fondly fantasises are themselves fondly fantasising about being ‘great cricketers, famous actresses, soldiers who have saved their country at the hour of need.’

When you stop and read that you realise how essentially childish her view of other people is. Those aspirations – ‘great cricketers, famous actresses, soldiers who have saved their country at the hour of need’ – are the aspirations of the Famous Five. Real people who are worried about money, worried about their marriages, their children about work, don’t enter in, they are too real, sordid, vulgar. None of her imagined people ever think about sex because that is crude and vulgar. The fantasy must be kept pure, romantic, chaste and childish.

Coming into the Strand she feels her conscious mind telling her she has to do something. What was it? Oh yes, the spurious aim of buying a pencil with which she justified this evening stroll in the first place. That’s one self, the practical self. But another self steps in and says Why can’t we just enjoy ourselves and ramble where we wish? Multiple selves in conflict. You can see why she was interested in Freud’s dynamic model of the mind, and why the Hogarth Press was to publish his complete works in a definitive English translation. You can also hear a ghost of her lifelong mental problems: the voices in her head, conflicting and arguing.

From a psychiatric point of view it’s telling that the only way she can manage the voices is to transcend them with another image, with the sight of the wide cold black River Thames. And memory. Memory which we saw so important in coping with a task in Memories of a Working Women’s Guild and Leslie Stephen, The Philosopher at Home: A Daughter’s Memories. We get a deeper understanding that backing away from the clamorous present and retreating into distant memories is not so much a cop-out as a psychological coping mechanism.

This becomes really obvious when she remembers leaning over the parapet last summer and being happy. Maybe if she goes to the same place now she can regain that mood of calm.

We see it through the eyes of somebody who is leaning over the Embankment on a summer evening, without a care in the world. Let us put off buying the pencil; let us go in search of this person—and soon it becomes apparent that this person is ourselves. For if we could stand there where we stood six months ago, should we not be again as we were then—calm, aloof, content? Let us try then…

But the attempt fails. A young couple are smooching nearby, the air is cold, a tug with two barges slowly passes under the bridge, she can’t regain that last-summer mood. She draws the conclusion that:

It is only when we look at the past and take from it the element of uncertainty that we can enjoy perfect peace.

To be honest, I don’t understand what that means. Finally, she arrives at a stationery shop where she can buy the pencil which was the pretext for this trek and this essay. As soon as she enters she realises she’s interrupted an argument between the old couple who own it. They break up and the old buffer tries to find her a pencil but keeps making mistakes amid the many shelves and boxes, until his wife comes back into the shop and silently indicates the correct box. Even then, Woolf lingers in order to enjoy the experience of the couple slowly calming down until, eventually, full peace is restored.

The old man, who would not have disgraced Ben Jonson’s title-page, reached the box back to its proper place, bowed profoundly his good-night to us, and they disappeared. She would get out her sewing; he would read his newspaper; the canary would scatter them impartially with seed. The quarrel was over.

Now, either you think that last sentence is beautifully imagined or, like me, you find it too pat. In fact the entire episode feels too neatly rounded and complete to be a depiction of real life, which is always more edgy and incomplete than this little fable.

When she exits back onto the street, it is completely empty and she walks home through the silver city which triggers another reflection on the idea of multiple selves.

Walking home through the desolation one could tell oneself the story of the dwarf, of the blind men, of the party in the Mayfair mansion, of the quarrel in the stationer’s shop. Into each of these lives one could penetrate a little way, far enough to give oneself the illusion that one is not tethered to a single mind, but can put on briefly for a few minutes the bodies and minds of others. One could become a washerwoman, a publican, a street singer. And what greater delight and wonder can there be than to leave the straight lines of personality and deviate into those footpaths that lead beneath brambles and thick tree trunks into the heart of the forest where live those wild beasts, our fellow men?

On my reading, all of literature provides a cure for mental illness by allowing us to escape from our troubled selves into other, more completed and so simpler, more manageable lives.

She sings the praises of her big ‘adventure’ in the streets of London and this triggered a memory of Three Guineas with its angry attack on how women in her lifetime and for all British history before her, had been legally, socially and financially excluded from public life, from all the professions, from business, from paid work, from any independence. And so had to make from the tiny incidents of their cramped lives what satisfaction and adventures that they could.

And one last thought: any writer, male or female, can describe the lovely, warm comfort of arriving home but, given the Enid Blyton interpretation I’ve given to much of the narrative, I couldn’t help the ending feeling like the cosy rounding-off of a reassuring children’s story.

As we approach our own doorstep again, it is comforting to feel the old possessions, the old prejudices, fold us round; and the self, which has been blown about at so many street corners, which has battered like a moth at the flame of so many inaccessible lanterns, sheltered and enclosed. (p.187)

4. The Sun and The Fish (1928: 5 pages)

This is the most peculiar essay in the selection.

Exordium: The introduction tells us that memory works by yoking together two, sometimes random elements i.e. we remember things best when they’re associated with something else memorable.

[A] sight will only survive in the queer pool in which we deposit our memories if it has the good luck to ally itself with some other emotion by which it is preserved. Sights marry, incongruously, morganatically… and so keep each other alive.

This appears to be the justification for the collocation of the two memories which follow.

Memory 1: On 29 June 1927 Leonard and Virginia Woolf travelled with a party of friends to Bardon Fell in Yorkshire, where they stood on the ridge at dawn with thousands of others to witness a total eclipse of the sun. That is a rational, factual account of the event, but Woolf’s account is delirious. She compares the watchers to participants in the prehistoric ceremonies at Stonehenge and then gives a vivid description of the eclipse itself, during which the entire world loses colour and laments its death. Fear and anxiety lest the sun never returns. I’ve been reading D.H. Lawrence alongside Woolf, and this essay is more or less the only which one which has the psychological intensity of Lawrence. Maybe because it’s the only place in any of her works where the narrator is scared.

This was the defeat of the sun then, and this was all, so we thought, turning in disappointment from the dull cloud blanket in front of us to the moors behind. They were livid, they were purple; but suddenly one became aware that something more was about to happen; something unexpected, awful, unavoidable, The shadow growing darker and darker over the moor was like the heeling over of a boat, which, instead of righting itself at the critical moment, turns a little further and then a little further; and suddenly capsizes. So the light turned and heeled over and went out. This was the end. The flesh and blood of the world was dead and only the skeleton was left. It hung beneath us, frail; brown; dead; withered… (p.191)

Memory 2: But weirder is to come because Woolf links the eclipse memory to a visit she made to London Zoo and, in particular, to the Aquarium. This again makes it seem nice and logical when it is anything but. Instead it’s a fantasia on the life and being of fishes, in their watery tanks, and the sense of them being far more at home in their element than we poor, helpless, pink animals are on ours.

The fish themselves seem to have been shaped deliberately and slipped into the world only to be themselves. They neither work nor weep. In their shape is their reason. For what other purpose, except the sufficient one of perfect existence, can they have been thus made, some so round, some so thin, some with radiating fins upon their backs, others lined with red electric light, others undulating like white pancakes on a frying pan, some armoured in blue mail, some given prodigious claws, some outrageously fringed with huge whiskers? More care has been spent upon half a dozen fish than upon all the races of mankind.

And having exhausted this strange vision, the essay finishes with the abrupt line:

The eye shuts now. It has shown us a dead world and an immortal fish.

5. The Docks of London (December 1931)

In 1931 Woolf published The London Scene, a collection of six essays published individually in ‘Good Housekeeping’ magazine, over the course of a year. They were not published as a collection until long after her death. According to Wikipedia, the title was not chosen by Woolf but comes from the 1975 republication of five of the essays. Originally the essays were referred to as ‘Six Articles on London Life’.

The first of the six essays was The Docks of London. It records a guided tour Woolf was given round the docks on a Port of London Authority launch on 20 March 1931.

Compared to the eclipse fantasia it is a model of sense and description. She describes coming up the Thames from the Kent end, coming across ruined warehouses and reeking waste dumps and barges full of the city’s refuse, a pub and a few trees in this wasteland, then turning a corner and coming across the beautiful Greenwich Hospital buildings, up and round and so arriving at the Tower of London.

She cuts to a description of a cargo ship being unloaded with careful regulated industry and all its goods being stored in a low unadorned warehouse. She lists the bizarre items sometimes found stashed amid all this imported goods: a snake, a scorpion, a lump of amber, a basin of quicksilver. Among a pile of elephant tusks the customs officers have found older browner ones which they think come from mammoths. Virginia is finding out about the big world of work, and the imperial trade which her pampered life relies on for its luxuries and perquisites. She learns the great principle:

Trade is ingenious and indefatigable beyond the bounds of imagination. (p.196)

Everything is weighed and graded. A use is found for everything. Nothing is wasted. She savours the ‘dim sacerdotal atmosphere’ of the wine vaults. In the precision and dexterity of the work, the endless movement of the cranes, the unloading and stacking and packing and storing, she sees beauty. This feels like an awakening for young Virginia into the world of real work and the appeal of doing a job well, the subject of so many Rudyard Kipling stories.

She ends with the slightly unexpected thought that it is we, the consumers, who dictate all this energy, day in day out, all year round. It is we with our taste for shoes, furs, bags, stoves, oil, rice pudding, candles, that dictate what crops are grown, what animals are reared, what minerals extracted, what is brought here to the world’s largest port. So that:

One feels an important, a complex, a necessary animal as one stands on the quayside watching the cranes hoist this barrel, that crate, that other bale from the holds of ships that have come to anchor. (p.198)

6. Oxford Street Tide (1932: 4 pages)

The garishness and gaudiness of the great rolling ribbon of Oxford Street has its fascination. (p.199)

This was the second piece in her ‘Six Articles on London Life’ series, published in the January 1932 issue of Good Housekeeping. As you might expect, it’s about shops. In her day, as now, Oxford Street didn’t have the best shops, in fact it was looked down on for its bargains and sales. ‘The buying and selling is too blatant and too raucous’.

What stood out for me was the differences. In 1932 one could find barrows parked selling fresh tulips, violets, daffodils; see magicians make bits of paper unfold into clever shapes on bowls of water; sell live tortoises which are kept in litters of straw.

She gives a blizzard of sense impressions: placards selling endless editions of newspapers; a whole brass band; omnibuses grazing kerbs; buses, cars, vans, barrows streaming past. The old aristocracy were dukes and earls who built grand town houses along the Strand. The new, commercial, aristocracy build department stores along Oxford Street which dole out music and news, welcome you in to their high and airy halls, thickly carpeted and with the magic of lifts. (The notes tell us that the American Harry Gordon Selfridge opened his department store on Oxford Street in 1909.)

You can’t help noticing how flimsy these new stores are, concrete walls and metal floor bases. When you see other buildings being demolished so quickly and thoroughly, you realise these stores, to large and showy, with such modelled facades, are less solid and enduring than a labourer’s stone cottage from the time of Elizabeth I.

Then again, that’s the appeal. ‘The charm of modern London is that it is not built to last; it is built to pass.’ The owners of the citadels of consumer capitalism must:

persuade the multitude that here unending beauty, ever fresh, ever new, very cheap and within the reach of everybody, bubbles up every day of the week from an inexhaustible well. (p.202)

It is vivid and wrily comic, and she doesn’t mention Shakespeare once!

7. Evening Over Sussex: Reflections in a Motor Car (1942: 3 pages)

Despite the title, it’s a very static, ghostly impression of Sussex, which she prefers to imagine at dusk, as night falls and the stars come out and the busy fret of the day disappears and you see the country in its essentials, as it was in days past. She gives a vivid poetic description of the county but then feels unhappy, conflicted. It is too beautiful, too big to contain, to master and this triggers her characteristic psychological reaction or problem, of feeling divided into multiple selves.

It is well known how in circumstances like these the self splits up and one self is eager and dissatisfied and the other stern and philosophical.

She has to struggle with herself, to force herself to sit still and take in what’s in front of her. While these two selves argue about how to cope with beautiful scenery, a third self, observes to herself how happy both the other selves were when they were driving around in a motor car, just to see the never-ending stream of sights. Although when they were quiet and happy, the conscious self was in fact unhappy at the thought that everything is transient, everything passes out of sight and memory so fast as you zoom around the country.

This is, in other words, an essay about Virginia coping with her mental health issues and struggling to maintain an even keel. Compare ‘Street Haunting’, where she similarly struggles with the voices in her head and tries to find some way of calming them. Her mental illness is never very far from the surface.

Then there appears a fourth self, an ‘erratic and impulsive self’, interrupts the others with an unexpected perception, pointing out a light hovering in the sky. Only after some moments of confusion does her rational self realise it’s a car’s headlights coming over the brow of a hill, but this visionary self takes it as a portent of the future, of a distant future when Sussex will be full of magic gates and electric light.

In the final paragraph she tells us she assembles her many selves, as official presider over them, and tries to reckon up the sights they have all seen. But this is a surprisingly thin list and almost immediately describes ‘disappearance and the death of the individual’. That’s a bit shrill, isn’t it?

David Bradshaw’s notes tell us this wasn’t published during her lifetime but in the posthumous collection Death of the Moth and Other Essays. Is it an indication of how she was ‘declining’ into mental illness? Or does its candour about the struggle of managing multiple selves suggest a new art, a new style which she might have explored and expanded?

8. Flying Over London (6 pages)

The notes tell us this essay was only published in 1950. Reading the book’s notes builds up the impression that Woolf wrote a huge amount, that gathering together all the essays and fugitive pieces published in numerous outlets, from classy Vogue to transient student magazines, has taken decades to track them all down and been a labour of love for Woolf scholars.

It opens with a strikingly fanciful analogy, comparing the planes lined up at the aerodrome to giant grasshoppers, ready to spring into the air. She is self-consciously aware that ‘a thousand pens have described the sensations of leaving earth’ and you can’t help feeling how dogged she is by a self consciousness so intense that it is consciousness of multiple selves. Woolf is crippled by selves-consciousness.

Anyway, she makes the original observation that, when the plane takes off it’s not so much that the land falls away as that the sky falls upon you, immerses you. A lifetime of judging all objects in your field of view by their static appearance at ground level is swept away by this radical new perspective. ‘Land values’ have to be swapped for ‘air values’.

She wonderfully describes being in the air, amid the clouds, where perspectives and orientation disappear and this reminds me of the extended passage describing looking up at the clouds in ‘On Being Ill’.

And yet, as the previous essay has made clear, there is always another self in Woolf, tugging and restraining all her attempts at spontaneity. She knows it. ‘So inveterately anthropomorphic is the mind’ that she imagines the plane is a boat, and then imagines it, as in some Victorian poem, sailing towards a harbour:

And there we shall be received by hands that lift themselves from swaying garments; welcoming, accepting. (p.207)

Don’t you think that’s very Pre-Raphaelite, the hands that lift from swaying garments? I’m sticking with my impression that, despite the so-called modernism of her deploying a dreamy kind of stream-of-consciousness and jumping between characters’ points of views in her books, deep down – in fact not very deep down at all – Woolf has an essentially Victorian sensibility, Keats and Tennyson and Christina Rossetti, everything must be elegant and decorous and just so.

She sees the Thames as the Romans saw it, as paleolithic man saw it, reprising the theme of prehistoric London found in Mrs Dalloway and especially Between the Acts where Mrs Swithin is reading H.G. Wells’s Outline of History which starts with just such prehistoric descriptions of dinosaurs in what were to become London landmarks. But then things suddenly take a dark turn.

It was the idea of death that now suggested itself; not being received and welcomed; not immortality but extinction. (p.208)

She sees a flight of gulls and thinks how alien they are, where only gulls are, is death. ‘Life ends; life is dowsed in that cloud… That extinction now becomes desirable… And so we swept on now, up to death’ Why? Again you have the strong sense of a woman fighting her own psychological demons.

The pilot’s head suddenly reminds her of Charon, the ferryman across into the realm of the dead, and she claims the mind is proud of extinction ‘as if it deserved extinction, extinction profited it more and were more desirable than prolongation on other terms by other wills.’ Usually the experience of flying in a small plane is one of exhilaration. For Woolf it brings flooding thoughts of death. She wants to die, and die she soon would, at her own hand.

The pilot turns into a flame of death and she imagines dying together with him. ‘Extinction! The word is consummation’. But there’s a lot more. We’re only half way through. She vividly imagines flying into cloud, being immersed in the ever-changing shapes and colours.

All the colours of pounded plums and dolphins and blankets and seas and rain clouds crushed together, straining – purple, black, steel.

It’s as if John Keats went for a plane ride. Here’s a stanza from John Keats’s poem Ode to a Nightingale:

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth…

The technology and the subject and the continual changing of scene may be from the 1920s but the sensibility dates back a hundred years, to the 1820s, an impression confirmed by lots of details of phrasing like when she says that when they emerge from the clouds and see ‘the fairy earth’ beneath them.

The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

I wonder if she’s just been reading ‘Ode to a Nightingale’ and that explains why the sensibility and even specific phrases of Keats spill over into this fantasia?

One way of thinking about Woolf’s writing is that she had to adopt different techniques to shake herself out of her madness, out of being dominated by the voices in her head. The ‘Street Haunting’ essay describes one technique, which was to go to a place where she had been calm and try to recapture that feeling. A cruder one is to change the subject to something which focused all her selves into a unity, such as her feminist scorn of men. This lines up all the voices into unanimity. Here’s something the squabbling voices can all agree upon.

I think this is why, after the fantastical passages which have seen her mind split into multiple levels and ages and perspectives, she brings everything back with the tried-and-tested technique of taking the mickey out of pompous rich men in the City of London.

There were blocks in the city of traffic sometimes almost a foot long; these had to be translated into eleven or twelve Rolls Royces in a row with city magnates waiting furious; and one had to add up the fury of the magnates; and say – even though it was all silent and the block was only a few inches in length, how scandalous the control of the traffic is in the City of London. (p.211)

This is feminism as therapy, submerging her squabbling selves and the multifarious observations which threaten to overwhelm her conscious mind, into the reassuring, all-pulling-together mode prompted by the activity of mocking rich men. Ha ha ha, silly little men. Oh, I feel much better now.

The narrative goes on to describe flying over the East End and seeing good working people wave up at them, flying over Oxford Street where everyone is too busy with bargain hunting to acknowledge them, onto Bayswater with its deadening rows of identical houses and then does something odd. She claims to see a door in one house open, and to see into a flat, and to see a particular woman and… you realise it has all been a fiction. Then I woke up and it was all a dream.

And a glance at the notes indeed confirms that Virginia Woolf never went up in an airplane. The entire thing is a fiction. It is a bold and strange fiction, and candidly reveals some of the ramifications of her mental illness and yet… I couldn’t help feeling disappointed that it was utterly fictional.

In fact she tries to make a joke of it. The last paragraph is a rare attempt by Woolf at explicit humour. After she’s given a vivid description of coming in to land and bumping over the grassy airfield, she goes on:

As a matter of fact, the flight had not begun; for when Flight-Lieutenant Hopgood stooped and made the engine roar, he had found a defect of some sort in the machine, and raising his head, he had said very sheepishly, ”Fraid it’s no go today.’ So we had not flown after all.

Contemporary flying reviews

9. Why Art Today Follows Politics (1936: 3 pages)

Surprisingly maybe, this very short piece was first published in The Daily Worker newspaper in 1936. Woolf opens the piece, as so often, by candidly explaining the terms of its commission:

I have been asked by the Artists International Association to explain as shortly as I can why it is that the artist at present is interested, actively and genuinely, in politics.

I think her views on this subject are not much worth considering, since she had made a career out of ridiculing, mocking and ignoring conventional politics as irredeemably male. Bit late in the day to change her tune.

What struck me most about this essay was the way that, when she came to consider examples of classic artists, the very first name she came to was John Keats and the very first ‘work of art’ his poem, Ode to a Nightingale. This, for the umpteenth time, confirmed my sense that underneath her modernist tricks and strategies, Woolf remained, in her core sensibility, an unreformed Victorian Romantic of the purest kind, oblivious of the radical art being created in Bolshevik Russia or Weimar Germany, of symbolist or Expressionist or Surrealist poetry, but again and again and again and again, judging everything by the purest, most conservative, arch-Romantic figure of John Keats.

As to the essay, I found it pompous, self-satisfied twaddle. This is because of her narrow, blinkered, restricted and wildly unrealistic notion of what an Artist is and what Art is, something pure and untainted by Society which aspires to the perfection of a Shakespeare. Instead of a much more realistic sociological view of ‘art’, which sees it being produced by a huge array of people, working in all kinds of fields, at multiple levels.

It is a fact that the practise of art, far from making the artist out of touch with his kind, rather increases his sensibility. It breeds in him a feeling for the passions and needs of mankind in the mass which the citizen whose duty it is to work for a particular country or for a particular party has no time and perhaps no need to cultivate.

This notion of the artist as a special superior and privileged personage, blessed with more sensibility than the average person, feels, to us today, I think, absurd. Artists in all fields may have been trained to a level of specialist knowledge in particular fields and techniques but this doesn’t make them ‘superior’ to everyone else. Plus we have had too many examples of artists who were very superior, refined and sensitive but who still wrote books and poems against the Jews, say, or in favour of Stalin or Mussolini.

Between Woolf’s narrow, conservative values and our own times stands the dire history of the twentieth century which ought to have disabused anyone of these Victorian notions of the Superiority of Art.

She’s on firmer grounds when she leaves off her notions of art and takes a more sociological view of the pressures modern artists come under. This echoes, repeats or invokes the notion of multiple voices which we’ve encountered her struggling with in earlier essays. Here she gives them external form as types or groups or classes of people who are perpetually haranguing the modern artist, including:

  • the voice which cries: ‘I cannot protect you; I cannot pay you. I am so tortured and distracted that I can no longer enjoy your works of art’
  • the voice which asks for help: ‘Come down from your ivory tower, leave your studio and use your gifts as doctor, as teacher, not as an artist’
  • the voice which warns the artist that unless he can show good cause why art benefits the state he will be made to help it actively – by making aeroplanes, by firing guns etc
  • the voice which artists in other countries have already heard and had to obey, the voice which proclaims that the artist is the servant of the politician, of a Hitler, Stalin or Mussolini

So, in the face of all these voices shouting at him, no wonder the modern artist is forced to take part in politics, and decides to form or join societies like the Artists International Association.

And that’s what she was commissioned to explain, and she has just explained it. You can see how it’s still written from a position which mocks and scorns all these external voices, the voices of society, and tries to preserve the separateness and aloofness of the artist, the high artistic calling she learned in her father’s library in the last years of Queen Victoria’s reign.

10. Thoughts on Peace in an Air Raid (1940: 4 pages)

Written in August 1940, for an American symposium on current matters concerning women.

As she writes in London, Germans are flying overhead dropping bombs trying to kill her. This is the same situation with which George Orwell starts his famous essay, The Lion and the Unicorn. The difference is that Woolf is a woman and a feminist. Therefore she is aggrieved that women on both sides of the fighting are not given guns or any material means of helping. Sure they can make guns and munitions and serve food and protect the children. But there’s another way. They can use their minds. (This is always a doubtful tactic in Woolf whose mind was liable to stray and loses its place far more than the average person, as all her writings show.)

But she sticks to her feminist message. The whole Establishment tells women they are fighting Hitler because he is the embodiment of aggression, tyranny, the insane love of power. And yet she quotes Lady Astor in a speech saying:

Women of ability are held down because of a subconscious Hitlerism in the hearts of men.

It’s the same point she made in the ferociously powerful feminist tract, Three Guineas. So I understand that the challenge is how to get rid of this subconscious Hitlerism in the hearts of men, but I didn’t understand what she was proposing to do.

She makes a detour to describe how training to become a soldier and readiness to fight appears to be instinctive to many men. How can this instinct be eradicated? Well, imagine if the government told all women that childbearing would be banned for most of them, and restricted to a tiny handful i.e. sought to abolish a fundamental instinct of women, what luck would it have? Not much. So trying to make young men more peace-minded is the same kind of challenge.

We must help the young Englishmen to root out from themselves the love of medals and decorations. We must create more honourable activities for those who try to conquer in themselves their fighting instinct, their subconscious Hitlerism. We must compensate the man for the loss of his gun.

What does this mean in practical terms? She repeats the same ideas in a slightly different formulation.

If we are to compensate the young man for the loss of his glory and of his gun, we must give him access to the creative feelings. We must make happiness. We must free him from the machine. We must bring him out of his prison into the open air.

These ‘We must…’ sentences could be written on till infinity but won’t change anything and so have no meaning except as expressions of fine feelings.

Comment 1: the failure of feminism

Like so many of the feminist articles and essays I read every day in the Guardian, New Statesman, London Review of Books, The Atlantic, The Conversation, the New York Review of Books, even in the Financial Times and sometimes in the Economist, Woolf laments that (some/quite a few) men are violent, in thrall to ‘the subconscious Hitlerism in the hearts of men’, and calls for a wholesale transformation of human nature.

Go on, then. Transform human nature. In fact I’ve been reading the same lament, and hearing it from feminist friends and girlfriends and wives and daughters for over 40 years, tens of thousands of articles, documentaries, films, plays and so on calling for a radical overhaul of human nature to try and make men less toxic and more like women.

How is the project to radically transform human (male) nature going? Well, according to the thousands of articles lamenting the election of Donald Trump or bewailing the rise and rise of Andrew Tate, it is going backwards, which is impressive. I don’t mean I applaud Trump the know-nothing bully or the poisonous snake Tate, far from it. It’s just impressive that the feminist cause seems to be going backwards.

And I’m not especially singling out feminism. Although everyone knows that they are being exploited by huge corporations and multinational banks, that every service in their lives is ripping them off, yet somehow, magically, more and more voters are turning to an essentially right-wing solution, rather than what seems to me the more obvious need for a string of left-wing policies to rein in excess wealth, excess pay and excess control of corporations over our lives. (Just think of all the privatised water companies paying their shareholders huge dividends while filling our rivers with sewage.)

Same with global warming and the environment. Although everyone knows about it now, and governments are taking steps to invest in renewable energy and diversity power grids, on the cultural level society seems to be taking against the green and environmental policies we desperately need.

What I’m trying to do is understand and report what people are actually like instead of what high-minded progressives would like them to be like.

So back to Woolf, I know she’s a patron saint for feminists, but, tome, she’s also a kind of patron saint of feminist fantasy. I mean her narrow, blinkered, limited, upper-middle-class experience of life excluded her from understanding the great majority of population in her time and my thesis is that, in following her, in adopting her voice and tone, latterday feminists make the same mistake – of not understanding human nature in all its squalid horribleness and of simply wishing toxic masculinity away, without any practical plans to deal with it. To repeat, her solution is:

If we are to compensate the young man for the loss of his glory and of his gun, we must give him access to the creative feelings. We must make happiness. We must free him from the machine. We must bring him out of his prison into the open air.

Like so many progressives, she thinks that if only we could give our enemies a reading list of classic literature – and in particular make them read more Keats and Shakespeare – we could magic the problems of managing human nature away.

My position is simply that it’s much harder than that.

Comment 2: preparing for war

Eighty-five years after Woolf wrote this piece, the British government and fleets of commentators are all worrying about how to encourage more young Englishmen to cultivate their fighting instinct and join the British Army which, like the armies of all European nations, need to be significantly increased to counter the threat from Putin’s Russia.

Telling men to cultivate their finer feelings is not really an adequate strategy for coping with Putin’s Russia or Xi Jinping’s China, just ask the young men of Ukraine. Why are there always wars and the threat of wars? The feminists I knew at university and subsequently all had one answer: it’s men’s fault. It’s toxic masculinity. There. Done. Understood. Sorted. Dismissed.

Except it isn’t sorted, it’s never sorted. All the essays in the world – no matter how high minded and correct and lovely in their sentiments and wishes – can change human nature with its endless lust to fight the enemy and destroy the planet.


Credit

‘Selected Essays of Virginia Woolf’ was published by Oxford World Classics (OWC) in 2008. Most but not all of the essays can be found online. The OWC introduction can be read on Amazon.

Related links

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Selected Essays by Virginia Woolf – 2. Life-Writing

The Oxford World Classic edition of ‘Selected Essays by Virginia Woolf’, edited by David Bradshaw, brings together 30 of Woolf’s essays, reviews and miscellaneous prose pieces, and groups them under four headings:

  1. Reading and Writing
  2. Life-Writing
  3. Women and Fiction
  4. Looking On

Summarising each of the essays was taking so long that I broke my review up into parts, one for each section. This one addresses the four essays in the ‘Life-Writing’ i.e. biography section, being:

  1. The New Biography (1927) [review of Some People by Harold Nicholson]
  2. On Being Ill (1930) [fantasia]
  3. Leslie Stephen: The Philosopher at Home: A Daughter’s Memories (1932) [memoir of her father]
  4. The Art of Biography (1939) [specifically Lytton Strachey]

Woolf, her father and biography

Virginia’s father, Sir Leslie Stephen (1832 to 1904) was an English author, critic, historian and biographer. He was editor of the influential Cornhill Magazine. Virginia grew up in a house filled with books, and was given free rein to its large library with, crucially, the support and guidance of an extremely bookish parent. She grew up to believe and promote in all her essays the dazzlingly unoriginal idea that writing, literature and poetry, were the highest art and encapsulated indelible human truths. I wonder if anyone believes such a narrow simple-minded idea in our times. Literature quite obviously doesn’t represent any kind of truth. The case against it is similar to one of the arguments against the Bible being the word of God, simply that it expresses, with profound conviction, a vast array of completely contradictory and chaotic beliefs. In fact literature’s virtue is its lack of any one Great Truth, the whole point is its mad diversity and plurality.

The point is that young Virginia grew up in a hyper-bookish household, dominated by a hyper-bookish father, and went on to spend a career telling everyone that the most important thing in the world was books and writing, as the essays in the first two sections of this book demonstrate. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Anyway, in the early 1880s, the owner of the Cornhill magazine, the publisher George Smith, approached its editor, Stephen, to sound him out about creating an encyclopedia of notable people. This led to the creation of the Dictionary of National Biography or DNB, still with us 140 years later. Stephen was the dictionary’s founding editor, working on it from 1885 to 1891. His daughter, Virginia, was to give a special place to biography in the genres of writing. Her novel Orlando is a tribute to and critique of traditional biography. I was struck by how her powerful feminist polemic, Three Guineas, relies not on data, sociology or economics, but leans very heavy on the evidence of the innumerable literary biographies she’s read. Biography was very important to this daughter of the man who founded the country’s definitive encyclopedia of biography. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

When her father resigned as editor, he was replaced by Sidney Lee, Stephen’s assistant editor from the beginning of the project. Lee served until the first edition was completed in 1900, then returned to edit the first supplement which was published in 1912.

1. The New Biography (1927: 6 pages)

This is a book review of Some People by Harold Nicholson. It starts with a quote from Sidney Lee’s 1911 book, Principles of Biography, where he writes that:

The aim of biography is the truthful transmission of personality.

Almost any educated person could spot the flaws in this statement, starting with the idea that you can ever have a truthful transmission of anything, and going on to wonder whether the point of a biography is solely to convey personality. That’s a nice outcome but surely there are a lot of other aims as well, not least getting the facts right and setting the record straight about someone’s life.

Anyway, this quote allows Woolf to set up a dichotomy between truth and personality. On the first page she astonishes with an unironic and naive praise of The Truth, believing that such a thing exists.

There is a virtue in truth; it has an almost mystic power.

Here as in so many other places, Woolf shows herself a child of the deep Victorian era, whose intellectual traces lingered for a long time in the Stephen household, her attachment to Truth and Beauty deriving from Keats, Shelley, Coleridge and so on, nothing from the thinkers, writers and artists of her own time.

But partly it’s just a rhetorical device. She builds up Truth as a big concept so she can oppose it with Personality. According to her this emerged into the genre of biography with Boswell’s ‘Life of Johnson’. We hear and see Dr Johnson as no other figure before him. We hear him, we can argue with him.

Victorian biography contained more psychology, more delving into personality than its predecessors, but was constrained by the Victorian need to dwell on virtue and goodness. The result was huge biographies which resembled the Victorian tombs of Great Men lacking all sense of life and spontaneity.

But now, she claims, twentieth century biography represents a sea change, in two main ways. Modern biographies are no longer the ten volume tombstones of the Victorian era, but are short and swift. Alongside this, the biographer no longer considers themselves a lowly drudge beavering away in the footsteps of their giant subjects; the modern biographer considers themselves the equal of their subjects, and freely able to pass judgement on them.

And now, after this thoughtful if wrong-headed introduction, we come to the book under review, Some People by Harold Nicholson. Now Nicholson was a ridiculously over-talented posh man. He was a diplomat, politician, journalist, broadcaster, historian, biographer, diarist, novelist, lecturer, literary critic, essayist and gardener nowadays maybe mostly remembered for his candid, scandalous Diaries.

He had already written fairly conventional biographies of Byron and Tennyson when he produced Some People. It consists of nine chapters, each the biography of a different person but here’s the thing – all nine are imaginary. They are: being a sort of character sketch: Miss Plimsoll; J. D. Marstock; Lambert Orme; The Marquis de Chaumont; Jeanne de Henaut; Titty; Professor Malone; Arketall; Miriam Codd.

Nicholson joked that they were all entirely imaginary, abstract character sketches. But those in the know recognised some of them as combining traits from real living people, and a couple of them are straight portraits of real people just given fictional names.

As such it is a hybrid book, biographies, but of non-existent people, except they are real people, except they are treated as fictions.

It may be worth pointing out that Nicholson was married to the posh aristocrat Vita Sackville-West, with whom Woolf was having a lesbian affair. Woolf was especially interested in biography at this time because she was quickly writing her own fictional biography, Orlando, which was in the same ballpark as Some People and which is dedicated to Sackville-West. Orlando is in fact in many respects based on Vita, even including photos of her in the text and captioning them as portraits of Orlando.

Back to Nicholson, Woolf says his chief quality is his sense of humour. He laughs at his subjects and he laughs at himself. She makes the rather obvious point that the tenth subject who emerges from this sequence of nine portraits is the author himself, mentioned self-mockingly at various moments, and whose own life and opinions emerge from references scattered throughout the other sketches.

What makes all this new is ‘the lack of pose, humbug, solemnity’, ‘freedom from pose, from sentimentality, from illusion’. He has opened new ground by deploying the techniques of fiction to biography.

At the same time she points out its limitations, which that all the characters, deliciously mocked though they are, are small. They lack real depth or complexity and they can’t be allowed it or the delicate balancing act will be spoiled.

Caveat

As I wrote this out I thought, Hang on: surely a vast number of novels have been biographies of fictional people, starting with books like Moll Flanders or Tom Jones. When she says that Nicholson writes with delightful humour well, er, Henry Fielding, let alone Dickens, most of whose early novels purport to be biographies of named people (Oliver Twist, Nicholas Nickleby). Fiction and biography have always been closely aligned, haven’t they? Maybe Nicholson just seemed so new by contrast with the long dark shadows of the vast and pious Victorian biographer? Or maybe what was novel in his work was the pretence that his people were real? To us nowadays what Woolf finds so exciting in this book sounds to us pretty commonplace.

Or maybe what excited her was that she, also, at this very time, was writing a fantasy biography, an experimental biography, an experiment mixing fact and fiction, so it chimed with her own intense interest in this zone. As in her important essays about fiction, she is working through her own ideas in public?

Or that she was having an affair with the author’s wife. The literary world, eh?

2. On Being Ill (1930: 10 pages)

Wikipedia says:

‘On Being Ill’ is an essay by Virginia Woolf, which seeks to establish illness as a serious subject of literature along the lines of love, jealousy and battle. Woolf writes about the isolation, loneliness, and vulnerability that disease may bring and how it can make even the maturest of adults feel like children again. The essay was written in 1925, when she was 42 years old, while she was in bed shortly after experiencing a nervous breakdown.

Like most of Woolf’s essays, its premise, discussion and conclusions feel highly questionable. Take for a start her claim that that no serious writer had previously written about illness. Wikipedia points out that even when she was writing (1930), she had Proust’s extensive descriptions of illness in In Search of Lost Time (1913 to 1927) not to mention Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain (1924) set in an Alpine sanatorium, to refer to.

But facts aren’t what Woolf is about, here as in most of her essays. She mainly wants to get on and write, in a heightened poetic style, about the basic conflict between the mind and the body. And so she claims that most literature is about the mind and little attention is given to the demands, especially when ill, of the body. Partly this is due to the poverty of the vocabulary surrounding illness:

The merest schoolgirl, when she falls in love, has Shakespeare or Keats to speak her mind for her; but let a sufferer try to describe a pain in his head to a doctor and language at once runs dry. There is nothing ready made for him.

(Here, as everywhere, see how her mind, when considering almost any aspect of writing, immediately turns to Shakespeare as a reference point, something she does in virtually everything she wrote.)

Also, there’s the slight problem that her description of being ill bears no resemblance to actually being ill. I had flu for a week recently and Woolf’s extended and highly poetic fantasias about illness, fanciful and poetic though they are, bear no relation to the sense of exhaustion and lack of interest in anything at all which I experienced. Hers is a kind of over-literary person’s fantasy of what illness ought to be like.

In fact the whole text is really a fantasia, an imaginative extravaganza, often with no connection to the nominal subject. She describes how lying on a sick bed makes you look up into the sky and describes her impression of watching it for hours (the sky), how it continually changes like a vast open-air cinema. When I was lying sick in bed and looked up, I saw the ceiling.

Overwhelmed, as so often, by the intensity of her own sense impressions, Woolf shifts her attention to something smaller and closer to hand, roses in vases in her room. For some reason, this morphs into a fantasy about the heat death of the solar system, the sun going out and the earth being covered in ice. free-associating, she wonders whether there will be a heaven and immortality, and goes rambling on:

Surely, since men have been wishing all these ages, they will have wished something into existence; there will be some green isle for the mind to rest on even if the foot cannot plant itself there. The co-operative imagination of mankind must have drawn some firm outline.

But no. One opens the Morning Post and reads the Bishop of Lichfield on Heaven. One watches the church-goers file into those gallant temples where, on the bleakest day, in the wettest fields, lamps will be burning, bells will be ringing, and however the autumn leaves may shuffle and the winds sigh outside, hopes and desires will be changed to beliefs and certainties within.

Do they look serene? Are their eyes filled with the light of their supreme conviction? Would one of them dare leap straight into Heaven off Beachy Head? None but a simpleton would ask such questions; the little company of believers lags and drags and strays. The mother is worn; the father tired. As for imagining Heaven, they have no time.

Heaven-making must be left to the imagination of the poets. Without their help we can but trifle—imagine Pepys in Heaven, adumbrate little interviews with celebrated people on tufts of thyme, soon fall into gossip about such of our friends as have stayed in Hell, or, worse still, revert again to earth and choose, since there is no harm in choosing, to live over and over, now as man, now as woman, as sea-captain, or court lady, as Emperor or farmer’s wife, in splendid cities and on remote moors, at the time of Pericles or Arthur, Charlemagne or George the Fourth…

See what I mean by fantasia? There’s no point trying to process or assess this rationally: all you can do is relax and go with the flow of her rather delirious mind…

She eventually veers back into the world of sense when she makes the point that when we’re ill, the rational controlling mind is weakened and so, with your defences turned down, you respond more directly to sense impressions.

In illness words seem to possess a mystic quality. We grasp what is beyond their surface meaning, gather instinctively this that, and the other—a sound, a colour, here a stress, there a pause—which the poet, knowing words to be meagre in comparison with ideas, has strewn about his page to evoke…

Incomprehensibility has an enormous power over us in illness… In health, meaning has encroached upon sound. Our intelligence domineers over our senses. But in illness, with the police off duty, we creep beneath some obscure poem by Mallarmé or Donne…

This may or may not be true. When I had flu I was too ill to read anything, to do anything, to care about anything at all, even eating. So this seems to me yet another of her poetic fantasies, it is a bookish account of what being ill ought to be like. And how characteristic that her first example of the conscious mind lowering its guard and being more susceptible, is that it be more susceptible to poetry and the Great Classics of Poetry in particular.

This dogged return of so many essays to her obsession with Poetry made me reflect that, although Woolf’s best novels are really great, in all other respects her imagination was horribly constricted. Essay after essay after essay praises the same handful of Great English Poets and, above all, Shakespeare, again and again and again. It’s like listening to a tame parrot repeat its half dozen catchphrases all day long. And lo and behold, in the very next paragraph, here is the Bard of Avon, yet again.

Rashness is one of the properties of illness—outlaws that we are—and it is rashness that we need in reading Shakespeare. It is not that we should doze in reading him, but that, fully conscious and aware, his fame intimidates and bores, and all the views of all the critics dull in us that thunder-clap of conviction which, if an illusion, is still so helpful an illusion, so prodigious a pleasure, so keen a stimulus in reading the great. Shakespeare is getting flyblown; a paternal government might well forbid writing about him, as they put his monument at Stratford beyond the reach of scribbling fingers. With all this buzz of criticism about, one may hazard one’s conjectures privately, make one’s notes in the margin; but, knowing that someone has said it before, or said it better, the zest is gone. Illness, in its kingly sublimity, sweeps all that aside and leaves nothing but Shakespeare and oneself. What with his overweening power and our overweening arrogance, the barriers go down, the knots run smooth, the brain rings and resounds with Lear or Macbeth…

Is she seriously claiming that being ill helps you read Shakespeare better? This is not a sensible remark because it’s quite the opposite. You need your wits about you when reading such wonderfully complex, multi-levelled works – the multi-levelled complexity of plot, character, psychology and diction are key to the deep sensual but intellectual pleasure Shakespeare gives.

The last few pages of the essay follow through on Woolf’s idea that when you’re ill you’re not up to reading the Great Works of Literature and fancy something lighter. In Woolf’s case this is biography, which she goes out of her way, in essay after essay, to emphasise is not an art on the same level as writing a novel (see ‘The Art of Biography’, below).

At which point the essay takes an unexpected turn to look at a very specific author. The last couple of pages of this little essay stop being about illness at all and turn into praise for the Victorian writer, painter and raconteur, Augustus Hare (1834 to 1903). Specifically, it turns out Woolf is a big fan of Story of Two Noble Lives, Hare’s big biography of two sisters and artists, Countess Canning and the Marchioness of Waterford. Woolf gives us an extended summary of these ladies’ lives, of the extended Victorian families they lived in, of their marriages, children, careers and whatnot and then, after this brisk impressionistic summary of this now-obscure work, her favourite sick-time reading, the essay simply stops, leaving you puzzled and (pleasurably) disorientated.

Thoughts

1) Being ill is nothing like Woolf describes. This is just a literary fantasia.

2) Her obsession with Great English Literature and, above all, with Shakespeare Shakespeare Shakespeare, is enough to make you scream. English literature is huge and varied and strange but hardly any of this comes over from Woolf who makes everything, all English literature, sound like one thing, like the same, high-minded and lyrical seeking after Poetry.

3) It is symptomatic that she ends not with a novel but a biography. Biographies are easy to read, serious novels often very hard. Hence my mild criticism of the way so much of her powerful polemic Three Guineas was based on biography, anecdote and extensive newspaper cuttings rather than serious research into history or sociology. I knew medics and scientists at university who never read novels but loved a good biography. This is because reading a biography is easy, reading the biography of a writer is a lazy copout: at the risk of sounding schoolmasterish, you should always read the original works – because it’s there that the unexpected, the strange and the marvellous reside, not in biographical summaries, no matter how interesting.

4) Ten thousand critics have labelled Woolf a modernist but, in my opinion, underlying the technique of drifting, free-associating consciousness which she developed for her great novels, there actually lurks an extremely conservative, backwards-looking mentality. ‘Poetry, darling, seeking The Truth of Life. Keats and Shelley. And above all, the Master, Shakespeare!’ My reading of her novels and essays is that Woolf wasn’t the first of the moderns, she was the last of the Victorians who carried a kind of purified, quintessential Victorian aestheticism on into the troubled culture of the post-war era.

3. Leslie Stephen, The Philosopher at Home: A Daughter’s Memories (1932: 5 pages)

Woolf’s father was an eminent biographer, who helped found and develop the definitive encyclopedia of biographies of notable British people. He was also a noted essayist. And so she became… a noted essayist with a lifelong fascination in biography. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

This brief text isn’t anything like a biography or an obituary for her famous father. It’s more a eulogy but of a highly personal and limited nature. Woolf’s stock-in-trade wasn’t so much analysis but ‘memories’. Compare and contrast the way the supposed introduction to the book about the English Women’s Co-operative Guild (see my next blog post) is called ‘Memories of a Working Women’s Guild’, and proceeds not by rational argument, not by logical structure, but through the highly personal medium of her own memories, dwelling on her own responses and feelings.

Back to this essay, it’s a relatively brief collection of memories of her famous father:

  • how Leslie Stephen’s adventurous days – as a rower, mountaineer and even author – were over before his children were old enough to know him
  • he liked to go on huge walks across the Cornish moors, rarely speaking more than a few words to anyone who accompanied him
  • he wrote lying almost horizontally in an old rocking chair, picking up and dropping source books as he needed them, with a thump which could be heard downstairs
  • he unconsciously doodled animals in the margins of his books as he read
  • he had a magical ability to make animal shapes out of sheets of plain paper
  • he didn’t speak much but even his briefest remarks were freighted with meaning
  • he disregarded conventional values, frequently embarrassing the family, such as when he wondered aloud whether people who had dropped in for tea were ever going to leave
  • he loved clear thinking and hated sentimentality
  • he hated wars
  • he was paranoid about running out of money and going bankrupt
  • he liked going for brisk walks from the family home at Hyde Park Gate, up to Kensington Gardens and round the Serpentine to the Marble Arch and back
  • his children regularly heard the story about him and his brother encountering Queen Victoria in the Park and bowing low to which the Queen curtseyed, and as a boy once seeing the great Duke of Wellington
  • he smoked a pipe continually
  • he worse clothes till they became shabby
  • like so many industrious Victorians, he hated idleness
  • he didn’t give his daughters higher education but when Vanessa expressed the wish to become a painter he promised to do everything in his power to help her
  • as for Virginia, he gave her free run of his large library when she was just 15 and taught her to be true to her own opinions, to be honest, never to pretend to admire something she didn’t

At the end is a flurry of tributes to him from the writers of his time. Woolf quotes a few lines by Thomas Hardy about Stephen. She quotes the novelist George Meredith saying her father was the only man worthy of her mother (who Meredith knew and admired).

You’ve heard of Simone de Beauvoir’s autobiography, Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter? Well, this little sliver feels like Woolf’s Memories of a Dutiful Daughter. You’d never know from this pious recital, that she based the character of the occasionally malicious and hurtful Mr Ramsay in To The Lighthouse on her father. Scholars claim that Mr Ramsay is a much more subtle and nuanced depiction of some of her father’s complex and difficult character. By contrast, this reads like the official version.

4. The Art of Biography (1939)

Divided into four sections.

1.

On any given topic Woolf tends to revert to the same handful of ideas. Here she repeats the idea stated in ‘The New Biography’ that it was only in the 18th century that Westerners developed sufficient interest in other people to write really flavoursome biographies, with Boswell’s vast ‘Life of Johnson’ epitomising the new interest, while in the Victorian century biographies grew vast and ponderous and worthy.

Belleletterist writing often proceeds by asking rhetorical questions. Here she asks: Is biography an art? despite being well aware that ‘the question is foolish perhaps.’ In fact it’s such a fatuously pointless question that nobody cares about the answer and Woolf doesn’t answer it.

Instead she moves onto another question: Why do so few biographies endure? Because the novelist is free to write what they want, whereas the biographer is bound by friends and family, by legal restrictions, libel, slander and so on.

The novelist is free; the biographer is tied.

With the result that ‘the art of biography is the most restricted of all the arts.’

2.

She now goes on to discuss the significance of (her friend) Lytton Strachey, author of the volume ‘Eminent Victorians’ (1918), notorious in its day for its warts-and-all portrayal of four Victorian heroes: Cardinal Manning, Florence Nightingale, Thomas Arnold and General Charles Gordon. (Victoria Glendinning’s biography of Leonard Woolf tells me that they weren’t just friends but that the flamboyantly gay Strachey actually proposed to Virginia only to be turned down, a season or so before his Cambridge friend, Leonard Woolf, proposed, and was accepted.)

She knows from personal acquaintance that Strachey wanted to be a writer but lacked the skills required for poetry or plays, whereas in 1918, after the immense disillusionment of the Great War, a new mood was abroad in biography. The plaster saints and stuffed effigies of the Victorian period were ripe for debunking and Strachey found his metier as a debunker and Eminent Victorians was his most famous debunking. That said, the examples Woolf gives of the controversial questions he raised seem ridiculously trivial.

Once more they were the centre of a buzz of discussion. Did Gordon really drink, or was that an invention? Had Florence Nightingale received the Order of Merit in her bedroom or in her sitting room?

Nowadays in our oversexed era, no biography can be published which doesn’t dwell at length on the subject’s sex life, whether they are abused as children or survived all the other horrors life can offer, a melodramatic concern which gave rise a generation ago to the mocking term misery porn. We’ve come a long way from politely wondering if a great military hero might have enjoyed a glass of wine too many.

Anyway, after this early success Strachey went on to write two massive and authoritative biographies of Britain’s queens, Queen Victoria (1921) and Queen Elizabeth I (1928). Woolf has an interesting point to make about these. Basically, the Victoria was a great success (winning prizes) while the Elizabeth was a relative failure. Why? Woolf thinks the answer tells us something about biography ‘as an art’, namely that when he wrote the Victoria he accepted the limitations of biography as a form, its need to stick to verifiable facts, documents, eye witness accounts and so on, and so he worked as a craftsman, assembling his materials. But when he wrote the Elizabeth he got cocky, he tried to make it a work of art, he wanted the book to have more of Woolf’s shibboleth, Poetry, ignored the form’s intrinsic limitations, and failed.

Strachey wanted to invent events and dialogue and motives, specifically in the mysterious relationship between Elizabeth and one of her favourite courtiers, the Earl of Essex. What he found out the hard way is that you can’t add fiction into biography in small doses. To work, fiction must have a free hand to develop character and plot. There was some obscurity in the Elizabeth-Essex relationship but not enough. Just as the fiction was getting going it bumped up against the documents and records we do have which contradicted it, blocked the flow of a narrative. Worse:

By fact in biography we mean facts that can be verified by other people besides the artist. If he invents facts as an artist invents them — facts that no one else can verify — and tries to combine them with facts of the other sort, they destroy each other. (p.120)

(All this prompts the obvious thought that in the 100 years since Strachey’s Elizabeth was published, thousands of writers have managed to write fictional books about historical characters i.e. which blend historical fact with fictional narratives, from Robert Graves to Hilary Mantel, so this last point doesn’t really stand.)

3.

But ‘the facts’ of biography change, they are coloured by changes of opinion by which she means social conventions or beliefs. To demonstrate this she chooses the subject of homosexuality, though she is not allowed to say so.

What was thought a sin is now known, by the light of facts won for us by the psychologists, to be perhaps a misfortune; perhaps a curiosity; perhaps neither one nor the other, but a trifling foible of no great importance one way or the other. The accent on sex has changed within living memory.

Maybe she chooses this particular topic among many other views which shifted with the end of the Victorian era, because Strachey was gay.

Anyway, given these ever-shifting social values, the biographer needs to keep on their toes, alert to the way that so-called biographical ‘facts’ are liable to change completely in a generation. This is why Woolf suggests chucking out the old conventional chapters in a conventional biography and rethinking it as more subtly psychological (like her novels).

Many of the old chapter headings — life at college, marriage, career—are shown to be very arbitrary and artificial distinctions. The real current of the hero’s existence took, very likely, a different course.

4.

Summing up, then, Woolf asserts that it’s exciting times for biographers as biography is poised to take significant new steps forward. But, in line with her obsessive need to rank literary genres, she persists in insisting that biography is an inferior type of writing.

It is a different life from the life of poetry and fiction — a life lived at a lower degree of tension. And for that reason its creations are not destined for the immortality which the artist now and then achieves for his creations. (p.122)

The great characters from fiction last forever. No biographer’s work will last forever. And so she comes round to answering the question she set herself at the start, whether biography is an art. No. No it isn’t.

The artist’s imagination at its most intense fires out what is perishable in fact; he builds with what is durable; but the biographer must accept the perishable, build with it, imbed it in the very fabric of his work. Much will perish; little will live. And thus we come to the conclusion, that he is a craftsman, not an artist; and his work is not a work of art, but something betwixt and between. (p.122)

So Woolf is very tough on biographers, then. According to her they are simply not in the top ranking. Oh well.

But she does throw biographers a consolation prize. This is that the Imagination needs a rest from time to time and biography provides good recreation. Their works make a good playground. A playground where, more importantly, the Creative Writer (the Important Writer, someone like Woolf) may find nuggets of fact, anecdotes or insights:

the creative fact; the fertile fact; the fact that suggests and engenders

which may inspire the superior Creative Writer, which the superior Creative Writer may be able to incorporate into their Work of Art. And so all the biographer’s hard work will have been worthwhile. It would be entertaining to read professional biographer’s responses to this patronising, dismissive point of view.


Credit

‘Selected Essays of Virginia Woolf’ was published by Oxford World Classics in 2008. Most of the essays can be found online. David Bradshaw’s introduction can be read on Amazon.

Related links

Related reviews

Selected Essays by Virginia Woolf – 1. Reading and Writing (1)

You may well complain of the vagueness of my language.
(Woolf acknowledging that she doesn’t always have clear ideas or express them very clearly, in ‘Character in Fiction’, page 48)

The Oxford World Classic edition of ‘Selected Essays by Virginia Woolf’, edited by David Bradshaw, brings together 30 of Woolf’s non-fiction prose pieces and groups them under four headings:

  1. Reading and Writing
  2. Life-Writing
  3. Women and Fiction
  4. Looking On

I’ve published introductory notes on the themes and style of the essays. This blog post summarises the first four essays of the ten in the ‘Reading and Writing’ section (many but not all of which are available online).

  1. The Decay of Essay-Writing (1905)
  2. Modern Fiction (1919)
  3. The Modern Essay (1922) [review of Modern English Essays 1870 to 1920]
  4. How It Strikes a Contemporary (1923)
  5. Mr Bennett and Mrs Brown (1923)
  6. Character in Fiction (1924) [a talk]
  7. ‘Impassioned Prose’ (1926) [Thomas de Quincy]
  8. How Should One Read A Book? (1926)
  9. Poetry, Fiction and the Future (1927)
  10. Craftmanship (1937) [BBC radio talk]

1. The Decay of Essay-Writing (1905: 3 pages)

Summary: good essays are always personal and autobiographical.

Woolf was just 23 and exploring her talents in this early essay. She affects a world-weary omniscience of the literary scene and laments the overproduction of writing of all types:

Tracts, pamphlets, advertisements, gratuitous copies of magazines, and the literary productions of friends come by post, by van, by messenger—come at all hours of the day and fall in the night, so that the morning breakfast table is fairly snowed up with them.

Like many conservative-minded people she laments all the newfangled tricks and innovations of ‘modern’ writers (this was written before the genuine wave of modernist innovations, so reads like the standard conservative lament about everything going to the dogs; and is also deeply ironic seeing as she was to go on to become one of the most notable pioneers of modernist techniques in English fiction).

She claims that one of the most prominent innovations of the age (end of the Victorian era, start of the Edwardian decade) has been the advent of the personal essay which gives the opinions of the author, in which every sentence starts with ‘I’:

Its popularity with us is so immense and so peculiar that we are justified in looking upon it as something of our own—typical, characteristic, a sign of the times which will strike the eye of our great-great-grandchildren

Rather ludicrously she attributes this tidal wave of personal essays to the simple fact that so many people have been taught to write, presumably as a result of the late-Victorian education acts which expanded the scope of state schooling. But it’s the personal, egotistical element of essay writing which interests her:

The essay, then, owes its popularity to the fact that its proper use is to express one’s personal peculiarities, so that under the decent veil of print one can indulge one’s egoism to the full. You need know nothing of music, art, or literature to have a certain interest in their productions, and the great burden of modern criticism is simply the expression of such individual likes and dislikes—the amiable garrulity of the tea-table—cast into the form of essays.

Then she arrives at a point, of sorts. When contemporaries write reviews about books (which we can all read for ourselves) or pictures (which we can all see for ourselves) what real value do they add? It’s only when critics write of what is really, distinctively theirs alone, ‘of that single book to which they alone have the key and of that solitary picture whose face is shrouded to all but one gaze’, that their essays have value. Too many essayists, like autobiographers, feel obliged to produce fine writing and orthodox views. For young Virginia Stephen, on the contrary, it is the personal element which is most valuable in criticism.

This call for the personal in criticism can be seen as a kind of manifesto for the deeply personal impressions and observations she would make a career out of.

2. Modern Fiction (1919: 7 pages)

Summary: Woolf rubbishes the novels of the popular writers of her day, H.G. Wells, Arnold Bennett and John Galsworthy, for being obsessed with realistic detail and neglecting the spiritual aspect of human nature. Hence her calling them ‘materialists’. She goes on to define the kind of novel she desires, concerned with the internal psychology of its characters and registering the blizzard of sensory input and thoughts we all experience.

It is important to state that a good deal of Woolf’s essays consist of gaseous verbiage. She is prolix and verbose. She writes as if she’s being paid by the word, not the idea. Entire pages consist of filler. Particularly irksome is her adoption of the lofty, snobbish ‘we’ in her articles.

It is doubtful whether in the course of the centuries, though we have learnt much about making machines, we have learnt anything about making literature. We do not come to write better; all that we can be said to do is to keep moving, now a little in this direction, now in that, but with a circular tendency should the whole course of the track be viewed from a sufficiently lofty pinnacle. It need scarcely be said that we make no claim to stand, even momentarily, upon that vantage ground. On the flat, in the crowd, half blind with dust, we look back with envy to those happier warriors, whose battle is won and whose achievements wear so serene an air of accomplishment that we can scarcely refrain from whispering that the fight was not so fierce for them as for us. It is for the historian of literature to decide; for him to say if we are now beginning or ending or standing in the middle of a great period of prose fiction, for down in the plain little is visible. We only know that certain gratitudes and hostilities inspire us; that certain paths seem to lead to fertile land, others to the dust and the desert; and of this perhaps it may be worth while to attempt some account.

The ‘we’ refers to ‘people like us’, privileged, educated, upper-middle-class who have the right stuff, an advanced sensibility and sophisticated tastes. Another reason for using it is that, very simply, it protects the writer from coming out into the open and admitting it’s just their own personal opinion. It makes it sound like she’s speaking on behalf of a group, a class. Safety in numbers.

It need scarcely be said that we make no claim…

This orotund phraseology is the tone of a conservative snob, the tone of an old buffer in clubland. The fact that it emanates from the consciously feminist Woolf makes it all the more ironic. If she’d been a man, she would have been unbearably snobbish and reactionary.

This is a notorious essay because it’s the first in a series in which Woolf criticises three of the most successful novelists of her time, H.G. Wells, Arnold Bennett and John Galsworthy. Why? Because they lacked the refined and sensitive spirituality of a superior soul such as Woolf. They describe real people in an all-too-rackety and realistic way. Woolf struggles to find a word to describe what she dislikes and the best she can come up with is materialism.

These three writers are materialists. It is because they are concerned not with the spirit but with the body that they have disappointed us.

Woolf was an atheist. Her novels rarely bother with traditional Christian belief or, if they do, do so only to mock it, as in the figure of the Reverend Streatfield in Between The Acts. As always, to get the full measure of her real opinions, you shouldn’t consult the novels but read her searing criticism of the Church of England as a perpetrator of misogynist patriarchy in Three Guineas.

But here, in this essay, in order to diss Wells and Bennett and Galsworthy, she is happy to invoke traditional religious metaphors, contrasting the heavy, materialist, clay of their writings with her ideal of writing which is, of course, pure, airy and spiritual.

Of Bennett she says that his books are solidly built and well crafted and present hosts of characters but ‘it remains to ask how do they live, and what do they live for?’ Bennett depicts nothing but comfortable lives, first class railways carriages and fine hotels at Brighton i.e. all the externals of life. Similarly, Wells overstuffs his novels with issues and ideas:

In the plethora of his ideas and facts scarcely having leisure to realise, or forgetting to think important, the crudity and coarseness of his human beings. Yet what more damaging criticism can there be both of his earth and of his Heaven than that they are to be inhabited here and hereafter by his Joans and his Peters? Does not the inferiority of their natures tarnish whatever institutions and ideals may be provided for them by the generosity of their creator?

‘The inferiority of their natures’ – there you have, in black and white, the clearest possible expression of Woolf’s snobbery.

All three novelists, in Woolf’s opinion, describe in immense detail the material facts of life and completely neglect the higher, spiritual aspects, the aspects, in other words, which Woolf intended to devote her novels to. They:

write of unimportant things… they spend immense skill and immense industry making the trivial and the transitory appear the true and the enduring.

‘The true and enduring’ being exemplified by the Classics of English Literature which Virginia found in her father’s well-stocked library and which he taught her to revere as the true repositories of Poetry and Truth – Homer, Aeschylus, Dante, Shakespeare – you know the list.

So, in Woolf’s view, All Bennett, Wells and Galsworthy’s novels fail to capture ‘life’ – but the obvious question is, Whose definition of ‘life’? Hers, of course, The higher, spiritual life, not the low, clay life of ‘inferior natures’.

For us at this moment the form of fiction most in vogue more often misses than secures the thing we seek. Whether we call it life or spirit, truth or reality, this, the essential thing, has moved off, or on, and refuses to be contained any longer in such ill-fitting vestments as we provide.

‘Vestments’, by the way, are ‘liturgical garments and articles associated primarily with the Christian religion’. See what I mean by how, in order to insist on the important of the spiritual in art, she has to temporarily resort to explicitly Christian metaphors, despite her contempt for the Church of England?

As so often in her polemical essays, it becomes more interesting when it opens up to describe Woolf’s own practice. She very vividly describes what she feels as the oppressiveness of having to create characters, think up a plot, come up with some comedy and generally conform to the existing pattern of The Novel. Does the novel always have to be like this? she asks.

It’s at this point, if it wasn’t obvious before, that you realise that Woolf is deploying her criticism of Wells et al in order to better define what she is aiming to do with the form.

Nevertheless, we go on perseveringly, conscientiously, constructing our two and thirty chapters after a design which more and more ceases to resemble the vision in our minds. So much of the enormous labour of proving the solidity, the likeness to life, of the story is not merely labour thrown away but labour misplaced to the extent of obscuring and blotting out the light of the conception. The writer seems constrained, not by his own free will but by some powerful and unscrupulous tyrant who has him in thrall, to provide a plot, to provide comedy, tragedy, love interest, and an air of probability embalming the whole so impeccable that if all his figures were to come to life they would find themselves dressed down to the last button of their coats in the fashion of the hour. The tyrant is obeyed; the novel is done to a turn. But sometimes, more and more often as time goes by, we suspect a momentary doubt, a spasm of rebellion, as the pages fill themselves in the customary way. Is life like this? Must novels be like this?

This is an interesting description of Woolf’s own dilemma as a novelist: she had written two traditional, conventional, heavy realistic novels but knew she wanted to break free and works out in the essay what that would mean and feel like:

Look within and life, it seems, is very far from being ‘like this’. Examine for a moment an ordinary mind on an ordinary day. The mind receives a myriad impressions–trivial, fantastic, evanescent, or engraved with the sharpness of steel. From all sides they come, an incessant shower of innumerable atoms; and as they fall, as they shape themselves into the life of Monday or Tuesday, the accent falls differently from of old; the moment of importance came not here but there; so that, if a writer were a free man and not a slave, if he could write what he chose, not what he must, if he could base his work upon his own feeling and not upon convention, there would be no plot, no comedy, no tragedy, no love interest or catastrophe in the accepted style, and perhaps not a single button sewn on as the Bond Street tailors would have it.

And then a ringing statement of intent:

Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end. Is it not the task of the novelist to convey this varying, this unknown and uncircumscribed spirit, whatever aberration or complexity it may display, with as little mixture of the alien and external as possible?

This is a very eloquent defence of the new aesthetic she was to embody in Jacob’s Room and even more so in Mrs Dalloway. It is a manifesto. You can see why these passages are routinely quoted in introductions and essays to her works.

Let us record the atoms as they fall upon the mind in the order in which they fall, let us trace the pattern, however disconnected and incoherent in appearance, which each sight or incident scores upon the consciousness. Let us not take it for granted that life exists more fully in what is commonly thought big than in what is commonly thought small.

Surprisingly, she goes on to praise James Joyce, whose ‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’ had been published just three years earlier, in 1916. Why? Because he, like she, and unlike the clayey materialists she deprecates, is spiritual.

In contrast with those whom we have called materialists, Mr Joyce is spiritual; he is concerned at all costs to reveal the flickerings of that innermost flame which flashes its messages through the brain, and in order to preserve it he disregards with complete courage whatever seems to him adventitious, whether it be probability, or coherence, or any other of these signposts which for generations have served to support the imagination of a reader when called upon to imagine what he can neither touch nor see.

Although she immediately goes on to qualify her praise, claiming that Joyce’s work ultimately fails:

because of the comparative poverty of the writer’s mind, we might say simply and have done with it. But it is possible to press a little further and wonder whether we may not refer our sense of being in a bright yet narrow room, confined and shut in, rather than enlarged and set free, to some limitation imposed by the method as well as by the mind… centred in a self which, in spite of its tremor of susceptibility, never embraces or creates what is outside itself and beyond?

This is her response to the early chapters of Ulysses which were circulated among potential publishers from 1918 onwards. It is hard to avoid the conclusion that her aversion to the later book is due to its inclusion of sex, always a queasy subject for Woolf.

Does the emphasis laid, perhaps didactically, upon indecency, contribute to the effect of something angular and isolated?

As far as I understand it, Woolf deprecated sex in fiction not so much because of the sex itself, per se, but because sex is vulgar. A properly brought-up person, a well-bred writer, simply doesn’t talk about such matters. It is a paradox that Woolf cheerfully criticised other writers for being narrow and shut in and yet, on the subject which went on to dominate the fiction of the century, sex, it is she who is fastidious, aloof and taciturn.

Back to her manifesto, Woolf says the modern novelist must overthrow, ignore and reject all the constraints of the traditional novel – the concerns for realism and realistic detail and realistic settings and realistic plots, which she so dislikes in Wells-Arnold-Galsworthy – and strike out for new points of interest.

She thinks the new, the modern style will concern itself with a new psychology. She cites a short story by Chekhov, ‘Gusev’, for its obliqueness. She tells us that it is, at first reading, a little hard to work out what this story is ‘about’, whether it’s comic or tragic or really has an ending. It is this type of inconclusive obliquity which she thinks presages The Modern.

The last paragraph of this important essay briefly tells us that any serious conversation about modern fiction has to defer to the Russians. Why? Because of their superior spirituality.

If we want understanding of the soul and heart where else shall we find it of comparable profundity? If we are sick of our own materialism the least considerable of their novelists has by right of birth a natural reverence for the human spirit.

Woolf is that very characteristic modern type, the spiritual and superior woman who, however, rejects all established religions (as male and sexist). They became a very common type in the 1920s, heavily satirised in their stories by D.H. Lawrence and Aldous Huxley, but nonetheless real for that.

As to Russia’s superior spirituality, regular readers of my blog will know that I despise this point of view. The classic Russian authors (Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy) defined the superior spirituality of the great Russian soul by comparing it with the decadence and superficiality of the West, of the corrupt France and materialist Britain. My view is, look where Russia’s supposed superior spirituality got it in the following hundred years and look where Russia’s superior spirituality has landed it today? Woolf was just one of many sensitive souls who identified with the superior spirituality of the Russian soul.

In every great Russian writer we seem to discern the features of a saint, if sympathy for the sufferings of others, love towards them, endeavour to reach some goal worthy of the most exacting demands of the spirit constitute saintliness. It is the saint in them which confounds us with a feeling of our own irreligious triviality, and turns so many of our famous novels to tinsel and trickery.

Well, Stalin wiped out any tinsel and trickery in his Russia. The great Russians wrote about the nobility of suffering and their children and grandchildren got the revolution, the civil war, the gulag archipelago and the Great Patriotic War. After a decade of drunken chaos under Yeltsin we are now back to traditional Russian values with Vladimir Putin, who has made speeches asserting the superior civilisation of Mother Russia and the hopeless decadence of Western democracies. Russia’s superiority over all other civilisations is an essential part of Russian culture and here we have Woolf espousing it.

Woolf backs up a little and concedes there is some merit to the English tradition:

English fiction from Sterne to Meredith bears witness to our natural delight in humour and comedy, in the beauty of earth, in the activities of the intellect, and in the splendour of the body.

For me it is telling that she doesn’t really draw the obvious conclusion from this thought, which is that maybe the characteristic tone of the greatest English literature is comedy. Chaucer, Shakespeare, Dickens are comedians, to which Bennett and certainly Wells, in their smaller ways, are the heirs. But Woolf has little or no sense of humour and so doesn’t see it. Given a choice between Dickensian humour and the solemn pieties of Romantic poetry, she chooses Keats, Rossetti and Tennyson every time.

She ends with more manifesto:

Nothing – no ‘method’, no experiment, even of the wildest – is forbidden, but only falsity and pretence. ‘The proper stuff of fiction’ does not exist; everything is the proper stuff of fiction, every feeling, every thought; every quality of brain and spirit is drawn upon; no perception comes amiss.

This essay is an impressive and resounding rallying cry for the type of novel she was to write over the next decade even if, like so many manifestos, it has to be unduly critical of her contemporaries in order to clear the space for her new approach.

3. The Modern Essay (1922: 10 pages)

The best essays are highly personal and express personality.

This was a review of a hefty five-volume collection of Modern English Essays 1870 to 1920 which was published in 1922. It explains why this review refers freely to a variety of the essayists included in the set. It contains the paragraph on what makes a good essay which Bradshaw quotes in his introduction and I quoted above, the paragraph about the main purpose of an essay being to entertain and give pleasure.

The principle which controls [the essay] is simply that it should give pleasure; the desire which impels us when we take it from the shelf is simply to receive pleasure. Everything in an essay must be subdued to that end. It should lay us under a spell with its first word, and we should only wake, refreshed, with its last. (Modern Essays)

The review rambles through the famous names in these volumes but the striking thing about Woolf is that, despite the vast amount she wrote about fiction and literature, she’s not a particularly useful critic, either in theory or practice. What I mean is, she very, very rarely analyses a passage by someone to tell you whether and why it succeeds or fails. And she has few general critical ideas apart from the ones which help her gather her thoughts for her own endeavours.

For example, she thinks Walter Pater’s essay is best because ‘he has somehow contrived to get his material fused‘. Not very useful. She thinks Max Beerbohm’s essay is a success because in it ‘he is himself’.

He has brought personality into literature… We only know that the spirit of personality permeates every word that he writes.

Not dazzlingly insightful, is it? And his style? ‘The triumph is the triumph of style.’ These are close to platitudes and she hits a kind of low when she tells us that the important thing in writing an essay is ‘to know how to write.’ Yes. Sounds likely.

This is pretty thin pickings, isn’t it? Barely exists as criticism. You can see why, despite fans like Bradshaw bigging her up, few if any of Woolf’s critical ideas are widely used or cited for the simple reason that she hardly has any critical ideas, apart from the ones where she is working out her own approach – but those passages are cited everywhere.

4. How It Strikes A Contemporary (1923: 9 pages)

The present age lacks one commanding critical figure, a symbol of the way that, since the war, literature has become fragmented and difficult.

The ‘it’ in the title isn’t the modern world or politics, it refers to contemporary literary criticism i.e. it’s a commentary on contemporary literary criticism circa 1923.

Why are there such radical disagreements about new books? Because there is no one critic who dominates the age. Like all conservatives, Woolf looks back to supposed Golden Ages when there was one towering critical figure who dominated their era – to the ages of John Dryden (the 1680s and ’90s), Dr Johnson (1760s to ’80s), Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1810s to ‘1830) or Matthew Arnold (1860s, ’70s, ’80s). The fact that these are nostalgic conservative tropes is given away by her own phraseology:

Once upon a time, we must believe, there was a rule, a discipline, which controlled the great republic of readers in a way which is now unknown…

‘Once upon a time…’ reveals that this is a fairy tale version of history, removing all its complexity and conflict.

Anyway, in Woolf’s opinion the real problem is simply the scale of output. No one critic could read everything that is produced nowadays and so the situation she laments, with thousands of reviewers scribbling away but no one central Man of Letters setting a standard.

It is revealing who she picks but then dismisses as possible contenders for this title of Master of the Age: Thomas Hardy has retired from novel writing; Conrad is an exotic outsider. No, like all cultural conservatives, Woolf thinks the present day (1923) was one of special collapse, decline, decay. It is an age of fragments, ‘it is a barren and exhausted age’ etc.

Interestingly, she gets it wrong about W.B. Yeats, thinking he will only be remembered for a few poems. Similarly and notoriously, she thinks that James Joyce’s Ulysses was a disaster and failure. In both of these opinions, she was, of course, dead wrong.

There are several passage of incoherent impressionism before she emerges with a tangible point: the present age is defined by The War. The First World War changed everything.

Nor has any generation more need than ours to cherish its contemporaries. We are sharply cut off from our predecessors. A shift in the scale—the war, the sudden slip of masses held in position for ages—has shaken the fabric from top to bottom, alienated us from the past and made us perhaps too vividly conscious of the present. Every day we find ourselves doing, saying, or thinking things that would have been impossible to our fathers. And we feel the differences which have not been noted far more keenly than the resemblances which have been very perfectly expressed… The most casual reader dipping into poetry, into fiction, into biography can hardly fail to be impressed by the courage, the sincerity, in a word, by the widespread originality of our time.

But:

Our exhilaration is strangely curtailed. Book after book leaves us with the same sense of promise unachieved, of intellectual poverty, of brilliance which has been snatched from life but not transmuted into literature. Much of what is best in contemporary work has the appearance of being noted under pressure, taken down in a bleak shorthand which preserves with astonishing brilliance the movements and expressions of the figures as they pass across the screen. But the flash is soon over, and there remains with us a profound dissatisfaction.

We live in a special age, uniquely cut off from the past. Many writers are capturing this new spirit. But there is something unsatisfactory about their work. This is a useful impression and certainly a very useful background to understanding her own practice from ‘Jacob’s Room’ onwards.

But the essay also conveys a sense of Woolf feeling adrift in this new age. As so often with Woolf you feel that this is due, in part, to her own personal intellectual inadequacy. In her essays and her novels, you get the impression that things are always just a bit too much for her to cope with. She needs help. She needs Daddy.

And Daddy, here as everywhere, takes the form of looking back nostalgically to the age of Wordsworth, Scott and Austen. She likes those old authors because they were so sure of themselves. By contrast, her contemporaries:

afflict us because they have ceased to believe. The most sincere of them will only tell us what it is that happens to himself. They cannot make a world.

Her conclusion uses a silly metaphor to make a valid point:

It would be wise for the writers of the present to renounce for themselves the hope of creating masterpieces. Their poems, plays, biographies, novels are not books but notebooks, and Time, like a good schoolmaster, will take them in his hands, point to their blots and erasions, and tear them across; but he will not throw them into the waste-paper basket. He will keep them because other students will find them very useful. It is from notebooks of the present that the masterpieces of the future are made.

The great critics of the past spoke with confidence for their entire age. The Great War has made that impossible because it has shattered all traditional values. This explains the daring experiments but also the failures and sense of blockage and frustration among so many of her contemporaries. But she nonetheless cleaves to the hope that out of the current chaos great things will come. And she was, of course, correct. She was in fact living in an age of masterpieces, which included her own works.


Credit

‘Selected Essays of Virginia Woolf’ was published by Oxford World Classics in 2008. Most of the essays can be found online. The OWC introduction can be read on Amazon.

Related links

Related reviews

Collected Short Stories by E.M. Forster

I thought E.M. Forster was the poet laureate of a certain kind of Edwardian middle-class gentility, all vicars’ tea parties and maiden aunts traipsing off to Italy to appreciate Renaissance art, as captured best in his 1908 novel, A Room With A View – so Forster’s collected short stories come as a real surprise and almost a shock. I had no idea they would be so weird, really weird, fantastical and almost incomprehensibly strange, some of them.

Forster published two collections of short stories in his lifetime, The Celestial Omnibus and Other Stories (1911) and The Eternal Moment and Other Stories (1928). All the stories from both volumes were then brought together into the current collection in 1947. Forster’s brief introduction explains that all of them were written before the Great War.

The Celestial Omnibus and Other Stories (1911)

  1. The Story of a Panic
  2. The Other Side of the Hedge
  3. The Celestial Omnibus
  4. Other Kingdom
  5. The Curate’s Friend
  6. The Road from Colonus

The Eternal Moment and Other Stories (1928)

  1. The Machine Stops
  2. The Point of It
  3. Mr Andrews
  4. Co-ordination
  5. The Story of the Siren
  6. The Eternal Moment

1. The Story of a Panic (25 pages)

A miscellaneous group of Edwardian middle-class ladies and gentlemen, including the pompous narrator, his wife and his two children, Mr Sanbach the curate, Mr Leyland the artists, the two Miss Robinsons and their spoilt nephew Eustace, are staying at a discreet hotel in Ravello. One afternoon they go for a walk up into the surrounding hills. A conversation about the view leads the artist in the group (there’s always an artist) to go on about how the ancient gods are all vanished from the disenchanted landscape, not least the great god Pan. But mention of the god’s name brings a brief shiver to the narrator who notices a cat’s paw of ripples passing over the fields opposite. Suddenly it becomes ominously silent. And then with no explanation, all the adults in the group experience the same hysteria, at the same moment and, without knowing how it happened, find themselves running down the hillside.

When they come back to their senses they realise they’ve left Eustace behind. Reluctantly they return to the clearing to find their picnic things scattered and Eustace lying unconscious. When they wake him he is a changed boy, become more and more frolicsome, skipping through the woods on the way back, gathering wild flowers and mouthing strange hymns to nature, ‘attempting to tackle themes which the greatest poets have found almost beyond their power’. In brief: he has been possessed by the spirit of the god Pan.

That night Eustace wakes them all by cavorting around the hotel garden, giving more vent to hymns to the sky and stars etc and letting out howls. The pompous narrator and Leyland, with the reluctant help of the hotel’s slovenly waiter, Gennaro, who has some kind of deep understanding of what Eustace’s going through, grab the boy and lock him up in his room, despite his protestations that his room looks out on the opposite wall, is small like a cell and will crush his spirit.

Gennaro warns the others that Eustace will die there, tonight, which the others take to be hysterical Italian hyperbole, but next thing they know, he unlocks Eustace’s door and frees him to escape through the pompous narrator’s bedroom, leaping from the balcony into the garden and then into the olive groves beneath, running off shouting and laughing as his helped, Gennaro, incongruously, falls dead at their feet.

Comments

You’d have thought this was a florid story for the period, but then again this was the decade of Saki with his outrageous animal stories. The story announces the fundamental dichotomy which runs through all Forster’s work: between the buttoned-down, stifled conventionality of the respectable English middle class and something wild and primal. There are the similar primal moments in ‘Howards End’ (the fantastical description of the Beethoven concert) and in ‘Passage To India’ (in the famous opening scene at the Marabar caves where Miss Quested has her vision of sensuality), and the Italian novels are built on the same basic binary: buttoned-down Britishers encountering the spirit of life and sensuality in hot Italy.

In a way, the most striking character in the story isn’t the possessed boy but the pompous narrator himself whose voice the story’s told in. Mr Tytler is the kind of person that thinks that every remark he doesn’t like is impertinence and whose self-satisfied pomposity emerges in a series of carefully planted comments and asides.

I always make a point of behaving pleasantly to Italians, however little they may deserve it…

Taking Miss Robinson aside, I asked her permission to speak seriously to Eustace on the subject of intercourse with social inferiors.

It is no good speaking delicately to persons of that class. Unless you put things plainly, they take a vicious pleasure in misunderstanding you.

And so on. Tytler’s character is every bit as important to the story (and enjoyable) as the actual narrative.

2. The Other Side of the Hedge (7 pages)

A short, powerfully strange fable. The unnamed narrator is struggling along an endless dusty track between high prickly hedges on what initially appears to be a particularly arduous country walk. But the weird reference to his pedometer in the opening words indicates something is very amiss which is quickly confirmed by other details. He has in fact been trudging along this track for his entire life which, his pedometer tells him, is 25 years, focusing solely on the struggle to forge ahead, to pass others and not be passed by too many. The ruthlessness of this quest is suggested by the casual remark that he left his brother back behind at some bend two years earlier.

Anyway, he stops to rest at a milestone and sees a glimpse of light through the thick hedge and, on an impulse, forces his way through, quite an effort as it is so thick.

Emerging on the other side he tumbles into a moat and is pulled out by someone who says ‘Another!’ Briefly, he finds himself in a landscape unlike anything he’s known before.

‘All kinds come through the hedge, and come at all times—when they are drawing ahead in the race, when they are lagging behind, when they are left for dead. I often stand near the boundary listening to the sounds of the road—you know what they are—and wonder if anyone will turn aside. It is my great happiness to help someone out of the moat, as I helped you. For our country fills up slowly, though it was meant for all mankind.’

The man who’s caught him, 50 or 60, then proceeds to show him round this strange new world. He sees a man who runs across to a lake, strips off and jumps in to swim, later a woman singing from some long grass. Where are the others, he asks, because he can only conceive of life as a competition. There are no others, the man explains: here people express themselves and take pleasure for its own sake.

The host explains that this place is intended to fill up, slowly but steadily, with all mankind. The hedge racer just can’t understand, because for him there is only the race and the competition. His credo is:

‘Give me life, with its struggles and victories, with its failures and hatreds, with its deep moral meaning and its unknown goal!’

He is shown a gate of ivory and a gate of horn, which are conscious echoes of the same gates in classical mythology. As the sun starts to set people lie around on the grass to go to sleep, in a relaxed easy-going way the narrator can’t understand. An older man passes carrying a scythe and a billycan of drink and the narrator attacks him, grabs the can, and drinks it thirstily, but the other simply remarks:

‘This is where your road ends, and through this gate humanity—all that is left of it—will come in to us.’

What does that mean? In the last few paragraphs the narrator becomes drowsy and the man whose drink he stole gently lays him down. With his last flickers of consciousness the narrator recognises him as the brother who he told us he left behind so many years ago.

Thoughts

See what I mean by strange and fantastical? Quite clearly it’s a fable with just enough detail to tease our minds but not too many to make it too specific. Surfing the internet I’ve come across two distinct interpretations of it, one specifically Christian, the other more generally secular. The Christian interpretation is that the narrator is a human soul trudging through the vale of sorrow which is this life, who goes through the momentarily painful experience of death (the thorny hedge) to emerge into Paradise. Here, instead of a narrow arid existence, everyone fulfils themselves, singing or swimming for the sheer joy of it.

The more secular one is that it is a warning against the arid, driven barrenness of what a later generation would call the Rat Race. Abandon endless striving and competition for a world where people simply are and enjoy pleasures for their own sake. The drawback with this simpler interpretation is the parts where the guide or the other man make great generalisations about all of humanity being destined to arrive in the garden, which push the Christian, or religious, interpretation.

3. The Celestial Omnibus (18 pages)

A delightful children’s story. The unnamed little boy narrator lives in boring Surbiton. He is talked down to by his mother and father and even their nice friend, Mr Bons (pompous President of the Surbiton Literary Society), gently patronises the little boy.

Nonetheless, the boy is intrigued by the lane opposite his suburban home where someone long ago stuck up a tatty notice reading ‘To heaven’. One day he is brave enough to go a bit further into the lane to discover it is a blind alley, but there is a piece of paper stuck to the wall giving details of what appears to be a bus service, apologising for interruptions to the service but saying that sunset and sunrise buses will still be working. Puzzled, he exits the lane only to run into the arms of his father who asks what he was doing down there, and when the boy tells him about the sign, falls about laughing, as does his mother when they get home. They are avatars of those stock characters, the unsympathetic and disbelieving parents.

Next morning he wakes up before dawn, still mortified by his parent’s ridicule, then remembers that the announcement promised a dawn service, so sneaks out of the house in the foggy dawn, across the road, up the little lane and discovers…

The Celestial Omnibus, drawn by two horses steered by a coachman wearing a cape, lit by two lamps which shine the light of fairyland over the bleak little cul de sac. He has barely climbed aboard before it starts moving? But how, and where? The lane ends in a brick wall! But it keeps on moving.

The sign above the driver says his name is Browne and when he speaks in a very ornate baroque old-fashioned style any bookish author starts to suspect what is soon confirmed, which is that he is Sir Thomas Browne, famous to literary types as the author of 17th century classics ‘Religio Medici’ (1643), ‘Hydriotaphia, Urn Burial’ (1658) and ‘The Garden of Cyrus’ (1658). Which explains why he speaks like this:

‘Tickets on this line,’ said the driver, ‘whether single or return, can be purchased by coinage from no terrene mint. And a chronometer, though it had solaced the vigils of Charlemagne, or measured the slumbers of Laura, can acquire by no mutation the double-cake that charms the fangless Cerberus of Heaven!’

As you might expect the omnibus clops on, surrounded by fog, which prevents the boy seeing where they’re going. There are cracks of thunder, the mist clears and the boy is amazed to see rainbows spreading out from under the horses’ hooves, and then a gorge stretching down to a river in which three maidens are frolicking. When the narrator says they are playing with something that looks like a ring, the educated reader of 1910 would realise in a flash this is a reference to the first of Wagner’s mighty Ring series of operas, The Rhinegold, in which three mermaids frolic in the Rhine.

So it’s a fantasy, seen through the eyes of a child, but whose elements (Browne, Wagner) are very much targeted at an adult, literate audience.

Anyway, the story suddenly cuts to the boy back at home, in disgrace, having told his parents a cock and bull story about a magical omnibus and rainbow horses and the rest of it, and been caned by his father for his trouble and locked in his room. He’s allowed out later to see friend of the family Mr Bons. It’s a sort of joke that the boy is given poetry to memorise as a punishment, and Mr Bons is to test him. (The poem he has to memorise is To Homer by Keats.) To his disappointment, Mr Bons also disbelieves him, but then delights him by agreeing to accompany him that evening at dusk, just to show him there is no such thing as a magic bus.

Except there is. The boy and Mr Bons arrive in the alleyway to see a new, different magic omnibus, pulled by three horses and the coachman ‘ a sallow man with terrifying jaws and sunken eyes.’ It is Dante. At this point it becomes clear that the point of the story is to humiliate the pompous Mr Bons. As the boy reels off the names of the people he met on his previous trip (Achilles, Shakespeare) Mr Bons tells him off for not making the most of talking to these Immortals and tells him to behave, keep silent, and leave everything to him!

But instead, when the omnibus reaches the ravine and rainbows spread from the horses’ hooves across it to form a rainbow bridge, Mr Bons sees nothing, denies these exist. When the boy calls out the voices of literary figures call back in celebration. When they reach the other side of the ravine, he sees the great Achilles who invites him to leap up onto his marvellous shield.

Yet all through this Mr Bons hears nothing and sees nothing. So only the young and pure in heart can see the world’s wonder and beauty. And, in a very Bloomsbury message, even art and literature are secondary to the ultimate aesthetic value, which is to live and love and experience the world directly and passionately, unblinkered by pompous conventions.

Mr Bons crawls from the omnibus in distress and fells through the rocks and disappears even as the boy is apotheosised, a laurel wreath placed on his brow. A cheesy postscript purports to be a quote from the Kingston Gazette noting that the body of Mr Septimus Bons has been found in a shocking state, as if fallen from a great height, near Bermondsey gasworks.

When I mentioned reading it, a friend said it was a childhood favourite of theirs and wondered whether J.K. Rowling got the idea from it for her Knight Bus in the Harry Potter books. Unlikely. a) Certain fantasy tropes tend to recur across different stories because they are based on common aspects of life, such as magic buses (or Hagrid’s flying motorbike or the Hogwarts Express). b) Rowling’s aim was to entertain, whereas this is a very didactic story.

In fact all the stories, fantasies though they are, point a moral, albeit a sometimes muted or obscure moral.

4. Other Kingdom (27 pages)

Part 1

Opens with a blizzard of dialogue from people who are undescribed and unexplained. It takes a few pages before we get it clear that Mr Inskip is the narrator and he is a young tutor teaching Latin to nubile young Miss Evelyn Beaumont, older Mrs Worters and Mr Jack Ford, a boy who is being coached to pass his public school entrance exam (so 12 or 13 years old). They are at the house of Harcourt Worters who is Mrs Worter’s son, the guardian of young Ford and fiancé to Miss Beaumont and the man who hired and is paying Inskip.

(Worters is pronounced ‘waters’.)

This slow revealing of details is an interesting play with the power of a text, the conventions of narrative. Because it’s only on the fourth page that Mr Worter, entering on the lesson, reveals that it’s not taking place in a room (as you’d assumed, lacking any definite description), but outdoors on the lawn. This deliberate slow revealing is a playing with, a toying with the magic of stories.

It is significant that they are, at that moment, parsing a line from one of Virgil’s Eclogues, ‘Quem fugis ab demens habitarunt di quoque silvas’, ‘From whom do you flee, O you madman? Gods have also lived in the woods’ (Eclogue 2, line 60). The bucolic note echoes the Panic story and all the other rural themes.

So young Mr Worters arrives on the lawn at the jolly little Latin lesson being given by Mr Inskip and announces to his mother, younger brother and fiancée that he has just purchased a bit of woodland abutting his estate named Other Kingdom Copse. Spot the heavy symbolism of the name? And then, in a gracious gesture, he presents it to his fiancée as a second engagement present. There is a little quibbling about the fact that the lease for it last ‘only’ 99 years, then these privileged people go inside where the servants have prepared tea.

Part 2

In part 2 of the story Miss Beaumont leads this entourage plus a few other posh guests across the bridge over the little stream and into her ‘kingdom’ for a picnic. This develops into a genteel argument. Everyone gets to see Hartley and his fiancée interacting and realise that they don’t quite mesh. She is penniless, a ‘crude, unsophisticated person’ from Ireland, from whence he plucked her to be his bride. But as the picnic goes on we see she is empty-headed and wilful.

That said, their little squabble is amazingly civilised. She says she likes the classics while Hartley thinks they are cold, lack a certain something, and goes on to mention ‘Dante, a Madonna of Raphael, some bars of Mendelssohn’…Hard to imagine anyone these days having the same kind of conversation.

After more ragging the picnickers break up, Ford goes off with the ladies leaving the narrator alone with Mr Worters. He is not stupid. He knows his job is to humour his employer. So he cautiously assents when Harcourt points out that Miss Beaumont is not too bright and is probably holding back the lessons for young Ford.

They have just agreed this when Miss Beaumont returns, happily yelling them that she has counted and her wood contains 78 trees! Unfortunately, Harcourt goes on to ruin the mood by explaining all his plans for ‘her’ wood, which include laying an ugly asphalt path from the house across the meadow to it and enclosing it in a fence with just one gate, with a two keys for him and her.

Predictably, Miss B doesn’t like this at all, and goes further. Harcourt doesn’t like the way the local yokels come up to the wood and carve their names into it. Surprisingly, Miss B knows this is part of local folklore, that the carving of names is part of local wooing customs, and if couples get married they come back and carve the initials of their children.

Something strange happens. She goes into almost a trance as she insists that she mustn’t be fenced in, she needs to be free. Harcourt tries to reconcile the quarrel by saying they can cut their initials into a tree now and Miss Beaumont (I think) utters almost visionary words:

‘E.B., Eternal Blessing. Mine! Mine! My haven from the world! My temple of purity. Oh the spiritual exaltation—you cannot understand it, but you will! Oh, the seclusion of Paradise. Year after year alone together, all in all to each other—year after year, soul to soul, E.B., Everlasting Bliss!’

This echoes the ‘there is a spirit in the woods’ motif announced in the Panic story and recurring through most of them.

Part 3

Cut to another scene (the story is in 4 distinct parts). Young Ford had been keeping a journal, with poems and sketches and so on. Unfortunately, Hartley discovered it and read some things about himself in it. Now Hartley is threatening to send him away. The narrator counsels complete prostration and abject apology. Unfortunately he does it loud enough for interfering Miss Beaumont to over hear and come over to them. When she hears about it, she promises to go see Hartley immediately and insist that Ford be allowed to stay.

There then follows a scene which reminded me very much of something similar in Roald Dahl’s story ‘Neck’, where he and the owner of a grand country house watch the owner’s wife and her lover walking and cavorting in the landscaped garden. Here, the narrator watches Miss Beaumont walk over to Hartley who is supervising workmen laying down the asphalt path to the woods (Miss Beaumont lost her arguments over that) and then, far enough away so he can’t hear them, watches the gestures as she remonstrates with her fiancé who mimes the part of a tall, decisive man whose mind is made up.

What followed was a good deal better than a play. Their two little figures parted and met and parted again, she gesticulating, he most pompous and calm.

As part of her presentation she took a few steps backwards and fell into the stream. Oops. Comedy. She’s fished out and sent back to the house with muddy skirts, to get changed and go straight to bed (to prevent a cold etc).

Part 4

Cut to the fourth and final part of this tale. Ford has been banished. Miss Beaumont is considerably subdued. And the narrator has been kept on as Harcourt’s personal secretary and so is more servile than ever.

I admire people who know on which side their bread’s buttered.

A strong wind blows up but Harcourt decides to defy it and take Miss B and the household’s other women down the new path to the Other Kingdom. On the way Miss B comes to life, shimmers and twirls in the strong wind, looks almost like a strong tree covered in foliage, spouts the pagan sentiments uttered by Eustace in Panic, runs flirtatiously ahead of Harcourt and disappears into the copse. And disappears altogether. She has been transformed into a tree. The entire story turns out to be the modern-day equivalent of one of Ovid’s Metamorphoses.

A ferocious storm drives the search party back to the house, Harcourt conceives the notion that she has eloped with Ford (how old is this Ford?) and he and Inskip travel speedily up to Ford’s seedy lodgings in Peckham, but the studious boy just mocks them, saying Miss Beaumont has escaped (Harcourt’s patriarchal tyranny) ‘absolutely, for ever and ever, as long as there are branches to shade men from the sun.’

Comments

Although there’s obviously a plot etc, as in ‘The Story of A Panic’ it’s also an experiment in tone of voice. This time the narrator is a lowly Latin tutor with a well-developed sense of his place in the social hierarchy.

If it were my place to like people, I could have liked her very much.

…I must keep in with Harcourt.

He is sly and calculating and self aware:

For us the situation was intolerable. I had to save it by making a tactful reference to the view, which, I said, reminded me a little of the country near Veii. It did not — indeed it could not, for I have never been near Veii. But it is part of my system to make classical allusions. And at all events I saved the situation.

The words themselves are not exactly funny, but Forster’s dry characterisation of this cautious pedantic man is. Drily judgemental. And droll:

Her discourse was full of trembling lights and shadows — frivolous one moment, the next moment asking why Humanity is here. I did not take the Moral Science Tripos, so I could not tell her.

As in story 1, Forster’s characterisation of the narrator is a central part of the pleasure.

5. The Curate’s Friend (9 pages)

Are there curates any more? Does the role exist? They are very Forster, with his vicar’s tea party timidity. This is another story based on the dichotomy between the strait-laced values of Edwardian middle classes and something wild and pagan and untamed. It’s announced in the first sentence:

It is uncertain how the Faun came to be in Wiltshire.

The deadpan comic tone of this reminded me of Saki’s bland statement of the most outrageous fantasies.

The story is narrated by a curate named Henry (‘Harry’). He goes for a picnic on the Downs with his wife and her mother and an unnamed male friend. Somehow the Faun erupts beside them, making Harry shriek with surprise and go running into the trees. Here he finds, bizarrely, that everything is talking to him, the air, the trees, the earth, and the voice of the Faun. When the Faun says: ‘For years I have only spoken to children, and they lose sight of me as soon as they grow up’ I thought of Peter Pan, the boy who never grows up who first appeared in a J.M. Barrie story in 1902 i.e. a few years before this.

The dialogue isn’t realistic but in the arch contrived (and deliberately dated) style of a fable:

‘Poor woodland creature!’ said I, turning round. ‘How could you understand? It was idle of me to chide you. It is not in your little nature to comprehend a life of self-denial. Ah! if only I could reach you!’

The curate demands the Faun prove his powers by making the wife he’s come on the picnic with happy. The Faun promptly does this but it turns out to involve making the wife and the male friend overcome with desire and fall into each others’ arms – as in so many fairy stories, Greek myths or fables where a wish is granted but turns out not to be, in practice, what the wisher intended.

What’s strange is that this betrayal does, in fact, make the curate happy. The Faun commands him to laugh, the hill holds its breath (nature is personified like this throughout) and then Harry bursts out laughing. A coda indicates that he has for many years now spread the happiness and joy the Faun showed him to his parishioners.

Comment

It strangeness of it reminded me of Ted Hughes’s eerie and strange fantasy about a possessed vicar, Gaudete.

Also, it is surely blasphemous. At the end the curate announces that he has now graduated from curate to have a ‘living’ (I think this means he has become a vicar) and goes on to claim that he is only able to preach joy to his miscellaneous congregation because of this great pagan experience which came to him. If serious Anglicans read this in 1910, wouldn’t they have been offended that a Christian preacher is made to base his confidence and preaching on a thoroughly unchristian revelation?

Was it symptomatic of the great loosening of cultural ties Roy Hattersley attributes to the Edwardian age? Or would this story have been acceptable earlier, in the 1890s or 1880s?

6. The Road from Colonus (14 pages)

Part 1

Another story where something strange, a kind of pagan epiphany, occurs to a very English figure.

Mr Lucas is on holiday in Greece with a group who consist of his daughter, Ethel, nagging Mrs. Forman, polite and helpful Mr. Graham, and the English-speaking dragoman (‘an interpreter or guide, especially in countries speaking Arabic, Turkish, or Persian’). They are all riding mules through the parched landscape.

Lucas has married, raised his children, grown old and, now, as we meet him, is lapsing into ageing indifference. But all his life he’s harboured fantasies of travelling to Greece and now, now he experiences an epiphany. Arriving on muleback ahead of the others at a wooden inn in the sun-scorched landscape he spies an ancient plane tree from whose roots a pure spring is babbling. The tree has been hollowed out by generations of worshippers and Lucas stumbles into the inner darkness and has one of Forster’s pagan epiphanies:

When he opened his eyes, something unimagined, indefinable, had passed over all things, and made them intelligible and good…in a brief space of time [he] had discovered not only Greece, but England and all the world and life…

When the others catch up with him, to their astonishment Lucas insists that he stop there, in this place, near this grove of trees and the dirty old inn and the tree with a spring magically bursting forth. The title of the story comes from the family joke that Lucas’s daughter, Ethel, is like Antigone, daughter of the grown-up wandering Oedipus. And since Oedipus met his end at a place called Colonus, Mrs Forman makes a joke that this dusty place in the back of beyond is Mr Lucas’s Colonus.

Mr Lucas insists that he wants to stay there because he feels the truth of the landscape and the universe, the whispering leaves and trickling water, are worth more than his old life back in London, more than anything.

There’s some inconclusive bickering until young Ethel begs willing Mr Graham to help and the latter simply lifts Mr Lucas onto one of the mules and leads him off alongside the others and so off they go, with Mr Lucas suddenly rendered passive and powerless. From out of nowhere the children from the dirty little inn appear and throw stones at them (as if they are, somehow, spirits of the place, trying to retain Lucas there) but Mr Graham sees them off. All of this Mr Lucas observes with complete equanimity.

Part 2

Cut to the short second part of the story. They are back in London. Ethel is to be married soon. When Ethel moves out, they have arranged for Mr Lucas’s unmarried sister, Aunt Julia, to come to stay and look after him. He complains querulously about the noisy children next door and the dog barking and the sound of the pipes at night.

The post arrives, bringing a parcel from Mrs Forman who is still in Athens. It contains asphodel bulbs wrapped in local newspaper. Ethel is curious to see if she can still read modern Greek and so starts reading the old newspapers used as packing. Her eye falls on a news story about a remote rural inn by a stream. According to the article, one night recently a nearby plane tree fell over and crushed the inn, killing all the inhabitants. Then Ethel suddenly sees the date on the newspaper and realises that this tragedy happened on the night of the day they were there. If Mr Graham hadn’t forced Mr Lucas onto the donkey and Mr Lucas had stayed the night, he would have been killed along with the family.

The real import of the news, the thing the reader is left puzzling over, is that Mr Lucas had a genuine revelation, an overwhelming sense of understanding the universe. Did that refer to the way he would have died if he’d stayed? Was it a kind of siren song of fate trying to lure him to stay? Or was the full realisation of the secrets of the universe he felt he trembled on the brink of, is that equivalent to death? Is the full epiphany of the meaning of the universe the same as death?

7. The Machine Stops (38 pages)

Discussed in full in a separate review.

8. The Point of It (11 pages)

Part 1

A really strange, extended fantasy about life, death, hell and reincarnation. Young Harold and Michael are rowing off the Norfolk coast. They get caught in a fierce current and, overstraining himself, Harold drops dead of a heart attack. Doctors, the police and relatives call, but the story skips over time in a cavalier way, telling us Michael was 22 when this tragic incident happened, but lived to be over 70.

Part 2

There follows an eerily normal overview of this character, Michael, who goes on to become a civil servant, works at the British Museum, marries a supportive but unintellectual woman, Janet, has three children who grow up to be decent types, he writes some well-received essays, is knighted, Janet dies and, as he becomes a valetudinarian (‘a person who is unduly anxious about their health’) is looked after by his daughter. His death was absurd and random, for he was taking a short cut through a slum when he got involved in a fierce argument between two wives and when he tried to bring peace, was hit, fell and hit his head.

There’s a powerful scene in which we gather that Sir Michael is in a coma, in bed and being cared for by a nurse. He comes to consciousness thinking only ten minutes or so have passed but is unable to speak and hears his grown-up son and daughter discussing him quite brutally as if he can’t hear. Two of his grandchildren come in and are equally disrespectful. He is filled with a sense of the irony of the whole situation and abruptly dies in this mood.

Part 3

Now commences the really unsettling, upsetting part of the story, for Michael’s soul appears to live on into an afterlife but not at all the one we’re led to believe in. he finds himself embedded in a vast plain of sand across which a few pillars of sand move and disintegrate. He feels he has existed here forever and only a fraction of his soul was incarnated in his sorry body.

How long had he lain here? Perhaps for years, long before death perhaps, while his body seemed to be walking among men. Life is so short and trivial, that who knows whether we arrive for it entirely, whether more than a fraction of the soul is aroused to put on flesh? … It seemed to Micky that he had lain in the dust for ever, suffering and sneering, and that the essence of all things, the primal power that lies behind the stars, is senility. Age, toothless, dropsical age; ungenerous to age and to youth; born before all ages, and outlasting them; the universe as old age. (p.158)

There is a general atmosphere of spite and contempt, degradation and discomfort. He realises it is a kind of hell. He has a neighbour, another large sandy fungous form. They have a strange colloquy, Michael asking about this place. There are two heavens, he is told, the heaven of the hard and the soft. They are in the heaven of the soft, the afterlife ‘of the sentimentalists, the conciliators, the peace-makers, the humanists, and all who have trusted the warmer vision’. In the distance he can see cliffs of stone and realises his wife is there, in the heaven of the hard, with ‘the reformers and ascetics and all sword-like souls.’ He realises that:

the years are bound either to liquefy a man or to stiffen him, and that Love and Truth, who seem to contend for our souls like angels, hold each the seeds of our decay.

What on earth does this mean? Is it a kind of humanist rewriting of the Christian heaven and hell or a horrible modernist vision, in its grim bleakness not far from Kafka or Beckett? He regrets having lived such a ‘soft’ life, and missing the chance to distil the joy which is possible at the heart of human existence. But here everything is degraded and disgusting and mediocre. It completely lacks the excitement of the Christian vision, that is too flattering by far.

For there is nothing ultimate in Hell; men will not lay aside all hope on entering it, or they would attain to the splendour of despair. To have made a poem about Hell is to mistake its very essence; it is the imagination of men, who will have beauty, that fashions it as ice or flame. Old, but capable of growing older, Micky lay in the sandy country…

I found this quite horrible and repellent. Then it gets worse. A voice comes from across the wide river on the other side of which dwell the damned. It crosses the river and shatters pillars of sand and preaches a wisdom which stabs Michael with pain.

‘I was before choice,’ came the song. ‘I was before hardness and softness were divided. I was in the days when truth was love. And I am.’

Is this Jesus, God, the Devil, what?

‘I have been all men, but all men have forgotten me. I transfigured the world for them until they preferred the world. They came to me as children, afraid; I taught them, and they despised me. Childhood is a dream about me, experience a slow forgetting: I govern the magic years between them, and am.’

I found it hard to understand. It has the shapes and rhetoric of religion but fits no religion I understand. I’m quoting it at such length because paraphrase would simplify it too much because it is so weird.

‘Death comes,’ the voice pealed, ‘and death is not a dream or a forgetting. Death is real. But I, too, am real, and whom I will I save. I see the scheme of things, and in it no place for me, the brain and the body against me. Therefore I rend the scheme in two, and make a place, and under countless names have harrowed Hell. Come.’ Then, in tones of inexpressible sweetness, ‘Come to me all who remember. Come out of your eternity into mine. It is easy, for I am still at your eyes, waiting to look out of them; still in your hearts, waiting to beat. The years that I dwelt with you seemed short, but they were magical, and they outrun time.’

And the narrator says that Mickey died another death, in pain, found himself standing in the plain (instead of lying half buried) staggered down the sand towards the river, was in the water bumping against some wood, and then…he is back in his young man’s body, in the rowing boat as Harry struggles against the tide. Apparently he has been reincarnated back to that crucial moment in his life, just as Harry is about to collapse. Apparently, he will live the next fifty years over again. And again?

This story confused and upset me, its fundamental unhappiness, the dreariness of the imagery, the sense of there never being completion but an eternity of sand-clogged old age and regret…Yuk.

9. Mr Andrews (5 pages)

Could be called ‘Mr Andrews goes to heaven’ for that’s what happens. It opens sounding like conventional Christianity only it isn’t:

The souls of the dead were ascending towards the Judgment Seat and the Gate of Heaven. The world soul pressed them on every side, just as the atmosphere presses upon rising bubbles, striving to vanquish them, to break their thin envelope of personality, to mingle their virtue with its own. But they resisted, remembering their glorious individual life on earth, and hoping for an individual life to come.

The Judgement Seat and the Gate of Heaven are Christian alright but the notion of the world soul isn’t and the idea that this world soul strives to burst the individual soul and absorb them is something out of science fiction.

Anyway, floating up to heaven he bumps into the soul of a Muslim, a Turk. They strike up a friendship, each under the impression they are heading for the heaven of their religion and that the other will be excluded. Sad about this, at the gate of heaven, rather than ask admittance for themselves they ask that their friend can be admitted. Of course they are both allowed in and given the accoutrements of their faith, a harp for Mr Andrews, a collection of nubile virgins for the Turk.

Mr Andrews goes wandering round heaven and sees many sights, including gods from all the religions, but is unsatisfied. He can’t find any friends, in fact the whole place seems curiously unpopulated. He experiences no joy or bliss (very reminiscent of Sir Michael in the previous story, who finds the afterlife grim, flat and depressing). When he stumbles across the Turk and his harem he discovers that he, too, is unsatisfied.

They decide to go back to the Gate of Heaven, Mr Andrew explaining on the way that maybe heaven is disappointing because it reflects his imagination and he’s never imagined anything so perfect:

‘We desire infinity and we cannot imagine it. How can we expect it to be granted? I have never imagined anything infinitely good or beautiful excepting in my dreams.’

So they ask to leave. The voice warns them but they insist. they have barely exited heaven before they feel the World Soul pressing against them and, this time, they abandon themselves to it.

As soon as they passed the gate, they felt again the pressure of the world soul. For a moment they stood hand in hand resisting it. Then they suffered it to break in upon them, and they, and all the experience they had gained, and all the love and wisdom they had generated, passed into it, and made it better. (p.170)

I need someone to explain this to me. Is it a fable dramatising Forster’s essentially secular humanism? Is he saying conventional heaven is disappointing, what you have to do is give yourself… but to what? Is it a variation on the motto ‘only connect’ which is the epigraph and central theme of ‘Howard’s End’?

10. Co-ordination (8 pages)

A weird tale combining St Trinians with the afterlife.

Teachers at a girls private school are giving lessons in music and history. They are all focusing on one subject, Napoleon, as part of what the Principal describes as her new co-ordinative system.

Meanwhile, up in heaven, sits Beethoven surrounded by his clerks (?!) annotating every single performance of his music anywhere, by anyone, no matter how amateur. They are logging each of the lessons the school music mistress, Miss Haddon is giving. Beethoven is pleased.

Meanwhile, over on another cloud sits Napoleon surrounded by his clerks, who are recording every time he is mentioned or studied, and are recording the lessons being given at this school by the history mistress.

Bored of the daily routine, that evening while the girls are at prep Miss Haddon lifts a paperweight to her ear and has a transcendent vision of the sound of the sea. When the Principal comes in and asks her what she thinks she’s doing and takes the shell from her, she puts it to her ear and hears the sounds of a vernal wood (?!).

Somehow both women are changed. Miss Haddon reveals that she is no good at music, doesn’t like it and wants to stop teaching it. Instead of bawling her out the Principal offers to supervise her prep lesson. Next morning Miss Haddon still wants to leave and announces that she’s inherited a house by the sea. The Principal not only accepts this but praises her. they cancel lessons for the day and drive the girls out into the countryside where they play games, again in a relaxed and slightly anarchic way. The day climaxes when the Principal announces she is abandoning the co-ordinative system to cheers from the girls.

Cut to the last page where, in a comic or fantastical coda, Mephistopheles, having noticed this is flying, apparently to God (?) bearing a scroll listing these deficiencies (the Principal’s abandonment of the co-ordinative system?). He bumps into the archangel Raphael who asks him whither he is flying. Mephistopheles says he has a real case to put to God. The little incidents just described prove the futility of genius; prove that great men think that they are understood, and are not; and that men think that they understand them, and do not. Ha! Got ’em! This is how the story ends:

‘If you can prove that, you have indeed a case,’ said Raphael. ‘For this universe is supposed to rest on co-ordination, all creatures co-ordinating according to their powers.’
‘Listen. Charge one: Beethoven decrees that certain females shall hear a performance of his A minor quartet. They hear – some of them a band, others a shell. Charge two: Napoleon decrees that the same shall participate in the victory of Austerlitz. Result – a legacy, followed by a school treat. Charge three: Females perform Beethoven. Being deaf, and being served by dishonest clerks, he supposes they are performing him with insight. Charge four: To impress the Board of Education, females study Napoleon. He is led to suppose that they are studying him properly. I have other points, but these will suffice. The genius and the ordinary man have never co-ordinated once since Abel was killed by Cain.’
‘And now for your case,” said Raphael, sympathetically.
‘My case?’ stammered Mephistopheles. ‘Why, this is my case.’
‘Oh, innocent devil,’ cried the other. ‘Oh, candid if infernal soul. Go back to the earth and walk up and down it again. For these people have co-ordinated, Mephistopheles. They have co-ordinated through the central sources of Melody and Victory.’

I literally don’t understand this. Is it some kind of satire on some Edwardian educational fashion? I don’t understand why the notion of ‘co-ordination’ needs a story like this. I don’t really understand what Mephistopheles is on about. And I don’t understand Gabriel’s rejoinder that ‘They have co-ordinated through the central sources of Melody and Victory.’

I really need a Sparks notes or some kind of explanation of what half these stories are about. This is much harder than Beckett or Kafka.

11. The Story of the Siren (9 pages)

Italy again, and the priggish narrator drops his notebook over the side of the boat he and his tourist party are being rowed in. Down into the Mediterranean it sinks to a chorus of comments from the various members of the group. One of their two sailors starts to strip to jump in and retrieve it, so one of the ladies suggests they leave him there to do so. In the event the narrator offers to stay as well. The Sicilian parks him on a bit of beach, reascends the rock and dives into the sea, a magnificent specimen of young manhood – maybe it’s my imagination that you can feel Forster’s gay sensibility in the description.

If the book was wonderful, the man is past all description. His effect was that of a silver statue, alive beneath the sea, through whom life throbbed in blue and green. Something infinitely happy, infinitely wise… (p.180)

After he’s resurfaced with the book, the Sicilian says on such a day one might see the Siren. The narrator thinks he’s joking and plays along, claiming to have seen her often. But the Sicilian isn’t joking. He perfectly seriously describes how the priests have blessed the air and the rock so the Siren can come out to breathe or sit anywhere, but she can remain in the sea.

He knows this because his older brother Giuseppe once dove into the water without making the preliminary sign of the cross and he saw the Siren. He re-emerged huge and endlessly wet, they put him to bed and had the priests bless him but nothing would make him dry.

Giuseppe becomes a zombie, he won’t talk, won’t work. He stands in the street and cries because he knows everyone will die. When the Sicilian reads a newspaper story about a girl who came out of the sea mad, Giuseppe immediately sets off to find her, abducts and marries her. Then the Sicilian finds himself working for two masters of one mind.

Then the girl got pregnant and the villagers started whispering, throwing stones. An old witch prophesied that the child would fetch the Siren up into the air, she would sing her song and trigger the End of the World. A storm blows up and the pregnant girl (named Maria) insists on going out along the clifftops to see it and, predictably, one or some of the villagers push her over. The Sicilian grabs some kitchen knives and makes as if to find the killer but Giuseppe grabs his wrists and dislocates them so the Sicilian faints with the pain. When he comes round Giuseppe is gone and he’s never seen him since.

He knows it was the village priest who killed her but he emigrates to America. He hears that his brother Giuseppe is scouring the world for anyone else who has seen the Siren but at Liverpool he sickens and dies of tuberculosis.

Then in the last few sentences the Sicilian changes tack by saying that never again will there be a young man and woman who see the Siren and are capable of bearing the child who will call her up from the sea to save the world. Save? Yes, from its silence and loneliness, he says, but before he can explain further the daytrip boat comes into their little grotto with its cargo of yakking tourists and the explanation is lost forever.

Comment

Magic grottos, beautiful young men, an atmosphere of magic, a mythical figure, a legendary tale. Come to sunny Italy where you can release your uptight English inhibitions!

12. The Eternal Moment (35 pages)

Part 1

Miss Raby is a successful novelist so people expect her to be a bit unconventional and opinionated. Her success is based on her bestselling novel ‘The Eternal Moment’ which was set in the picturesque Tyrol village of Vorta and featured many of the real-life inhabitants. Now, over nearly 20 years after the place brought her fame and success, she is travelling back there in a carriage with her maid Elizabeth and Colonel Leyland.

They cross the border from Italy and reach Vorta perched on its hillside. Here the Colonel, Miss Raby and Elizabeth are appalled by the way all the hotels light up garish illuminated signs come nightfall. They check into the Grande Hotel des Alpes. Miss Raby asks her porter about the owners, Signor and Signora Cantù. They still live here at the hotel they own. And their mother? Ah, there has been a family breach and the older Signora Cantù has been exiled to the lesser of the family’s two hotels, the Biscione.

Miss Raby is unexpectedly upset by this news and surprises everyone by insisting that she and Elizabeth check out of the Grand Hotel straightaway. So all their gear is packed up and they pay for a room they haven’t slept in and for an evening meal they haven’t eaten, and have their stuff shipped down the hill to the Hotel Biscione.

Colonel Leyland doesn’t go with them and begs Miss Raby to explain to which she replies:

‘I must find out tonight whether it is true. And I must also’ – her voice quivered – ‘find out whether it is my fault.’

After he watches them go he reads a letter from his sister, Nelly, back in England. This is an intrusive request for him to clarify whether he is or is not engaged to Miss Raby, a clarification of their relationships as the conventions of the time dictated. Forster devotes a couple of subtle pages to teasing out what Colonel Leyland thinks his relationship with Miss Raby is, namely the companionableness of two like-minded souls, both a bit unconventional, who don’t give a damn if tongues wag about them … although Forster puts a sting in the tail by saying the thought of marrying £2,000 a year is not unappealing to the Colonel…

Part 2

Miss Raby’s arrival at the Biscione Hotel is an opportunity for Forster to contrast the style of the nouveaux riches and over-wealthy new hotels with their electric signs, with the quieter, older, more ‘civilised’ family-run atmosphere of somewhere like the Biscione, with something ancient and beautiful in every room – the kind of ‘authenticity’ the bourgeoisie have been chasing ever since they destroyed it as a result of the Industrial Revolution. By the time I was 17 I realised the world I was looking for, the South of France or Italy I’d read about in books, had disappeared. The world was ruined by the time I arrived in it and it has carried on getting more and more ruined. Even the greediest tourist resorts are realising the impact of over-tourism which have, in fact, been blighting many of them for generations.

Anyway, this story is in part a reflection of this feeling, or of the kind of person who thinks this way, circa 1905. In fact the Biscione is the site of an impressive Renaissance fresco which was discovered during renovations and now is a tired conversation piece among its ghastly English clientele, although not as insufferable as the American tourists who have come all this way to stop the priests ringing their 6am bell and to tell the peasants to stop staying up late singing their ghastly songs. Miss Raby trembles with rage.

She walked through the village, scarcely noticing the mountains by which it was still surrounded, or the unaltered radiance of its sun. But she was fully conscious of something new; of the indefinable corruption which is produced by the passage of a large number of people.

8 billion people now occupy the planet. It has been thoroughly polluted and poisoned but worse, much worse, is to come.

Miss Raby goes to see the hotel proprietress, Signora Cantù who complains about the guests, about her staff, but most of all about her monstrously ungrateful son who kicked her and her husband (deceased) out of the Grand Hotel and now poach her guests and pay the villagers to badmouth her, him and his horrible wife are determined to ruin her etc.

The diatribe is interrupted by crashes from the street and they open the window to be engulfed by fumes from a motor car which has crashed into a guests’ table. Ah, the motor car, destroyer of our world.

Part 3

In the carriage, in part 1, Miss Raby had impulsively told the Colonel and Elizabeth that back on her original visit, a handsome young Italian lad, up in the mountains had told her he loved her. Now, 20 years later, Miss Raby climbs back up to the Grand Hotel, sits for afternoon tea, and realises that the swift and effective concierge is none other than the same lovely boy, now running to fat, suave and efficient at helping all the useless tourists with their problems.

It is a fraught and complex moment when she finally jogs his bad memory and he suddenly remembers his impertinence to her all those years ago. It threatens his entire position, his wife and child, he flusters, she reddens and at that precise moment the Colonel enters, adding layers of confusion. But in a flash she realises her love for this young man had been the one really true emotion of her life, nothing in all the years of her success had come close.

It is a peculiar intense conversation and suddenly she asks the man, Feo, whether she can have one of his three sons, to bring up as her own, to show that The Rich are not the as gullible, self-centred and corrupt as they seem. Strangely, the other two men accept this request and don’t find it strange. But when Feo very reasonably says his wife would never permit it, the Colonel loses his temper and shouts that he has insulted the lady. I didn’t understand the logic of this. There’s so much in these old stories we must miss.

Suddenly tired, old Miss Raby looks from fat terrified Feo to rigid unimaginative Colonel and realises she doesn’t like either of them. Miss Raby swishes out onto the terrace where she has an epiphany which echoes all the ones in this book of epiphanies:

In that moment of final failure, there had been vouchsafed to her a vision of herself, and she saw that she had lived worthily. She was conscious of a triumph over experience and earthly facts, a triumph magnificent, cold, hardly human, whose existence no one but herself would ever surmise. From the view-terrace she looked down on the perishing and perishable beauty of the valley, and, though she loved it no less, it seemed to be infinitely distant, like a valley in a star. At that moment, if kind voices had called her from the hotel, she would not have returned. ‘I suppose this is old age,’ she thought. ‘It’s not so very dreadful.’

But while she is having a transcendent moment, the two men close ranks against her. The Colonel is disgusted that Miss Raby has spoken so frankly to a member of the servant class, thus degrading him, and his entire class, in Feo’s eyes. Feo for his part is horrified because the scene was witnessed by plenty of the staff and some of the guests, the manager is hurrying to the scene, and there will be a great scandal.

The Colonel knows what to do. He takes Feo by the arm and with his other hand taps his forehead, indicating that Miss Raby is mad. Feo is pathetically grateful because the Colonel has found a way out of their dilemma whereby they are both redeemed and the blame falls entirely on the mad old lady.

Comment

I’m glad the entire volume ends on a realistic story as my incomprehension of some of the previous stories made me wonder if I was going mad.

Thoughts

It’s interesting reading Forster right after H.G. Wells. It highlights the way that Wells, although a very gifted writer, just wasn’t interested in the kind of thing Forster was. There may be a pretty simple pagan message running through Forster’s stories (the free, imaginative, pagan country life is more real, powerful and disruptive than the timid bourgeois manners of Edwardian aunts and curates) but the real interest in each of the stories is in Forster’s handling of them. He is interested in questions of technique, choosing the correct narrator, creating character carefully, and cutting irrelevant material back to the bones in order to make each story a honed and focused artistic product. Wells is always interesting, describes characters vividly and is especially good at conveying the mood and connotations of dialogue: but he is addicted to rambling digressions about his hobby horses and not at all interested in the overall artistic result. That’s why (to chance my arm) Forster is Literature but Wells isn’t.

Also, and probably more obviously, Forster is weird, genuinely impenetrable and even incomprehensible, which Wells never is. One of the scholarly introductions to Wells cites a critic joking that Wells was a journalist who endlessly wrote stories about his favourite subject, which was his own life. More to the point, Wells always writes with an aim on the reader, all-too-often to promote his hobby horses about universal education and the world government.

But what is Forster writing about in a story like ‘The Point of It’ or ‘Co-ordination’? I genuinely don’t know what they are about, what they are for, what they are trying to do.

Wisdom sayings

Something I do understand well enough is Forster’s addiction to wisdom sayings, to having his narrator or characters deliver pithy apophthegms and maxims about life:

The only thing worth giving away is yourself.

Toleration implies reserve; and the greatest safeguard of unruffled intercourse is knowledge.

It is inevitable, as well as desirable, that we should bear each other’s burdens.

It filled me with desire to help others – the greatest of all our desires, I suppose, and the most fruitless.


Credit

E.M. Forster’s Collected Short Stories was published by Sidgwick and Jackson in 1947. References are to the 1982 Penguin paperback edition.

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The Critic as Artist, with some remarks upon The Importance of Doing Nothing by Oscar Wilde (1891)

‘The Critic as Artist’ is Oscar Wilde’s longest essay and most extensive statement of his aesthetic philosophy. It is a dialogue in two parts and was one of the four long essays included in the collection titled ‘Intentions’, published on 1 May 1891. It is a revised version of two articles that first appeared in the July and September 1890 issues of ‘The Nineteenth Century’ magazine, which were originally entitled ‘The True Function and Value of Criticism’ which is, arguably, a more accurate and useful title.

When I say ‘essay’ in fact this, like the other works in ‘Intentions’, is consciously experimental in format. It is not an essay in the conventional sense but a dialogue conducted by two well-developed characters, namely Gilbert – who delivers long dogmatic statements about the nature of The Critic and Criticism – to Ernest who asks follow-up questions and generally keeps the narrative moving.

In fact the slow and leisurely opening, with chat about Dvorak and gossip and sharing cigarettes, is more like a novel than a critical essay and it has a setting described as in the stage directions for a play:

Persons: Gilbert and Ernest.
Scene: the library of a house in Piccadilly, overlooking the Green Park.

This long essay moves through a succession of assertions about the central role played by criticism and the critical spirit in society, in culture, in art and life. It could probably be made into a set of bullet points, which it briefly crossed my mind to attempt. Instead in what follows I’m going to try and indicate the flow of the argument via brief summaries, sometimes just a sentence long, of the key points, accompanied by quotations. Wilde states his ideas infinitely better than I could.

Unless otherwise stated, the speaker of each of the quotes is Gilbert, who does the lion’s share of the talking.

Part 1

Victorian artists and critics such as James Abbott McNeill Whistler and Matthew Arnold made a firm distinction between fine art and criticism in which criticism played a subservient and secondary role. Arnold was maybe the first English writer to lay out a comprehensive theory of literature and criticism in the late 1860s and 70s, most notable in his book ‘Culture and Anarchy’ published in 1869.

Wilde sets out not only to question this key distinction but to turn it on its head, proposing that: 1) criticism is itself an art form every bit as valid as the others, and that 2) art in any medium cannot be created without critical intelligence.

Only the critical faculty enables any artistic creation at all.

To put it more fully:

The antithesis between them is entirely arbitrary. Without the critical faculty, there is no artistic creation at all, worthy of the name. You spoke a little while ago of that fine spirit of choice and delicate instinct of selection by which the artist realises life for us, and gives to it a momentary perfection. Well, that spirit of choice, that subtle tact of omission, is really the critical faculty in one of its most characteristic moods, and no one who does not possess this critical faculty can create anything at all in art…

Every century that produces poetry is, so far, an artificial century, and the work that seems to us to be the most natural and simple product of its time is always the result of the most self-conscious effort. Believe me, Ernest, there is no fine art without self-consciousness, and self-consciousness and the critical spirit are one…

And:

An age that has no criticism is either an age in which art is immobile, hieratic, and confined to the reproduction of formal types, or an age that possesses no art at all.

Innovation It is the critical spirit which drives change and innovation in the arts:

There has never been a creative age that has not been critical also. For it is the critical faculty that invents fresh forms. The tendency of creation is to repeat itself. It is to the critical instinct that we owe each new school that springs up, each new mould that art finds ready to its hand.

The artists reproduce either themselves or each other, with wearisome iteration. But criticism is always moving on, and the critic is always developing.

The Greeks had no art critics Ernest (the pedestrian one) is made to deliver the tired old cliché that back in the good old days of the Greeks there were no literary journals and Sunday supplements full of hacks scribbling criticism and this was because the ancients created ab ovo, fresh and new, in the dawn of the world, as the inspiration took them. ‘In the best days of art there were no art-critics” and ‘Why should the artist be troubled by the shrill clamour of criticism?’

The Greeks overflowed with art critics Gilbert replies that this is ignorant rubbish. It was the Greeks who invented the critical spirit. Their entire legacy is one of the critical mind, critically enquiring into philosophy, science, ethics and so on. He gives, as a shining example, the ‘Poetics’ of Aristotle, a masterpiece of critical enquiry. And he associates it especially with the later centuries in Alexandria which was overflowing with critics of all the arts, which:

devoted itself so largely to art-criticism, and [where] we find the artistic temperaments of the day investigating every question of style and manner, discussing the great Academic schools of painting, for instance, such as the school of Sicyon, that sought to preserve the dignified traditions of the antique mode, or the realistic and impressionist schools, that aimed at reproducing actual life, or the elements of ideality in portraiture, or the artistic value of the epic form in an age so modern as theirs, or the proper subject-matter for the artist.

The Greeks invented every form In literature we owe the Greeks everything:

The forms of art have been due to the Greek critical spirit. To it we owe the epic, the lyric, the entire drama in every one of its developments, including burlesque, the idyll, the romantic novel, the novel of adventure, the essay, the dialogue, the oration, the lecture (for which perhaps we should not forgive them) and the epigram, in all the wide meaning of that word.

And:

It is the Greeks who have given us the whole system of art-criticism. Whatever, in fact, is modern in our life we owe to the Greeks. Whatever is an anachronism is due to mediævalism.

Literature is the highest art As that list of genres suggests, Wilde unambiguously considers literature the highest art:

It is the Greeks who have given us the whole system of art-criticism, and how fine their critical instinct was, may be seen from the fact that the material they criticised with most care was, as I have already said, language. For the material that painter or sculptor uses is meagre in comparison with that of words. Words have not merely music as sweet as that of viol and lute, colour as rich and vivid as any that makes lovely for us the canvas of the Venetian or the Spaniard, and plastic form no less sure and certain than that which reveals itself in marble or in bronze, but thought and passion and spirituality are theirs also, are theirs indeed alone. If the Greeks had criticised nothing but language, they would still have been the great art-critics of the world. To know the principles of the highest art is to know the principles of all the arts.

He asserts the superiority of literature over all the arts in a couple of pages which are, indeed, very persuasive. Painting and sculpture can only capture a moment whereas literature captures an entire action and the world of thoughts which accompany it. Which is why all the great characters are primarily literary (he gives an extended summary of the action of The Iliad and then a two-page summary of the entire plot of The Divine Comedy) and painting, sculpture and all the other arts in essence merely illustrate the depth of character which literature alone can capture.

Movement, that problem of the visible arts, can be truly realised by Literature alone. It is Literature that shows us the body in its swiftness and the soul in its unrest.

The artist as individual Echoes of his essay ‘The Soul of Man under Socialism’ which is, in fact, a very extended hymn of praise to the importance of Individualism.

There is no art where there is no style, and no style where there is no unity, and unity is of the individual. No doubt Homer had old ballads and stories to deal with, as Shakespeare had chronicles and plays and novels from which to work, but they were merely his rough material. He took them, and shaped them into song. They become his, because he made them lovely.

The longer one studies life and literature, the more strongly one feels that behind everything that is wonderful stands the individual, and that it is not the moment that makes the man, but the man who creates the age.

Criticism demands infinitely more cultivation than creation does.

As a rule, the critics — I speak, of course, of the higher class, of those in fact who write for the sixpenny papers — are far more cultured than the people whose work they are called upon to review. This is, indeed, only what one would expect, for criticism demands infinitely more cultivation than creation does.

In order to really appreciate something you need to understand the entire history and range of the genre, plus all recent developments. True criticism is extremely demanding.

The second rate are correct to decry criticism because their work, being mediocre, doesn’t merit it.

I am aware that there are many honest workers in painting as well as in literature who object to criticism entirely. They are quite right. Their work stands in no intellectual relation to their age. It brings us no new element of pleasure. It suggests no fresh departure of thought, or passion, or beauty. It should not be spoken of. It should be left to the oblivion that it deserves.

Harder to talk than to do Ernest voices the received accusation against criticism, that it is harder to do – to create art – than it is to talk about art. But in a typically Wildean reversal of received opinion, Gilbert insists the opposite is the case:

More difficult to do a thing than to talk about it? Not at all. That is a gross popular error. It is very much more difficult to talk about a thing than to do it. In the sphere of actual life that is of course obvious. Anybody can make history. Only a great man can write it.

Action is instinctive and stupid Flying in the face of the philistine promotion of instinctive action in, for example, the imperial discourse of the time, Wilde says any fool can act, animals are acting all the time, it is instinctive and requires no intelligence.

There is no mode of action, no form of emotion, that we do not share with the lower animals. It is only by language that we rise above them, or above each other — by language, which is the parent, and not the child, of thought. Action, indeed, is always easy, and when presented to us in its most aggravated, because most continuous form, which I take to be that of real industry, becomes simply the refuge of people who have nothing whatsoever to do. No, Ernest, don’t talk about action. It is a blind thing dependent on external influences, and moved by an impulse of whose nature it is unconscious. It is a thing incomplete in its essence, because limited by accident, and ignorant of its direction, being always at variance with its aim. Its basis is the lack of imagination. It is the last resource of those who know not how to dream.

Against the claims of ‘action’ he sets the aesthetic values of passivity and dream.

Action! What is action? It dies at the moment of its energy. It is a base concession to fact. The world is made by the singer for the dreamer.

To summarise:

When man acts he is a puppet. When he describes he is a poet.

A defence of ‘sin’

What is termed Sin is an essential element of progress. Without it the world would stagnate, or grow old, or become colourless. By its curiosity Sin increases the experience of the race. Through its intensified assertion of individualism, it saves us from monotony of type. In its rejection of the current notions about morality, it is one with the higher ethics.

Attack on the ‘virtues’

Charity, as even those of whose religion it makes a formal part have been compelled to acknowledge, creates a multitude of evils. The mere existence of conscience, that faculty of which people prate so much nowadays, and are so ignorantly proud, is a sign of our imperfect development. It must be merged in instinct before we become fine.

Self-denial is simply a method by which man arrests his progress, and self-sacrifice a survival of the mutilation of the savage, part of that old worship of pain which is so terrible a factor in the history of the world, and which even now makes its victims day by day, and has its altars in the land.

He says the none of us know the full results of our actions and it may be that the saint’s actions lead, ultimately to catastrophe while the acts of the criminal, unexpectedly lead to good. In which case life is a kind of moral chaos.

You can imagine the reaction of the average Victorian bourgeois to seeing his system of values and morality being so comprehensively rubbished.

Criticism is an art

Criticism is itself an art. And just as artistic creation implies the working of the critical faculty, and, indeed, without it cannot be said to exist at all, so Criticism is really creative in the highest sense of the word.

Criticism is independent. It is independent because critical intelligence can be applied to any topic. The critic takes the work he’s criticising and makes something new of it in his criticism.

Criticism is no more to be judged by any low standard of imitation or resemblance than is the work of poet or sculptor. The critic occupies the same relation to the work of art that he criticises as the artist does to the visible world of form and colour, or the unseen world of passion and of thought. He does not even require for the perfection of his art the finest materials. Anything will serve his purpose.

In this respect, its complete freedom from being tied to subject matter as art and literature are, you could argue that criticism is the highest art:

I would say that the highest Criticism, being the purest form of personal impression, is in its way more creative than creation, as it has least reference to any standard external to itself, and is, in fact, its own reason for existing, and, as the Greeks would put it, in itself, and to itself, an end.

Criticism is the quintessence of personality

That is what the highest criticism really is, the record of one’s own soul. It is more fascinating than history, as it is concerned simply with oneself. It is more delightful than philosophy, as its subject is concrete and not abstract, real and not vague. It is the only civilised form of autobiography, as it deals not with the events, but with the thoughts of one’s life; not with life’s physical accidents of deed or circumstance, but with the spiritual moods and imaginative passions of the mind.

[The critic’s] sole aim is to chronicle his own impressions. It is for him that pictures are painted, books written, and marble hewn into form.

Contra Arnold Wilde takes Matthew Arnold to task. Among Arnold’s numerous critical nostrums is the famous line that ‘the proper aim of Criticism is to see the object as in itself it really is’. For Wilde this is 180 degrees wrong.

But this is a very serious error, and takes no cognisance of Criticism’s most perfect form, which is in its essence purely subjective, and seeks to reveal its own secret and not the secret of another.

On the other hand, Arnold wrote that art is ‘a criticism of life’:

Arnold’s definition of literature as a criticism of life was not very felicitous in form, but it showed how keenly he recognised the importance of the critical element in all creative work.

The critic is creative In this scenario, the role of the artist or writer is merely to provide subject matter or fodder for the critic, thus giving the critic ‘a suggestion for some new mood of thought and feeling which he can realise with equal, or perhaps greater, distinction of form’ than the original.

Ruskin and Pater Wilde gives two examples: 1) Ruskin’s sonorous critical writings about Turner which, he says, are at least as much works of art as Turner’s actual paintings. And 2) Walter Pater’s well-known paragraph describing the Mona Lisa which he calls a piece of literature more timeless and full of meaning than the painting itself.

It is for this very reason that the criticism which I have quoted is criticism of the highest kind. It treats the work of art simply as a starting-point for a new creation.

The work is just a trigger for the critic

The meaning of any beautiful created thing is, at least, as much in the soul of him who looks at it, as it was in his soul who wrought it. Nay, it is rather the beholder who lends to the beautiful thing its myriad meanings, and makes it marvellous for us, and sets it in some new relation to the age, so that it becomes a vital portion of our lives…

In fact it’s almost the definition of a work of art, a thing of beauty, that it provides this kind of pretext for the critic to exercise his imagination:

The one characteristic of a beautiful form is that one can put into it whatever one wishes, and see in it whatever one chooses to see; and the Beauty, that gives to creation its universal and æsthetic element, makes the critic a creator in his turn, and whispers of a thousand different things which were not present in the mind of him who carved the statue or painted the panel or graved the gem.

To recap:

ERNEST: But is such work as you have talked about really criticism?
GILBERT: It is the highest Criticism, for it criticises not merely the individual work of art, but Beauty itself, and fills with wonder a form which the artist may have left void, or not understood, or understood incompletely.
ERNEST: The highest Criticism, then, is more creative than creation, and the primary aim of the critic is to see the object as in itself it really is not; that is your theory, I believe?
GILBERT: Yes, that is my theory. To the critic the work of art is simply a suggestion for a new work of his own that need not necessarily bear any obvious resemblance to the thing it criticises.

Coda: criticism of Victorian painting Wilde devotes the final page of part 2 to criticising contemporary Victorian painting for its feeble attempts to match literature in telling a story. Too many Victorian paintings are merely anecdotal and so barely rises above the level of illustrations.

Pictures of this kind are far too intelligible. As a class, they rank with illustrations, and, even considered from this point of view are failures, as they do not stir the imagination, but set definite bounds to it.

He uses it as another opportunity to elevate literature above all the other arts for its ability to capture psychology and development.

The domain of the painter is, as I suggested before, widely different from that of the poet. To the latter belongs life in its full and absolute entirety; not merely the beauty that men look at, but the beauty that men listen to also; not merely the momentary grace of form or the transient gladness of colour, but the whole sphere of feeling, the perfect cycle of thought.

The painter is so far limited that it is only through the mask of the body that he can show us the mystery of the soul; only through conventional images that he can handle ideas; only through its physical equivalents that he can deal with psychology.

And:

Most of our elderly English painters spend their wicked and wasted lives in poaching upon the domain of the poets, marring their motives by clumsy treatment, and striving to render, by visible form or colour, the marvel of what is invisible, the splendour of what is not seen. Their pictures are, as a natural consequence, insufferably tedious. They have degraded the invisible arts into the obvious arts, and the one thing not worth looking at is the obvious.

Wilde doesn’t say it but you can see this as part of the reason so much Victorian art is sentimental. It’s because it provides a quick hit. A sad little girl crying, or a pair of sad lovers moping, this is easy to read and respond to. They are appallingly obvious and therefore, in Wilde’s words, ‘ insufferably tedious’.

Against anecdotal Victorian painting the Critic will:

turn from them to such works as make him brood and dream and fancy, to works that possess the subtle quality of suggestion, and seem to tell one that even from them there is an escape into a wider world.

Instead:

The æsthetic critic rejects these obvious modes of art that have but one message to deliver, and having delivered it become dumb and sterile, and seeks rather for such modes as suggest reverie and mood, and by their imaginative beauty make all interpretations true, and no interpretation final.

So that:

The critic reproduces the work that he criticises in a mode that is never imitative, and part of whose charm may really consist in the rejection of resemblance, and shows us in this way not merely the meaning but also the mystery of Beauty, and, by transforming each art into literature, solves once for all the problem of Art’s unity.

At which point the pair break off for dinner (I told you it opens and closes with the circumstantial details you’d expect of a novella or short story).

Part 2

After dinner Gilbert resumes his long exposition of the role of the Critic. The critic’s role is not to passively ‘explain’ the work, it is to emphasise their own interpretation of the work in order to make the work live, which he explains in unusually florid, gaseous terms.

Yet his object will not always be to explain the work of art. He may seek rather to deepen its mystery, to raise round it, and round its maker, that mist of wonder which is dear to both gods and worshippers alike…He will look upon Art as a goddess whose mystery it is his province to intensify, and whose majesty his privilege to make more marvellous in the eyes of men.

The role of the interpreter He gives the example of a great pianist. Their performance is, of course, of a work by Beethoven or Bach but what everyone freely admits to enjoying is their interpretation of the work, and this leads on to a paradox.

When Rubinstein plays to us the Sonata Appassionata of Beethoven, he gives us not merely Beethoven, but also himself, and so gives us Beethoven absolutely — Beethoven re-interpreted through a rich artistic nature, and made vivid and wonderful to us by a new and intense personality.

Same with actors. If a play is a real work of art there is scope for countless interpretations, all revealing something new and ‘true’ about it.

When a great actor plays Shakespeare we have the same experience. His own individuality becomes a vital part of the interpretation. People sometimes say that actors give us their own Hamlets, and not Shakespeare’s but this is a fallacy… In point of fact, there is no such thing as Shakespeare’s Hamlet. If Hamlet has something of the definiteness of a work of art, he has also all the obscurity that belongs to life. There are as many Hamlets as there are melancholies.

Just like the pianist and actor, in order to bring out the truth of the work, the critic must express themselves.

It is only by intensifying his own personality that the critic can interpret the personality and work of others, and the more strongly this personality enters into the interpretation the more real the interpretation becomes, the more satisfying, the more convincing, and the more true.

The more individual the interpretation, the more ‘true’ To better understand and ‘explain’ others, you must work on yourself.

If you wish to understand others you must intensify your own individualism.

So the stronger and more individual the criticism, the more it brings out the truths, sometimes new truths, about the work.

The necessity of scholarship But don’t think this is easy. It requires deep scholarship, for example:

He who desires to understand Shakespeare truly must understand the relations in which Shakespeare stood to the Renaissance and the Reformation, to the age of Elizabeth and the age of James; he must be familiar with the history of the struggle for supremacy between the old classical forms and the new spirit of romance, between the school of Sidney, and Daniel, and Johnson, and the school of Marlowe and Marlowe’s greater son; he must know the materials that were at Shakespeare’s disposal, and the method in which he used them, and the conditions of theatric presentation in the sixteenth and seventeenth century, their limitations and their opportunities for freedom, and the literary criticism of Shakespeare’s day, its aims and modes and canons; he must study the English language in its progress, and blank or rhymed verse in its various developments; he must study the Greek drama, and the connection between the art of the creator of the Agamemnon and the art of the creator of Macbeth; in a word, he must be able to bind Elizabethan London to the Athens of Pericles, and to learn Shakespeare’s true position in the history of European drama and the drama of the world.

The shortcomings of life Philistines go on about the importance of life, true to life, criticism of life, derived from life, a true life story etc etc. But life is appallingly inartistic.

Life is terribly deficient in form. Its catastrophes happen in the wrong way and to the wrong people. There is a grotesque horror about its comedies, and its tragedies seem to culminate in farce. One is always wounded when one approaches it. Things last either too long, or not long enough.

When one looks back upon the life that was so vivid in its emotional intensity, and filled with such fervent moments of ecstasy or of joy, it all seems to be a dream and an illusion. What are the unreal things, but the passions that once burned one like fire? What are the incredible things, but the things that one has faithfully believed? What are the improbable things? The things that one has done oneself. No, Ernest; life cheats us with shadows, like a puppet-master.

Whereas ‘There is no mood or passion that Art cannot give us’ and ‘are there not books that can make us live more in one single hour than life can make us live in a score of shameful years?’

Dante And to prove it, he gives a page-long summary of Dante’s Divine Comedy.

Art evokes sterile emotions He makes the striking claim that the reason Art is such a refuge for so many people is that it evokes sterile emotions. They aren’t like the destructive emotions of real life. They don’t cripple us. On the contrary we return to ‘King Lear’ of the ‘Divine Comedy’ over and over again for pleasure. Art may evoke emotions in us but they are, in the end, very tame.

Art does not hurt us. The tears that we shed at a play are a type of the exquisite sterile emotions that it is the function of Art to awaken. We weep, but we are not wounded. We grieve, but our grief is not bitter… The sorrow with which Art fills us both purifies and initiates…

All art is immoral He then goes on to make a characteristically provocative claim:

All art is immoral.

Elaborated by mention of the aesthete in his ivory tower:

Is such a mode of life immoral? Yes: all the arts are immoral.

How so? Because society and its needs are the basis of ‘morality’ and society’s most elementary need is for all its members to be productive and homogeneous – whereas art requires 1) a great deal of idle time and 2) to fully understand it, you must cultivate your individuality, your difference, your separateness. Both of which society deprecates.

Society often forgives the criminal; it never forgives the dreamer. The beautiful sterile emotions that art excites in us are hateful in its eyes, and people are completely dominated by the tyranny of this dreadful social ideal…

So he doesn’t mean that art encourages people to murder and adultery: he simply means it is against the cult of business and hard work so (officially) beloved of the Victorians.

In the opinion of society, Contemplation is the gravest sin of which any citizen can be guilty, in the opinion of the highest culture it is the proper occupation of man.

The collective life of the race Rather surprisingly, Wilde has Gilbert assert that the ‘soul’ is the accumulated experiences of the race, the ‘transmission of racial experiences’. Which is why, in the imagination, we can travel so freely to other times and places, as captured in their literature. Because our ‘souls’ contain the library of our ‘racial experiences’ and, the right encouragement i.e. art work, can reveal them to us. Which is why a piece of music, a poem opens doors in our minds to memories and feelings we didn’t even know we had.

Wilde’s definition of the soul Highly influenced by the scientific view of heredity, Wilde’s idea of the soul is wildly at odds with the conventional Victorian Christian ideal:

It is not our own life that we live, but the lives of the dead, and the soul that dwells within us is no single spiritual entity, making us personal and individual, created for our service, and entering into us for our joy. It is something that has dwelt in fearful places, and in ancient sepulchres has made its abode. It is sick with many maladies, and has memories of curious sins. It is wiser than we are, and its wisdom is bitter. It fills us with impossible desires, and makes us follow what we know we cannot gain. One thing, however, Ernest, it can do for us. It can lead us away from surroundings whose beauty is dimmed to us by the mist of familiarity, or whose ignoble ugliness and sordid claims are marring the perfection of our development. It can help us to leave the age in which we were born, and to pass into other ages, and find ourselves not exiled from their air. It can teach us how to escape from our experience, and to realise the experiences of those who are greater than we are.

Which is why we can enter into the experiences described by writers such as Leopardi, Theocritus, Pierre Vidal, of Villon and Shakespeare, Shelley and Keats.

Do you think that it is the imagination that enables us to live these countless lives? Yes: it is the imagination; and the imagination is the result of heredity. It is simply concentrated race-experience.

The race experience contained in the critic

The culture that this transmission of racial experiences makes possible can be made perfect by the critical spirit alone, and indeed may be said to be one with it. For who is the true critic but he who bears within himself the dreams, and ideas, and feelings of myriad generations, and to whom no form of thought is alien, no emotional impulse obscure?

Contemplation

ERNEST: the contemplative life, the life that has for its aim not doing but being, and not being merely, but becoming — that is what the critical spirit can give us. The gods live thus: either brooding over their own perfection, as Aristotle tells us, or, as Epicurus fancied, watching with the calm eyes of the spectator the tragicomedy of the world that they have made. We, too, might live like them, and set ourselves to witness with appropriate emotions the varied scenes that man and nature afford.

What the age calls ‘immoral’

Is such a mode of life immoral? Yes: all the arts are immoral, except those baser forms of sensual or didactic art that seek to excite to action of evil or of good. For action of every kind belongs to the sphere of ethics. The aim of art is simply to create a mood.

England is drowning in men of action and business. It needs more ‘immoral’ dreamers who can see beyond the immediate present and its problems, ‘For the development of the race depends on the development of the individual.’ Thus, the so-called ‘immoral’ artist is the most important man in a society, in terms of moving it forwards.

How philistinism derives from conservative society

The security of society lies in custom and unconscious instinct, and the basis of the stability of society, as a healthy organism, is the complete absence of any intelligence amongst its members. The great majority of people being fully aware of this, rank themselves naturally on the side of that splendid system that elevates them to the dignity of machines, and rage wildly against the intrusion of the intellectual faculty into any question that concerns life…

Subjective and objective He articulates another basic Wilde premise which is that we are most subjective when striving to be at our most objective and vice versa.

Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.

Which, of course, links to the long essay about masks in the same volume. He goes on to deliver a devastating abolition of the possibility of objective knowledge, subsuming even science and religion into his cult of the subjective:

To arrive at what one really believes, one must speak through lips different from one’s own. To know the truth one must imagine myriads of falsehoods. For what is Truth? In matters of religion, it is simply the opinion that has survived. In matters of science, it is the ultimate sensation. In matters of art, it is one’s last mood.

Dialogue as a medium for the critic Gilbert gives an extended defence of dialogue as a format or genre, the very format this essay is cast in:

Dialogue, certainly, that wonderful literary form which, from Plato to Lucian, and from Lucian to Giordano Bruno, and from Bruno to that grand old Pagan in whom Carlyle took such delight, the creative critics of the world have always employed, can never lose for the thinker its attraction as a mode of expression.

By its means he can both reveal and conceal himself, and give form to every fancy, and reality to every mood. By its means he can exhibit the object from each point of view, and show it to us in the round, as a sculptor shows us things, gaining in this manner all the richness and reality of effect that comes from those side issues that are suddenly suggested by the central idea in its progress, and really illumine the idea more completely, or from those felicitous after-thoughts that give a fuller completeness to the central scheme, and yet convey something of the delicate charm of chance.

He repeats the notion that Literature, if this wasn’t clear already, is the greatest of the arts:

The ultimate art is literature, and the finest and fullest medium that of words.

Surrendering to the work And reiterates the importance of surrendering to an art work, which had been an important theme in The Soul of Man Under Socialism:

Each form of Art with which we come in contact dominates us for the moment to the exclusion of every other form. We must surrender ourselves absolutely to the work in question, whatever it may be, if we wish to gain its secret. For the time, we must think of nothing else, can think of nothing else, indeed.

The ideal critic What qualities does the true critic require? Ernest suggests some characteristics of the ideal critic which Gilbert enjoys demolishing.

1. Fair? No, the ideal critic is a passionate advocate of whichever work and school he is submitting his mind to at the moment.

2. Sincere? No, ‘Art is a passion, and, in matters of art, Thought is inevitably coloured by emotion, and so is fluid rather than fixed’ and so is continually ‘insincere’.

The true critic will, indeed, always be sincere in his devotion to the principle of beauty, but he will seek for beauty in every age and in each school, and will never suffer himself to be limited to any settled custom of thought or stereotyped mode of looking at things. He will realise himself in many forms, and by a thousand different ways, and will ever be curious of new sensations and fresh points of view. Through constant change, and through constant change alone, he will find his true unity. He will not consent to be the slave of his own opinions.

3. Rational? No, art is, as Plato perceived 2,500 years ago, a form of madness and mania.

A dig at journalism In The Soul of Man Under Socialism Wilde made extensive attacks on contemporary journalism and here repeats his criticism.

I regret it because there is much to be said in favour of modern journalism. 1) By giving us the opinions of the uneducated, it keeps us in touch with the ignorance of the community. 2) By carefully chronicling the current events of contemporary life, it shows us of what very little importance such events really are. 3) By invariably discussing the unnecessary it makes us understand what things are requisite for culture, and what are not.

The artistic qualifications necessary for the true critic ‘A temperament exquisitely susceptible to beauty, and to the various impressions that beauty gives us.’ He cites the passage in Plato which describes the ideal education of Greek youth and summarises that:

The true aim of education was the love of beauty, and that the methods by which education should work were the development of temperament, the cultivation of taste, and the creation of the critical spirit.

Current art Wilde approves of Finally the essay turns to positives and Wilde describes various actual beautiful things. The buildings of Oxford and Cambridge. In art, the Impressionists and a newer school he calls the Archaicistes.

The importance of form rather than ‘inspiration’

He gains his inspiration from form, and from form purely, as an artist should. A real passion would ruin him. Whatever actually occurs is spoiled for art. All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling. To be natural is to be obvious, and to be obvious is to be inartistic.

Yes: Form is everything. It is the secret of life…Start with the worship of form, and there is no secret in art that will not be revealed to you.

Will any artist be influenced by Gilbert’s idea of criticism? Doesn’t matter.

1) The influence of the critic will be the mere fact of his own existence. He will represent the flawless type. In him the culture of the century will see itself realised. You must not ask of him to have any aim other than the perfecting of himself. The demand of the intellect, as has been well said, is simply to feel itself alive.

2) The critic may, indeed, desire to exercise influence; but, if so, he will concern himself not with the individual, but with the age, which he will seek to wake into consciousness, and to make responsive, creating in it new desires and appetites, and lending it his larger vision and his nobler moods.

Surely an artist is the best judge of other artists? No, the reverse.

Indeed, so far from its being true that the artist is the best judge of art, a really great artist can never judge of other people’s work at all, and can hardly, in fact, judge of his own. That very concentration of vision that makes a man an artist, limits by its sheer intensity his faculty of fine appreciation. The energy of creation hurries him blindly on to his own goal.

Characteristically, he uses examples from literature to make the point, the way that Wordsworth, Shelley and Byron all disliked each other’s work and they all disliked Keats.

A truly great artist cannot conceive of life being shown, or beauty fashioned, under any conditions other than those that he has selected.

So, no, artists or writers are not the best judges of other artists or writers. By contrast, only the man who can’t do these things, can appreciate them.

Technique is really personality. That is the reason why the artist cannot teach it, why the pupil cannot learn it, and why the æsthetic critic can understand it. To the great poet, there is only one method of music — his own. To the great painter, there is only one manner of painting — that which he himself employs. The æsthetic critic, and the æsthetic critic alone, can appreciate all forms and modes. It is to him that Art makes her appeal.

The future of criticism In Gilbert’s rather messianic view, the future belongs to criticism. He feels original creative channels are nearly exhausted (a surprisingly suburban bourgeois cliché).

I myself am inclined to think that creation is doomed. It springs from too primitive, too natural an impulse. However this may be, it is certain that the subject-matter at the disposal of creation is always diminishing, while the subject-matter of criticism increases daily.

Surprisingly, he singles out Rudyard Kipling who was, in 1891, the new kid on the block:

As one turns over the pages of his Plain Tales from the Hills [published 1888], one feels as if one were seated under a palm-tree reading life by superb flashes of vulgarity. The bright colours of the bazaars dazzle one’s eyes. The jaded, second-rate Anglo-Indians are in exquisite incongruity with their surroundings. The mere lack of style in the story-teller gives an odd journalistic realism to what he tells us. From the point of view of literature Mr. Kipling is a genius who drops his aspirates. From the point of view of life, he is a reporter who knows vulgarity better than any one has ever known it.

Criticism guides us through the monstrous overload of published books.

Criticism can recreate fragments an entire lost culture from the past.

Only criticism can make us cosmopolitan. All kinds of schemes to achieve peace through sympathy and sentiment have failed.

Criticism will annihilate race-prejudices by insisting upon the unity of the human mind in the variety of its forms. If we are tempted to make war upon another nation, we shall remember that we are seeking to destroy an element of our own culture, and possibly its most important element. As long as war is regarded as wicked, it will always have its fascination. When it is looked upon as vulgar, it will cease to be popular…Intellectual criticism will bind Europe together in bonds far closer than those that can be forged by shopman or sentimentalist. It will give us the peace that springs from understanding.

Darwin Wilde mentions Darwin several times. In The Soul of Man under Socialism Darwin is selected as one of the only three or four people in the entire nineteenth century who have ‘realised the perfection of what was in him’. Here he is singled out as one of the few intellectuals who raised themselves above the squabbling of the age:

The intellect of the race is wasted in the sordid and stupid quarrels of second-rate politicians or third-rate theologians. It was reserved for a man of science to show us the supreme example of that ‘sweet reasonableness’ of which Arnold spoke so wisely, and, alas! to so little effect. The author of The Origin of Species had, at any rate, the philosophic temper.

Sin versus stupidity In a move similar to his reversal of the usual meaning of immorality, Wilde insists:

People cry out against the sinner, yet it is not the sinful, but the stupid, who are our shame. There is no sin except stupidity.

Echoing the famous line from the preface to Dorian Gray that:

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written.

Aesthetics higher than ethics He was playing with fire, bating such a dogmatically philistine ferociously Christian establishment. But he goes on, giving his enemies more ammunition:

To be good, according to the vulgar standard of goodness, is obviously quite easy. It merely requires a certain amount of sordid terror, a certain lack of imaginative thought, and a certain low passion for middle-class respectability. Æsthetics are higher than ethics. They belong to a more spiritual sphere. To discern the beauty of a thing is the finest point to which we can arrive. Even a colour-sense is more important, in the development of the individual, than a sense of right and wrong. Æsthetics, in fact, are to Ethics in the sphere of conscious civilisation, what, in the sphere of the external world, sexual is to natural selection. Ethics, like natural selection, make existence possible. Æsthetics, like sexual selection, make life lovely and wonderful, fill it with new forms, and give it progress, and variety and change.

To the perfect critic sin is impossible He reaches the threshold of blasphemy and charges through it.

And when we reach the true culture that is our aim, we attain to that perfection of which the saints have dreamed, the perfection of those to whom sin is impossible, not because they make the renunciations of the ascetic, but because they can do everything they wish without hurt to the soul, and can wish for nothing that can do the soul harm, the soul being an entity so divine that it is able to transform into elements of a richer experience, or a finer susceptibility, or a newer mode of thought, acts or passions that with the common would be commonplace, or with the uneducated ignoble, or with the shameful vile.

And then he rises to a kind of Hegelian climax, invoking the ‘World Spirit’.

You have spoken against Criticism as being a sterile thing. The nineteenth century is a turning point in history, simply on account of the work of two men, Darwin and Renan, the one the critic of the Book of Nature, the other the critic of the books of God. Not to recognise this is to miss the meaning of one of the most important eras in the progress of the world. Creation is always behind the age. It is Criticism that leads us. The Critical Spirit and the World-Spirit are one.

Wilde’s own summary

On the last page Wilde has Ernest, Gilbert’s exhausted interlocutor, give his own summary of the long night’s lecture:

ERNEST: You have told me many strange things to-night, Gilbert. You have told me that: 1) it is more difficult to talk about a thing than to do it and that 2) to do nothing at all is the most difficult thing in the world; you have told me that 3) all Art is immoral, and 4) all thought dangerous; that 5) criticism is more creative than creation, and that 6) the highest criticism is that which reveals in the work of Art what the artist had not put there; that it is 7) exactly because a man cannot do a thing that he is the proper judge of it; and 8) that the true critic is unfair, insincere, and not rational. My friend, you are a dreamer.

Completely exhausted, the pair open the curtains of Gilbert’s flat to see that dawn is coming up and the dialogue ends with another moment of fictional colour:

Gilbert: Piccadilly lies at our feet like a long riband of silver. A faint purple mist hangs over the Park, and the shadows of the white houses are purple…

Thoughts

Since at least the expansion of universities and the huge growth in courses teaching literature in the 1950s and 60s, the profession of academic criticism has also exploded. There are nowadays scores of schools of criticism, not least the newcomers feminist theory, post-colonial theory and queer theory, and hundreds of thousands of applications of each critical theory to every available work of literature (and film and TV and everything else) often using the difficult or impenetrable jargon of the trade.

Way back before the great tsunami of critical theory darkened the horizon, Wilde’s essay strikes me as an extremely impressive attempt to convey an entire critical worldview. What impresses is its coherence. It sets out to overturn received opinion on just about everything and so doesn’t make a few hits in a few places, but mounts an impressive attempt to create a total worldview.

Quotable quotes

The English public always feels perfectly at its ease when a mediocrity is talking to it.

Every great man nowadays has his disciples, and it is always Judas who writes the biography.

Meredith is a prose Browning, and so is Browning. He used poetry as a medium for writing in prose.

Even the work of Mr Pater, who is, on the whole, the most perfect master of English prose now creating amongst us, is often far more like a piece of mosaic than a passage in music, and seems, here and there, to lack the true rhythmical life of words and the fine freedom and richness of effect that such rhythmical life produces.

ERNEST: But what is the difference between literature and journalism?
GILBERT: Oh! journalism is unreadable, and literature is not read.

We are born in an age when only the dull are treated seriously, and I live in terror of not being misunderstood.

Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.

And:

Calm, and self-centred, and complete, the æsthetic critic contemplates life, and no arrow drawn at a venture can pierce between the joints of his harness. He at least is safe. He has discovered how to live.


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The Soul of Man under Socialism by Oscar Wilde: quotes and commentary

The key thing to grasp about this essay is that, although it’s routinely touted as Wilde’s one engagement with politics, it is not really about politics at all but centred on the more familiar Wildean subject of the cultivation of individualism.

His entire worldview boils down to the need for everyone to throw off the various shackles of society and cultivate their true selves. So Wilde isn’t interested in socialism as it is usually defined – ‘a political and economic theory of social organization which advocates that the means of production, distribution, and exchange should be owned or regulated by the community as a whole.’ His form of socialism means ‘a political and economic theory of social organization which enables the greatest possible development of each citizen, the fullest possible blossoming of their selves.’

Socialism = liberation from others Thus he opens the essay by saying that the chief benefit of socialism would be liberating us from ‘the sordid necessity of living for others’. Throughout history only a handful of men have been able ‘to realise the perfection of what was in him’ (in his century, Darwin, Keats, Renan) but most people are prevented from becoming their true selves by the necessity of living for others. In the nineteenth century this is because of the spectacle of ‘hideous poverty, by hideous ugliness, by hideous starvation’ which surrounds them.

Charity is harmful to giver and receiver alike Thus they embark on charity to alleviate the sufferings of the poor but this is wrong. Charity is wrong. In fact the people who set out to do the most good end up doing the most harm. They are like the ‘good’ slave owners who were kind to their slaves and so prevented the true horror of the system from being more evident and the whole thing being ended earlier.

The state of the poor He gives a paragraph on the state of England’s urban poor, ‘living in fetid dens and fetid rags, and bringing up unhealthy, hunger-pinched children in the midst of impossible and absolutely repulsive surroundings’ and pitifully dependent on the weather i.e. whenever there’s a frost the streets are full of whining beggars and crowds queueing for entry to ‘loathsome’ shelters.

Under Socialism…each member of the society will share in the general prosperity and happiness of the society…

Socialism, Communism, or whatever one chooses to call it, by converting private property into public wealth, and substituting co-operation for competition, will restore society to its proper condition of a thoroughly healthy organism, and insure the material well-being of each member of the community. It will, in fact, give Life its proper basis and its proper environment. But for the full development of Life to its highest mode of perfection, something more is needed. What is needed is Individualism.

Individualism The ideal world will be ideal because it will allow everyone to flourish and develop their own individual uniqueness. Under present conditions quite a few people are well off enough to develop a limited form of individualism.

These are the poets, the philosophers, the men of science, the men of culture – in a word, the real men, the men who have realised themselves, and in whom all Humanity gains a partial realisation.

But, of course, the majority are forced to do the work of beasts of burden, live on the brink of starvation, under the tyranny of want. All this will be abolished by socialism.

Private property At the root of inequality is the concept of private property which is why Socialism is committed to abolishing it. However, Wilde, with typical paradox and wit, points out that private property is not only ruinous for those that don’t have it (i.e. the poor) but is also very deleterious for those that do, the middle and upper classes.

The possession of private property is very often extremely demoralising…It involves endless claims upon one, endless attention to business, endless bother… and that is, of course, one of the reasons why Socialism wants to get rid of the institution.

Why? Because getting it and keeping it, maintaining it and worrying about it, are all distractions from what Wilde sees as the purpose of life, which is to cultivate your individuality. All the duties which come with wealth are a burden. Abolishing private property will free not only the poor but the rich as well.

In praise of the rebellious poor Many of the poor accept high-minded charity quiescently but Wilde is on the side of the rebellious poor, who revolt against their wretched condition and recognise charity as the feeble attempts to plaster over a wicked system which they are.

The best amongst the poor are never grateful. They are ungrateful, discontented, disobedient, and rebellious. They are quite right to be so.

And:

Why should they be grateful for the crumbs that fall from the rich man’s table? They should be seated at the board, and are beginning to know it. As for being discontented, a man who would not be discontented with such surroundings and such a low mode of life would be a perfect brute. Disobedience, in the eyes of anyone who has read history, is man’s original virtue. It is through disobedience that progress has been made, through disobedience and through rebellion.

And:

A poor man who is ungrateful, unthrifty, discontented, and rebellious, is probably a real personality, and has much in him. He is at any rate a healthy protest. As for the virtuous poor, one can pity them, of course, but one cannot possibly admire them. They have made private terms with the enemy, and sold their birthright for very bad pottage. They must also be extraordinarily stupid.

(You can see why after just a few pages of this the average Victorian reader would be outraged. So far he has said he wants to abolish all private property, abolish the distinctions between the classes along with the intricate hierarchy of rank, that he is against that great Victorian institution of philanthropy and in favour of the most rebellious, mutinous and violent type of proletarian protester. Radical scandalous stuff.)

The need for agitators Obviously bourgeois Victorians had a great fear of agitators who would rouse the downtrodden masses from their slumber, hence the vicious laws passed against early attempts to form trade unions, but Wilde, with a typically paradoxical flourish, says that this is precisely why they are so important.

What is said by great employers of labour against agitators is unquestionably true. Agitators are a set of interfering, meddling people, who come down to some perfectly contented class of the community, and sow the seeds of discontent amongst them. That is the reason why agitators are so absolutely necessary. Without them, in our incomplete state, there would be no advance towards civilisation.

American slavery For the second time he cites the example of slavery in America. First time was to claim that the ‘good’ slave owner only made the situation worse by glossing over the true horror of the institution. Now he cites the way slavery was abolished not by the slave owners, and certainly not by the utterly cowed slaves themselves, but by outside agitators, the Abolitionists from the North (starting in high-minded Boston) who entered the slave states from outside and often behaved illegally (he doesn’t explain how but I assume in helping to liberate slaves and transport them to freedom in the North).

Against authoritarian socialism Switching theme a bit he repeats the notion that an authoritarian socialism would defeat the object – well, what he sees as the object of such a social transformation, which is the undoing of all restrictions which prevent people from becoming their true selves.

It is to be regretted that a portion of our community should be practically in slavery, but to propose to solve the problem by enslaving the entire community is childish. Every man must be left quite free to choose his own work. No form of compulsion must be exercised over him.

Unfortunately, as we discovered in the twentieth century, because so many people are opposed to a completely propertyless society the only way a socialist state can be made to work is by imposing it by force and maintaining it via surveillance, spies and prison camps… Anyway he writes this because:

Many of the socialistic views that I have come across seem to me to be tainted with ideas of authority, if not of actual compulsion. Of course, authority and compulsion are out of the question. All association must be quite voluntary.

How individualism will flourish without private property It’s true that:

A few men who have had private means of their own, such as Byron, Shelley, Browning, Victor Hugo, Baudelaire, and others, have been able to realise their personality more or less completely. Not one of these men ever did a single day’s work for hire. They were relieved from poverty. They had an immense advantage.

Will not we lose the lovely productions of such writers if we abolish the system of private property which produced them? No. Because with the advent of propertyless socialism all people will be freed to cultivate their personalities, it will release ‘the great actual Individualism latent and potential in mankind generally’.

How private property destroys individualism 

Private property has crushed true Individualism, and set up an Individualism that is false…It has made gain not growth its aim. So that man thought that the important thing was to have, and did not know that the important thing is to be. The true perfection of man lies, not in what man has, but in what man is.

Private property debars the great mass of the population from becoming individuals by impoverishing and starving them, but it has trammelled the middle and upper classes by persuading them to devote their lives to money, greed, property, wealth and so on. It has persuaded people that the sole purpose of life is to:

accumulate this property, and to go on wearily and tediously accumulating it long after he has got far more than he wants, or can use, or enjoy, or perhaps even know of. Man will kill himself by overwork in order to secure property, and really, considering the enormous advantages that property brings, one is hardly surprised. One’s regret is that society should be constructed on such a basis that man has been forced into a groove in which he cannot freely develop what is wonderful, and fascinating, and delightful in him – in which, in fact, he misses the true pleasure and joy of living.

So abolish the entire system of private property and the relentless competition to acquire it:

With the abolition of private property, then, we shall have true, beautiful, healthy Individualism. Nobody will waste his life in accumulating things, and the symbols for things. One will live. To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.

Have we ever seen the full expression of a personality in all human history? No. Rather arbitrarily Wilde selects Julius Caesar and Marcus Aurelius from Roman history, the one the most successful general and statesman of his time the other widely thought to be the model of a philosopher-emperor. But both dragged down and prevented from perfection by their multitudinous cares and duties.

Making a wild and drastic leap forward to his own century, Wilde cites the cases of two poets, Byron and Shelley, more to bring out a new theme which is the opposition of brutish philistine English society to any attempt to cultivate your individuality and become a personality. His characterisation of the two men and poets is shrewd and so worth quoting at length:

Most personalities have been obliged to be rebels. Half their strength has been wasted in friction. Byron’s personality, for instance, was terribly wasted in its battle with the stupidity, and hypocrisy, and Philistinism of the English. Such battles do not always intensify strength: they often exaggerate weakness. Byron was never able to give us what he might have given us. Shelley escaped better. Like Byron, he got out of England as soon as possible. But he was not so well known. If the English had had any idea of what a great poet he really was, they would have fallen on him with tooth and nail, and made his life as unbearable to him as they possibly could. But he was not a remarkable figure in society, and consequently he escaped, to a certain degree. Still, even in Shelley the note of rebellion is sometimes too strong. The note of the perfect personality is not rebellion, but peace.

What is this individualism? Since it underlies his entire worldview, it’s worth giving his definition, in its entirety:

It will be a marvellous thing – the true personality of man – when we see it. It will grow naturally and simply, flowerlike, or as a tree grows. It will not be at discord. It will never argue or dispute. It will not prove things. It will know everything. And yet it will not busy itself about knowledge. It will have wisdom. Its value will not be measured by material things. It will have nothing. And yet it will have everything, and whatever one takes from it, it will still have, so rich will it be. It will not be always meddling with others, or asking them to be like itself. It will love them because they will be different. And yet while it will not meddle with others, it will help all, as a beautiful thing helps us, by being what it is. The personality of man will be very wonderful. It will be as wonderful as the personality of a child.

Christianity Surprisingly, Wilde invokes Christianity in his crusade to promote individualism. This raises obvious issues which I’ll address in a moment. First his argument: First of all he says that men may, or may not, invoke Christianity in their personal development. Straightaway that is denying Christianity the kind of absolute truth which its adherents (most of Victorian society) gave it.

Then he gives a lengthy summary of Christ’s teachings reinterpreted solely in terms of his own ideology of self-development and completely omitting a) any mention of God, creator of the universe and of each of us b) of a soul c) of the redemptive power of the crucifixion, resurrection and of the true believer’s faith that we, ourselves, can be reborn through true faith. In other words, Wilde omits the entire theological side of Christianity and reduces it to little more than an optional accessory in the quest for personal development.

The message of Christ to man was simply ‘Be thyself.’ That is the secret of Christ…When Jesus talks about the poor he simply means personalities, just as when he talks about the rich he simply means people who have not developed their personalities…

And so completely rewrites Jesus’ doctrine, in his own terms:

What Jesus meant, was this. He said to man, ‘You have a wonderful personality. Develop it. Be yourself. Don’t imagine that your perfection lies in accumulating or possessing external things. Your affection is inside of you. If only you could realise that, you would not want to be rich. Ordinary riches can be stolen from a man. Real riches cannot. In the treasury-house of your soul, there are infinitely precious things, that may not be taken from you. And so, try to so shape your life that external things will not harm you. And try also to get rid of personal property. It involves sordid preoccupation, endless industry, continual wrong. Personal property hinders Individualism at every step.’

What Jesus says that man reaches his perfection, not through what he has, not even through what he does, but entirely through what he is. And so the wealthy young man who comes to Jesus is represented as a thoroughly good citizen, who has broken none of the laws of his state, none of the commandments of his religion. He is quite respectable, in the ordinary sense of that extraordinary word. Jesus says to him, ‘You should give up private property. It hinders you from realising your perfection. It is a drag upon you. It is a burden. Your personality does not need it. It is within you, and not outside of you, that you will find what you really are, and what you really want.’

To his own friends he says the same thing. He tells them to be themselves, and not to be always worrying about other things. What do other things matter? Man is complete in himself. When they go into the world, the world will disagree with them. That is inevitable. The world hates Individualism. But that is not to trouble them. They are to be calm and self-centred. If a man takes their cloak, they are to give him their coat, just to show that material things are of no importance. If people abuse them, they are not to answer back. What does it signify? The things people say of a man do not alter a man. He is what he is. Public opinion is of no value whatsoever. Even if people employ actual violence, they are not to be violent in turn. That would be to fall to the same low level.

Above all things, they are not to interfere with other people or judge them in any way. Personality is a very mysterious thing. A man cannot always be estimated by what he does. He may keep the law, and yet be worthless. He may break the law, and yet be fine. He may be bad, without ever doing anything bad. He may commit a sin against society, and yet realise through that sin his true perfection.

You’ve got to be impressed by the way Wilde has assimilated and rethought the most powerful ideology in human history in order to suit his own worldview, subtly realigning all Jesus’ sayings so as to underpin Wilde’s own concerns for personal development and individualism. You can also see how scandalous this would be to your average Victorian. As would…

The end of marriage Many communists and socialists thought of marriage and the family as coercive patriarchal institutions, established to allow the dominance of men over women and forming a kind of model for the domination of the rich over the poor (notably Friedrich Engels in his 1884 work ‘The Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State’). Wilde sympathises with those who wanted to abolish marriage along with private property:

Socialism annihilates family life, for instance. With the abolition of private property, marriage in its present form must disappear. This is part of the programme. Individualism accepts this and makes it fine. It converts the abolition of legal restraint into a form of freedom that will help the full development of personality, and make the love of man and woman more wonderful, more beautiful, and more ennobling.

This he cites Jesus himself as rejecting family life – in the New Testament this is for the sake of following Jesus and becoming closer to God, in Wilde’s reinterpretation it is in order to cultivate the uniqueness of the self:

Jesus knew this. He rejected the claims of family life, although they existed in his day and community in a very marked form. ‘Who is my mother? Who are my brothers?’ he said, when he was told that they wished to speak to him. When one of his followers asked leave to go and bury his father, ‘Let the dead bury the dead,’ was his terrible answer. He would allow no claim whatsoever to be made on personality.

And so Wilde zeroes in on this one aspect of Jesus’ preaching to underpin his own ideology:

And so he who would lead a Christlike life is he who is perfectly and absolutely himself. He may be a great poet, or a great man of science; or a young student at a University, or one who watches sheep upon a moor; or a maker of dramas, like Shakespeare, or a thinker about God, like Spinoza; or a child who plays in a garden, or a fisherman who throws his net into the sea. It does not matter what he is, as long as he realises the perfection of the soul that is within him. All imitation in morals and in life is wrong.

In praise of anarchism The fundamental premise of anarchism as a political belief is that nobody should rule over others, that we all be absolutely free. It’s debatable, then, whether Wilde is really praising socialism or anarchism.

Individualism, then, is what through Socialism we are to attain to. As a natural result the State must give up all idea of government. It must give it up because, as a wise man once said many centuries before Christ, there is such a thing as leaving mankind alone; there is no such thing as governing mankind. All modes of government are failures. Despotism is unjust to everybody, including the despot, who was probably made for better things. Oligarchies are unjust to the many, and ochlocracies are unjust to the few. High hopes were once formed of democracy; but democracy means simply the bludgeoning of the people by the people for the people. It has been found out. I must say that it was high time, for all authority is quite degrading. It degrades those who exercise it, and degrades those over whom it is exercised.

Socialism will bring the end of crime In a wildly utopian extrapolation, Wilde asserts that if you abolish authority i.e. one class or group compelling everyone else to live a certain way, then crime will disappear. This leads him to the counter-intuitive and scandalous thought that it is not crime which requires punishment, but the elaborate set of grotesque punishments which create crime.

The less punishment, the less crime. When there is no punishment at all, crime will either cease to exist, or, if it occurs, will be treated by physicians as a very distressing form of dementia, to be cured by care and kindness.

This utopian claim is based on the notion that all crimes are crime of want and poverty and hunger:

For what are called criminals nowadays are not criminals at all. Starvation, and not sin, is the parent of modern crime. That indeed is the reason why our criminals are, as a class, so absolutely uninteresting from any psychological point of view. They are not marvellous Macbeths and terrible Vautrins. They are merely what ordinary, respectable, commonplace people would be if they had not got enough to eat.

Therefore, create a fair society, where everyone has enough for their needs, and crime will disappear:

When private property is abolished there will be no necessity for crime, no demand for it; it will cease to exist…though a crime may not be against property, it may spring from the misery and rage and depression produced by our wrong system of property-holding, and so, when that system is abolished, will disappear.

Crimes of passion i.e. not incited by poverty and want?

Jealousy, which is an extraordinary source of crime in modern life, is an emotion closely bound up with our conceptions of property, and under Socialism and Individualism will die out. It is remarkable that in communistic tribes jealousy is entirely unknown.

Machines will set men free Up to the present men have been the slaves of the machines they have invented:

Up to the present, man has been, to a certain extent, the slave of machinery, and there is something tragic in the fact that as soon as man had invented a machine to do his work he began to starve. This, however, is, of course, the result of our property system and our system of competition. One man owns a machine which does the work of five hundred men. Five hundred men are, in consequence, thrown out of employment, and, having no work to do, become hungry and take to thieving. The one man secures the produce of the machine and keeps it, and has five hundred times as much as he should have, and probably, which is of much more importance, a great deal more than he really wants.

The role of machinery must be completely rethought:

Were that machine the property of all, every one would benefit by it. It would be an immense advantage to the community. All unintellectual labour, all monotonous, dull labour, all labour that deals with dreadful things, and involves unpleasant conditions, must be done by machinery. Machinery must work for us in coal mines, and do all sanitary services, and be the stoker of steamers, and clean the streets, and run messages on wet days, and do anything that is tedious or distressing.

Thus:

While Humanity will be amusing itself, or enjoying cultivated leisure – which, and not labour, is the aim of man – or making beautiful things, or reading beautiful things, or simply contemplating the world with admiration and delight, machinery will be doing all the necessary and unpleasant work.

Machines will be the new slaves For the third time he cites slavery:

The fact is, that civilisation requires slaves. The Greeks were quite right there. Unless there are slaves to do the ugly, horrible, uninteresting work, culture and contemplation become almost impossible. Human slavery is wrong, insecure, and demoralising. On mechanical slavery, on the slavery of the machine, the future of the world depends.

The role of Art

About half way through the essay it feels as though Wilde has dealt with the organisational, political aspects of the issue of the socialist transformation of society (insofar as he does) and moves onto the subject which really interests him and is the core theme of almost everything he wrote, which is the role of art, the artist and criticism. Thus:

A work of art is the unique result of a unique temperament. Its beauty comes from the fact that the author is what he is. It has nothing to do with the fact that other people want what they want. Indeed, the moment that an artist takes notice of what other people want, and tries to supply the demand, he ceases to be an artist, and becomes a dull or an amusing craftsman, an honest or a dishonest tradesman. He has no further claim to be considered as an artist.

Wilde’s concept of art and his ideology of individualism are intimately linked, two sides of the same coin.

Art is the most intense mode of Individualism that the world has known. I am inclined to say that it is the only real mode of Individualism that the world has known.

The philistine public It is telling that Wilde has barely got going about art before he has to start attacking the philistine (English) public. What he doesn’t directly say but is so obvious from his writings is that his entire conception of art is defined in opposition to the vulgarity of the public.

Art is this intense form of Individualism that makes the public try to exercise over it in an authority that is as immoral as it is ridiculous, and as corrupting as it is contemptible. It is not quite their fault. The public has always, and in every age, been badly brought up. They are continually asking Art to be popular, to please their want of taste, to flatter their absurd vanity, to tell them what they have been told before, to show them what they ought to be tired of seeing, to amuse them when they feel heavy after eating too much, and to distract their thoughts when they are wearied of their own stupidity.

The attempt:

on the part of the community, or the Church, or the Government, to interfere with the individualism of imaginative art…is aggressive, offensive and brutalising.

Which arts escape the public? In England, the arts that have escaped best are the arts in which the public take no interest, such as poetry which it doesn’t read. By contrast the philistine public gets very worked up about the ‘immorality’ of contemporary novels or plays (think of the outcry over the ‘immorality’ of Thomas Hardy’s novel, ‘Jude the Obscure’ which led him to abandon writing novels, or the outcry when Ibsen’s plays were staged in London). Partly this is because:

The one thing that the public dislike is novelty. Any attempt to extend the subject-matter of art is extremely distasteful to the public; and yet the vitality and progress of art depend in a large measure on the continual extension of subject-matter.

The public dislike novelty because they are afraid of it. It represents to them a mode of Individualism, an assertion on the part of the artist that he selects his own subject, and treats it as he chooses. The public are quite right in their attitude. Art is Individualism, and Individualism is a disturbing and disintegrating force. Therein lies its immense value. For what it seeks to disturb is monotony of type, slavery of custom, tyranny of habit, and the reduction of man to the level of a machine.

And he laments the way the general public assimilate then ossify and hollow out the so-called classics:

The acceptance of the classics does a great deal of harm. The uncritical admiration of the Bible and Shakespeare in England is an instance of what I mean. With regard to the Bible, considerations of ecclesiastical authority enter into the matter, so that I need not dwell upon the point. But in the case of Shakespeare it is quite obvious that the public really see neither the beauties nor the defects of his plays. If they saw the beauties, they would not object to the development of the drama; and if they saw the defects, they would not object to the development of the drama either.

The fact is the public make use of the classics of a country as a means of checking the progress of Art. They degrade the classics into authorities. They use them as bludgeons for preventing the free expression of Beauty in new forms. They are always asking a writer why he does not write like somebody else, or a painter why he does not paint like somebody else, quite oblivious of the fact that if either of them did anything of the kind he would cease to be an artist.

A fresh mode of Beauty is absolutely distasteful to them, and whenever it appears they get so angry, and bewildered that they always use two stupid expressions – one is that the work of art is grossly unintelligible, the other, that the work of art is grossly immoral.

What they mean by these words seems to me to be this. When they say a work is grossly unintelligible, they mean that the artist has said or made a beautiful thing that is new; when they describe a work as grossly immoral, they mean that the artist has said or made a beautiful thing that is true. The former expression has reference to style; the latter to subject-matter.

But they probably use the words very vaguely, as an ordinary mob will use ready-made paving-stones. There is not a single real poet or prose-writer of this century, for instance, on whom the British public have not solemnly conferred diplomas of immorality, and these diplomas practically take the place, with us, of what in France, is the formal recognition of an Academy of Letters…

By now you can see that he’s said far less about any particular artist or writer or work of art or literature than he has done about the philistine public. It’s excoriating their stupidity and philistinism which really gets his juices flowing and, you realise, is a vital prerequisite for his entire theory. When he returns to writing about ‘the artist’ he’s curiously thin and unimpassioned:

The true artist is a man who believes absolutely in himself, because he is absolutely himself.

That, in itself, is a bit boring and anodyne and so, as if sensing it, Wilde goes on to define what he means by a passage with much more life which is, as I’ve explained, slagging the public.

The true artist is a man who believes absolutely in himself, because he is absolutely himself. But I can fancy that if an artist produced a work of art in England that immediately on its appearance was recognised by the public, through their medium, which is the public press, as a work that was quite intelligible and highly moral, he would begin to seriously question whether in its creation he had really been himself at all, and consequently whether the work was not quite unworthy of him, and either of a thoroughly second-rate order, or of no artistic value whatsoever.

Morbidity In the same vein, further passages about ‘the artist’ really derive their energy from Wilde starting off by describing how the stupid philistine public use certain boo words to try and categorise and control new art, the examples he gives being how the public describes work it doesn’t understand as ‘morbid’ or ‘unhealthy’ or ‘exotic’. As for ‘morbid’, it gives Wilde the pretext to repeat a central theme of his which is that a work of art is neither morbid nor immoral, exotic nor unhealthy, because the artist stands at one remove from his subject matter and merely deploys it to create effects:

[Morbid] is, of course, a ridiculous word to apply to a work of art. For what is morbidity but a mood of emotion or a mode of thought that one cannot express? The public are all morbid, because the public can never find expression for anything. The artist is never morbid. He expresses everything. He stands outside his subject, and through its medium produces incomparable and artistic effects. To call an artist morbid because he deals with morbidity as his subject-matter is as silly as if one called Shakespeare mad because he wrote ‘King Lear.’

Public attacks make the artist stronger

An artist in England gains something by being attacked. His individuality is intensified. He becomes more completely himself. Of course, the attacks are very gross, very impertinent, and very contemptible. But then no artist expects grace from the vulgar mind, or style from the suburban intellect.

Not least because they are the products of:

that monstrous and ignorant thing that is called Public Opinion, which, bad and well-meaning as it is when it tries to control action, is infamous and of evil meaning when it tries to control Thought or Art.

Healthy versus unhealthy The accusation of ‘unhealthy’ is so frequently made against modern art that Wilde devotes a paragraph to very entertainingly standing the definition on its head:

What is a healthy, or an unhealthy work of art? All terms that one applies to a work of art, provided that one applies them rationally, have reference to either its style or its subject, or to both together. From the point of view of style, a healthy work of art is one whose style recognises the beauty of the material it employs, be that material one of words or of bronze, of colour or of ivory, and uses that beauty as a factor in producing the aesthetic effect. From the point of view of subject, a healthy work of art is one the choice of whose subject is conditioned by the temperament of the artist, and comes directly out of it. In fine, a healthy work of art is one that has both perfection and personality.

Of course, form and substance cannot be separated in a work of art; they are always one. But for purposes of analysis, and setting the wholeness of aesthetic impression aside for a moment, we can intellectually so separate them. An unhealthy work of art, on the other hand, is a work whose style is obvious, old-fashioned, and common, and whose subject is deliberately chosen, not because the artist has any pleasure in it, but because he thinks that the public will pay him for it. In fact, the popular novel that the public calls healthy is always a thoroughly unhealthy production; and what the public call an unhealthy novel is always a beautiful and healthy work of art.

The philistine press and canting journalism As I’ve commented, for several pages Wilde has defined his ideas of individualism and art by contrasting them with the stupidity, shallowness and vulgarity of the general public which is happier in conservatism, conformity and hates anything which is new and beautiful. Now he moves onto the vehicle of their prejudices, and gives a sustained critique of journalism and the press, purveyors of ‘prejudice, stupidity, cant, and twaddle.’ Nowadays ‘We are dominated by Journalism’ and:

In England, Journalism, not, except in a few well-known instances, having been carried to such excesses of brutality [as in America], is still a great factor, a really remarkable power. The tyranny that it proposes to exercise over people’s private lives seems to me to be quite extraordinary. The fact is, that the public have an insatiable curiosity to know everything, except what is worth knowing. Journalism, conscious of this, and having tradesman-like habits, supplies their demands. In centuries before ours the public nailed the ears of journalists to the pump. That was quite hideous. In this century journalists have nailed their own ears to the keyhole. That is much worse. And what aggravates the mischief is that the journalists who are most to blame are not the amusing journalists who write for what are called Society papers. The harm is done by the serious, thoughtful, earnest journalists, who solemnly, as they are doing at present, will drag before the eyes of the public some incident in the private life of a great statesman, of a man who is a leader of political thought as he is a creator of political force, and invite the public to discuss the incident, to exercise authority in the matter, to give their views, and not merely to give their views, but to carry them into action, to dictate to the man upon all other points, to dictate to his party, to dictate to his country; in fact, to make themselves ridiculous, offensive, and harmful.

The private lives of men and women should not be told to the public. The public have nothing to do with them at all. In France they manage these things better. There they do not allow the details of the trials that take place in the divorce courts to be published for the amusement or criticism of the public. All that the public are allowed to know is that the divorce has taken place and was granted on petition of one or other or both of the married parties concerned.

In France, in fact, they limit the journalist, and allow the artist almost perfect freedom. Here we allow absolute freedom to the journalist, and entirely limit the artist. English public opinion, that is to say, tries to constrain and impede and warp the man who makes things that are beautiful in effect, and compels the journalist to retail things that are ugly, or disgusting, or revolting in fact, so that we have the most serious journalists in the world, and the most indecent newspapers.

In praise of Sir Henry Irving Wilde devotes a rare paragraph of unqualified praise, in this case to the great late-Victorian actor-manager Sir Henry Irving. At this point a dash of background from Wikipedia is necessary:

Sir Henry Irving (1838 to 1905) was an English stage actor in the Victorian era, known as an actor-manager because he took complete responsibility for all aspects of productions (supervision of sets, lighting, direction, casting as well as playing the leading roles) for season after season at the West End’s Lyceum Theatre, establishing himself and his company as representative of English classical theatre. In 1895 he became the first actor to be awarded a knighthood, indicating full acceptance of the profession into the higher circles of British society.

In Wilde’s view Irving’s great achievement has been NOT to pander to the lowest common denominator but stay true to his vision as an artist and, slowly slowly, raise the public’s standards.

Had his sole object been to give the public what they wanted, could have produced the commonest plays in the commonest manner, and made as much success and money as a man could possibly desire. But his object was not that. His object was to realise his own perfection as an artist, under certain conditions, and in certain forms of Art. At first he appealed to the few: now he has educated the many. He has created in the public both taste and temperament…I often wonder, however, whether the public understand that that success is entirely due to the fact that he did not accept their standard, but realised his own.

The importance of ‘receptivity’ Why has the public accepted productions of a higher standard at Irving’s theatres than at others? It is a question of receptivity. Antone who encounters a work of art must cultivate receptivity to its qualities.

If a man approaches a work of art with any desire to exercise authority over it and the artist, he approaches it in such a spirit that he cannot receive any artistic impression from it at all. The work of art is to dominate the spectator: the spectator is not to dominate the work of art. The spectator is to be receptive. He is to be the violin on which the master is to play. And the more completely he can suppress his own silly views, his own foolish prejudices, his own absurd ideas of what Art should be, or should not be, the more likely he is to understand and appreciate the work of art in question.

A temperament capable of receiving, through an imaginative medium, and under imaginative conditions, new and beautiful impressions, is the only temperament that can appreciate a work of art.

Receptivity in the theatre Of all the arts, drama is the one which requires most ‘receptivity’. By its nature a play creates mysteries and uncertainties in the first act which the audience has to wait to have resolved. If the audience started shouting at the end of the first act that they don’t understand what’s going on, they would be idiots. Even a London audience knows that it has to wait and see, and so submit to its artistic effect.

The honest man is to sit quietly, and know the delightful emotions of wonder, curiosity, and suspense. He is not to go to the play to lose a vulgar temper. He is to go to the play to realise an artistic temperament. He is to go to the play to gain an artistic temperament. He is not the arbiter of the work of art. He is one who is admitted to contemplate the work of art, and, if the work be fine, to forget in its contemplation the egotism that mars him – the egotism of his ignorance, or the egotism of his information.

In this way drama, or art in general, is ‘elevating’ in that it exposes us to artistic influences – more complicated, subtle new and insightful than our run-of-the-mill thoughts and perceptions – and, as he’s explained earlier, these are not to be judged in terms of the ‘morality’ of the vulgar herd, as ‘healthy’ or ‘unhealthy’, ‘moral’ or ‘immoral’, but purely by aesthetic criteria, of whether the style matches the subject matter, whether the subject matter is adequately elaborated and so on.

Receptivity in the novel Same with the novel:

Popular authority and the recognition of popular authority are fatal.

A true artist takes no notice whatever of the public. The public are to him non-existent. He has no poppied or honeyed cakes through which to give the monster sleep or sustenance. He leaves that to the popular novelist.

Interestingly, Wilde thinks the pre-eminent serious novelist working in the England of his time (essentially the 1880s) was George Meredith:

To him belongs philosophy in fiction. His people not merely live, but they live in thought. One can see them from myriad points of view. They are suggestive. There is soul in them and around them. They are interpretative and symbolic. And he who made them, those wonderful quickly-moving figures, made them for his own pleasure, and has never asked the public what they wanted, has never cared to know what they wanted, has never allowed the public to dictate to him or influence him in any way but has gone on intensifying his own personality, and producing his own individual work. At first none came to him. That did not matter. Then the few came to him. That did not change him. The many have come now. He is still the same. He is an incomparable novelist.

The decorative arts Wilde knew a thing or two about this subject having written extensively about domestic furnishing and been the editor of The Woman’s World magazine from 1887 to 1889. As you might expect, he thinks popular taste is dire. He calls the famous 1851 exhibition held in Joseph Paxton’s Crystal Palace, ‘the Great Exhibition of international vulgarity’ which led to ‘traditions…were so appalling that the houses in which people lived were only fit for blind people to live in.’

Despite much abuse a new generation of artists and designers has, in fact, produced much beautiful work, effecting a ‘revolution in house-decoration and furniture so that ‘it is almost impossible to enter any modern house without seeing some recognition of good taste, some recognition of the value of lovely surroundings, some sign of appreciation of beauty.’ Presumably he’s referring to the Arts and Crafts movement, most associated with William Morris but with many other designers? It’s irritating that he isn’t clearer.

And ironic that we now regard his idea of beautiful furnishings and furniture as extraordinarily dark, overwrought and cluttered. It’s all very well visiting exhibitions of Morris and Arts and Crafts ware but thank God for the Bauhaus and associated movements which led, eventually, maybe only in the 1970s and 80s, to most people decluttering and streamlining their living spaces.

What kind of government should the artist live under?

The form of government that is most suitable to the artist is no government at all. Authority over him and his art is ridiculous. It has been stated that under despotisms artists have produced lovely work. This is not quite so. Artists have visited despots, not as subjects to be tyrannised over, but as wandering wonder-makers, as fascinating vagrant personalities, to be entertained and charmed and suffered to be at peace, and allowed to create. There is this to be said in favour of the despot, that he, being an individual, may have culture, while the mob, being a monster, has none. One who is an Emperor and King may stoop down to pick up a brush for a painter, but when the democracy stoops down it is merely to throw mud. And yet the democracy have not so far to stoop as the emperor. In fact, when they want to throw mud they have not to stoop at all. But there is no necessity to separate the monarch from the mob; all authority is equally bad.

Passages like this show pretty clearly that Wilde wasn’t a socialist so much as an anarchist. Not a socialist government – no government is his utopian ideal.

Three types of despotism The essay feels like it’s running out of steam when Wilde tacks on a consideration of what he considers the three types of despotism, namely despotism of the soul, of the body, and of the soul and body. Despotism of the body was exercised by princes. Some of these, particularly during the Renaissance, were immensely tasteful and commissioned great works, but were always dangerous, and imprisoned, exiled or executed as many artists as the commissioned. Despotism over the soul Wilde associates with the Papacy, where much the same applied i.e. some popes were enlightened patrons but also very dangerous, not just to artists but, via their authority over all thought, to free thinking.

It is an obvious shortcoming of this little overview that it is so limited, based on such limited examples from such a rarefied and precious period i.e. the Renaissance. Modern history ranges over the entire history of all peoples and all times and so makes Wilde’s little nostrums feel like dilettantism.

The Renaissance and Louis XIV Same goes for his other sweeping historical generalisations which are interesting for what they say about him more than for the actual periods:

The Renaissance was great because it sought to solve no social problem, and busied itself not about such things, but suffered the individual to develop freely, beautifully, and naturally, and so had great and individual artists, and great and individual men. One might point out how Louis XIV, by creating the modern state, destroyed the individualism of the artist, and made things monstrous in their monotony of repetition, and contemptible in their conformity to rule.

Wilde is anti-democracy The third tyranny, over body and soul, he attributes to Democracy and the People. Important to point out that Wilde despises democracy as pandering to the lowest common denominator of the vulgar herd.

High hopes were once formed of democracy; but democracy means simply the bludgeoning of the people by the people for the people. It has been found out.

And:

An Emperor and King may stoop down to pick up a brush for a painter, but when the democracy stoops down it is merely to throw mud. And yet the democracy have not so far to stoop as the emperor. In fact, when they want to throw mud they have not to stoop at all.

And:

As for the People…their authority is a thing blind, deaf, hideous, grotesque, tragic, amusing, serious, and obscene. It is impossible for the artist to live with the People. All despots bribe. The people bribe and brutalise. Who told them to exercise authority? They were made to live, to listen, and to love…

So – Wilde is profoundly anti-democratic. His idea of socialism is for it to allow a world of people like him to flourish, to create a world of Oscar Wildes.

Wilde’s view of human nature His generalisations reach their most sweeping when he reveals his fundamental view of human nature: this is that human nature is continually changing and evolving.

It is exactly the existing conditions that one objects to and any scheme that could accept these conditions is wrong and foolish. The conditions will be done away with, and human nature will change. The only thing that one really knows about human nature is that it changes. Change is the one quality we can predicate of it.

(After the catastrophes of the past century, I think most people would agree that, despite superficial changes in technology, underlying human nature is sadly impervious to change but born again in each generation with the same vices and weaknesses.)

More anarchic assumptions

Individualism…does not come to man with any claims upon him at all. It comes naturally and inevitably out of man. It is the point to which all development tends. It is the differentiation to which all organisms grow. It is the perfection that is inherent in every mode of life, and towards which every mode of life quickens.

And so Individualism exercises no compulsion over man. On the contrary, it says to man that he should suffer no compulsion to be exercised over him. It does not try to force people to be good. It knows that people are good when they are let alone. Man will develop Individualism out of himself. Man is now so developing Individualism. To ask whether Individualism is practical is like asking whether Evolution is practical. Evolution is the law of life, and there is no evolution except towards Individualism.

A lovely dream for individuals to dream. Never going to happen. As someone who bases his entire worldview on evolutionary materialism, I can’t help smiling at the fairy tale claim that ‘there is no evolution except towards Individualism.’ This obviously has nothing to do with the science of evolution, but it’s not even true in sociological terms. If the triumph of social media over the past 15 years shows anything it’s that people want to find their tribes and then conform to them, adopt their rules, manners, clothes and attitudes. People are naturally anti-individualist.

Paradoxical definition of affectation Again Wilde uses the accusations of the stupid public as the springboard for some witty inversions of conventional thinking. A man (himself, of course) is criticised for being ‘affected’ if he dresses as he wants to but, claims Wilde, he is merely doing what comes naturally i.e. pleasing himself. What is affected is going out of your way to make sure you dress exactly like everyone else, ‘dressing according to the views of one’s neighbour, whose views, as they are the views of the majority, will probably be extremely stupid.’

True definition of selfishness Or a man is called ‘selfish’ if he:

lives in the manner that seems to him most suitable for the full realisation of his own personality; if, in fact, the primary aim of his life is self-development. But this is the way in which everyone should live. Selfishness is not living as one wishes to live, it is asking others to live as one wishes to live. And unselfishness is letting other people’s lives alone, not interfering with them.

You can see here how Wilde’s Anglo-Saxon version of anarchism is a kind of liberalism without limits, with all the social limits and restrictions and safety guards which John Stuart Mill and his followers wrestled with, at a stroke removed. And as such, completely impractical. But his redefinitions of selfishness and unselfishness are extremely persuasive and attractive:

Selfishness always aims at creating around it an absolute uniformity of type. Unselfishness recognises infinite variety of type as a delightful thing, accepts it, acquiesces in it, enjoys it. It is not selfish to think for oneself. A man who does not think for himself does not think at all. It is grossly selfish to require of ones neighbour that he should think in the same way, and hold the same opinions. Why should he? If he can think, he will probably think differently.

More praise of individualism

Under Individualism people will be quite natural and absolutely unselfish, and will know the meanings of these words, and realise them in their free, beautiful lives.

Nor will men be egotistic as they are now. For the egotist is he who makes claims upon others, and the Individualist will not desire to do that. It will not give him pleasure. When man has realised Individualism, he will also realise sympathy and exercise it freely and spontaneously.

Up to the present man has hardly cultivated sympathy at all. He has merely sympathy with pain, and sympathy with pain is not the highest form of sympathy. All sympathy is fine, but sympathy with suffering is the least fine mode. It is tainted with egotism. It is apt to become morbid. There is in it a certain element of terror for our own safety. We become afraid that we ourselves might be as the leper or as the blind, and that no man would have care of us. It is curiously limiting, too.

One should sympathise with the entirety of life, not with life’s sores and maladies merely, but with life’s joy and beauty and energy and health and freedom.

So Wilde looks forward to a time when 1) socialism has solved the problem of poverty and 2) science has solved the problem of disease. Is this utopian? So be it.

A map of the world that does not include Utopia is not worth even glancing at, for it leaves out the one country at which Humanity is always landing. And when Humanity lands there, it looks out, and, seeing a better country, sets sail. Progress is the realisation of Utopias.

Last thoughts about Christianity As the essay draws to a close Wilde tacks on a further page about individualism and Christianity. If the earlier passage was broadly sympathetic, largely because Wilde rewrote Christ’s message in his own terms, this second passage is a lot more historically accurate and a lot less sympathetic.

Wilde makes the point that ‘Christ made no attempt to reconstruct society’ and draws the questionable conclusion that ‘consequently the Individualism that he preached to man could be realised only through pain or in solitude’.

Christian solitude Taking those early Christians who chose to go and live in the desert, Wilde says that, maybe by being far from the crowd some of them may have expressed their personalities, but they were liable to be a rather ‘impoverished personality’. (This is open to the obvious criticism that these anchorites and monks and cenobites were seeking the opposite of Wilde’s self-expression, were seeking to annihilate their own personalities in order to be closer to God.)

Christian pain No, many more Christians have sought to express themselves through the path of pain. Wilde’s aim here is to draw a sharp distinction between medieval Christianity (bad for individualism) and the Renaissance (good for individualism).

The Medieval world with its obsession with gruesome suffering, with ‘its wild passion for wounding itself, its gashing with knives, and its whipping with rods’, this bloody mediaevalism is the real Christianity, and the mediaeval Christ is the real Christ.

By contrast, the Renaissance dawned upon the world and brought with it the new ideals of the beauty of life and the joy of living. The result was that artists could not understand the Biblical Christ. They painted him as a harmless baby, as a boy playing.

Even when they drew him crucified they drew him as a beautiful God on whom evil men had inflicted suffering. But he did not preoccupy them much. What delighted them was to paint the men and women whom they admired, and to show the loveliness of this lovely earth.

They painted many religious pictures – in fact, they painted far too many, and the monotony of type and motive is wearisome, and was bad for art. It was the result of the authority of the public in art-matters, and is to be deplored. But their soul was not in the subject. Raphael was a great artist when he painted his portrait of the Pope. When he painted his Madonnas and infant Christs, he is not a great artist at all.

No, the Renaissance couldn’t understand the true, medieval Christ, because he was a kind of epitome of pain and human suffering and the Renaissance artists were too full of Italian joie de vivre to understand.

Christ had no message for the Renaissance, which was wonderful because it brought an ideal at variance with his…to find the presentation of the real Christ we must go to mediaeval art. There he is one maimed and marred; one who is not comely to look on, because Beauty is a joy; one who is not in fair raiment, because that may be a joy also: he is a beggar who has a marvellous soul; he is a leper whose soul is divine; he needs neither property nor health; he is a God realising his perfection through pain.

I suppose the contradiction with his earlier passage about Christ is only apparent. It can be explain by saying that the earlier passage, which made Jesus an evangelist for self discovery and self expression, is Wilde’s interpretation of Jesus’s message – while this passage about the medieval and renaissance Jesus are about how he has been portrayed in the history of art which is, I suppose, a different thing.

Russia and pain Right at the end of the essay he extends this thought into a description of contemporary Russian art and literature. (He mentions no names but surely he is thinking of Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy.) Russia’s social system (i.e. the discrepancy between the tiny affluent class and the widespread serfdom and astonishing poverty of the masses) demands that its art be obsessed with pain.

Even now, in some places in the world, the message of Christ is necessary. No one who lived in modern Russia could possibly realise his perfection except by pain. A few Russian artists have realised themselves in Art; in a fiction that is mediaeval in character, because its dominant note is the realisation of men through suffering. But for those who are not artists, and to whom there is no mode of life but the actual life of fact, pain is the only door to perfection. A Russian who lives happily under the present system of government in Russia must either believe that man has no soul, or that, if he has, it is not worth developing. A Nihilist who rejects all authority, because he knows authority to be evil, and welcomes all pain, because through that he realises his personality, is a real Christian. To him the Christian ideal is a true thing.

As history shows, Russia’s addiction to gargantuan suffering, largely self-inflicted, was to be amply demonstrated in the twentieth century. Has it ended yet?

Conclusion With a few deft strokes Wilde brings his essay back from this digression about pain to repeat his generalisations about the brave future, when socialism will have solved the problem of poverty and science solved the problem of pain.

the modern world has schemes. It proposes to do away with poverty and the suffering that it entails. It desires to get rid of pain, and the suffering that pain entails. It trusts to Socialism and to Science as its methods. What it aims at is an Individualism expressing itself through joy. This Individualism will be larger, fuller, lovelier than any Individualism has ever been.

Pain is not the ultimate mode of perfection. It is merely provisional and a protest. It has reference to wrong, unhealthy, unjust surroundings. When the wrong, and the disease, and the injustice are removed, it will have no further place. It will have done its work. It was a great work, but it is almost over. Its sphere lessens every day.

Obviously as wrong as a social prediction could possibly be.

Vision of the future perfection of man

Man has sought to live intensely, fully, perfectly. When he can do so without exercising restraint on others, or suffering it ever, and his activities are all pleasurable to him, he will be saner, healthier, more civilised, more himself.

Pleasure is Nature’s test, her sign of approval. When man is happy, he is in harmony with himself and his environment.

The new Individualism, for whose service Socialism, whether it wills it or not, is working, will be perfect harmony. It will be what the Greeks sought for, but could not, except in Thought, realise completely, because they had slaves, and fed them; it will be what the Renaissance sought for, but could not realise completely except in Art, because they had slaves, and starved them. It will be complete, and through it each man will attain to his perfection.

Thoughts

The most obvious points, for me, are that 1) this essay is very, very long, 2) it is packed with ideas, brilliantly expressed and 3) that it is remarkably consistent, it is the expression of a coherent worldview worked out to some depth and in great detail, taking in a vision of human nature, of history, of different historical epochs, of social change, alongside a coherent attack on the institution of property and its distorting harmful effects on individuals and societies.

It is possible to take issue with numerous aspects of his argument but, insofar as it is not trying to be an essay about evolution or science or economics or history in the scholarly sense, but is more the expression of a particular worldview, it is astonishingly wide-ranging and persuasive. Like the works of art he talks about, there’s not much point quibbling with this or that sweeping generalisation, it’s more a case of submitting to the pace, to the tremendous fluency, and the utopian loveliness of his vision. For the duration of your reading and, therefore, of your submission, his vision of a utopian human nature is beautiful and therefore, in his own terms, as imaginatively true as any work of art.


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Monty: His Part in My Victory by Spike Milligan (1976)

‘Hurry up, shouted Bombardier Fuller, ‘We’re keeping Adolf waiting.’
(Monty: His Part in My Victory, page 118)

In my reviews of the previous volumes of Spike’s war memoirs I’ve pointed out that the humour relies mostly on quickfire gags based on terrible puns and verbal quibbles.

Edgington squeezed in.
‘Anything on the wireless?’ he said.
‘No, the batteries are flat.’
‘I thought they were square,’ he said. (p.14)

In this short 127-page book there are:

  • about 73 photos, usually with facetious and comic captions added
  • Spike’s own cartoons (which I find very poor)
  • some sketches of the scenery
  • photocopies of official documents
  • a copy of the running order at a musical review his jazz band took part in

I.e. a lot of the space is taken up with visuals, so that maybe only half the space is actual text. Here’s a typical photo-plus-comic caption:

‘A British soldier with an incredible weapon’

Then there are the bloody awful Hitlergrams, a potentially great idea which he invented in the first book – spoof conversations involving Hitler which punctuate the text – but which are consistently unfunny:

Hitlergram No. 96133a

HITLER: Mein Gott, zey are smoking our fags! Zat is terrible.
EVA BRAUN: I know. I’ve smoked them.
HITLER: To get our fags to Tunis ve have to go through Allied Air Raids on zer Factories! bombs on zer Railways! zer boats to Africa are torpedoed and zer fags end up being smoked by zat Huddersfield Schit Gunner White!
EVA BRAUN: It’s not right and it’s not fair.
HITLER: Vot isn’t.
EVA BRAUN: Zer left leg of Joe Louis.
HITLER: I don’t vish to know zat, kindly leave the stage. (p.41)

There’s an almost complete absence of the genuinely comic, of entire scenes or comic threads cleverly worked out over an extended length. Comedy is something to do with the overall arc or structure of a narrative: good comic stories build up tension, including details which add to this, before the big comic punchline or reveal. The great comic novels are comic in structure and form as well as details (I’m thinking of the brilliantly humorous war novels of Evelyn Waugh – ironically, as Spike for some reason hated Waugh and singled him out for scathing abuse).

Anyway, there’s almost none of that careful structuring here, no extended comic scenes; instead it’s  a daily diary packed with a rat-a-tat barrage of thin puns and verbal gags.

The cookhouse waggon was missing. ‘I don’t miss it at all,’ said Gunner White. (p.71)

Diary format and sources

The memoirs are based on authentic sources: on the diaries of Spike, some of his friends (notably Driver Alf Fildes), the official war diary of the regiment he served with, and of the specific battery, and letters and journals of some of his mates in the regiment (‘wonderful comrades who made life worthwhile’). These have been compiled into a fairly basic chronological, day-by-day account, enlivened by as many cheap gags as Spike can cram in, with no attempt at perspective or analysis such as you’d get in a proper history. Instead gags gags gags.

I picked up a faint German broadcast of a very corny band playing old Jack Hylton arrangements. The singer, could I ever forget his name! – Ernst Strainz! His vibrato sounded like he was driving a tractor over ploughed fields with weights tied to his scrotum. (p.21)

Its predecessor, the Rommel book, featured short inserted passages utterly bereft of humour, in which Spike the victim of nervous breakdown and mental illness, looks back on those wartimes from the time of writing (i.e. the mid-70s), unhappy, lonely, afflicted by his memories, especially of the men he loved who died. Nothing funny at all about them, sad and lowering. There’s none of those here, but the bad taste lingers.

Here’s a typical Spike cartoon, illustrating the notion that you could identify the men from their distinctive boots. It’s a vaguely OK idea, a sort of OK execution, maybe raises a smile, but…

Timeline

Volume 3 covers from the fall of Tunis until Spike’s regiment embarked for the Salerno landings in Italy, from 7 May 1943 to 22 September 1943 = 5 months. The fighting – described in sometimes hair-raising detail in the Rommel book – is over, and the boys are mostly bored or very bored.

Just a reminder that Spike is a Bombardier in 19 or D Battery, the 56th Heavy Regiment, the Royal Artillery.

As they drive through the new camp Spike and his mates are amazed at the number of Italian and German prisoners of war, often stopping to cadge fags and, on one occasion, whiskey off them.

As in the previous books, the ordinary soldiers are obsessed with getting pissed and getting laid. ‘Plunger’ Bailey (named after his big willy) sets up a shagging scoreboard.

We learn that Spike’s dad was obsessed with Westerns, owned a number of old pistols and liked to kick open doors and duck behind tables as if in a shootout in the movies. One of the two things that made me laugh in the entire book was Spike describing watching from his bedroom window Crystal Palace burn down in a great inferno (30 November 1936) his dad, next to him, watched it through binoculars, eventually putting it down and saying, expressively: ‘Navajo!’

Spike’s Catholic mum sends him packages containing holy medals, rosaries etc. His commanding officer, Major Chater Jack, asks if she can send one of her yummy fruit cakes. When there’s spotted dick for pudding at the canteen, it’s hard to tell the flies from the raisins.

They find a Stuka standing alone in a piece of scrub, one of them accidentally starts the engine and propellor and none of them know how to turn it off.

They take part in army exercises and training. They go into Tunis to try out the bars and brothels. They climb a ruined Roman aqueduct and get stuck half way up (cue a Spike cartoon).

There’s a victory parade in Tunis, with generals galore taking the salute including Eisenhower (cue a couple of photos).

They’re ordered to move to a new camp, at Hammam Lif, a seaside town just outside Tunis. Cue as many excursions for beach swimming as they can manage…

With three mates Spike takes several days to drive into the desert to see the ruins of Carthage, with moderately soulful stuff about sitting out under the stars, boiling tins of rations in a billy over a fire, laughing and joking, it’s all a long way from Bromley. In fact sleeping out under the stars at night, and stopping driving along some coast road to simply strip off and run into the sea and try to stand on each others’ shoulders, you can see why these are lovely, bittersweet memories. ‘We were as free as we’d ever be in our lives…’ (p.62)

They’re ordered to move camp to a place called Ain Abessa (p.71).

2 to 6 June 1943. They drive to the beautiful Kerrata Gorge, camp, explore, spend a day climbing up the mountainside, another going on a fruitless pig hunt, led by local Arabs, notable for their prodigious farting (‘Christ, no wonder the Crusaders lost!’ said Jordy Dawson, p.76), before gorging on sausages and wine by a camp fire. Memorable days. On the last day they go swimming in a mountain stream, giving rise to the typically tinny piece of doggerel:

It’s chilly
On your willy
In the water
At Kerrata

Their CO suggests that Spike’s jazz band, such as it is, plays a concert for the mayor of Setif, a dire occasion held at the Salle de Fête. His mate, Gunner Edgington, ‘called it a Fête worse than death’ (p.82). Thin stuff, eh?

The other thing that made me laugh was when Spike and his band are ordered to play in an ENSA (Entertainments National Service Association) concert at the camp of the 74 Mediums (presumably a regiment) and arrive to be greeted a captain who explains that he’d like them to play in the miggle of the show.

The miggle of the show? He definitely said miggle – so he couldn’t pronounce his d’s. ‘How woulg you like to be announeg?’
I paused. ‘D Battery Dance Duo and Doug on Drums.’ (p.83)

Another member of the troupe is an enormous opera singer, Mlle Beth Villion, with an enormous bust.

We listened spellbound as she sang the Habanera from Carmen, her voice was pure silver. In the war, African night it was an unforgettable experience, with the moon shining down on those lovely white boobs. She stopped the show but then she would have stopped anything. (p.85)

As in the previous two books, it’s music which provides solace and escape, not only from the war and the rough philistine squaddies but even, you suspect, from himself and the demons inside his head. Warmed up by Mlle Villion I also laughed at his description of a dire audition he attended, years earlier, back in Blighty, when he watched in disbelief a series of soldiers trying to impress by: playing the spoons whistling Rhapsody in Blue, walking on their hands, doing cartwheels, somersaults, and one soldier who thought he’d get a slot falling on his back.

‘Is that all?’ said the officer.
‘Yes sir, it takes it out of you.’ (p.87)

It’s amazing that England had any entertainment industry at all, and made me think that even then, most of the best stuff was all imported from America: the jazz Spike loves to pieces is entirely American and his squaddie mates talk only of American movies and their stars.

22 June 1943. They’ve joined a large Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes (NAAFI) camp on the beautiful Ziama Bay and have a lovely day swimming, sunbathing and eating but that night a sirocco hits the camp with 100 mph winds blowing sand in everyone’s faces, blowing tents and equipment out to sea, sending the men running to hole up in the cabs of the trucks.

Some of the men are fishing using hand grenades and a dead 7-foot hammerhead shark comes to the surface. Spike is curious and barters a slice of it with Major Chater Jack in exchange for a promise of his mum’s fruitcake. But in the event:

To duplicate the taste of a hammerhead shark, boil old newspapers on Sloan’s Liniment. (p.91)

Their CO, Major Chater Jack, who understood what they’d been through and organised holidays and R&R to keep them out of mischief, is promoted away from the unit. He is replaced by Major Evan Jenkins who Spike loathes, calling ‘a real bastard’ and ‘a mean sod’ (p.91). He insisted on giving cultural lectures, as announced by an officious sergeant:

‘H’eyes front! Today the major will be talking about’ – here he consulted a piece of paper – ‘Keats, and I don’t suppose one of you higgerant bastards knows what a Keat is.’ (p.93)

Everyone hates his officious insistence on the rules. He makes them take their bootlaces out and iron them so they’re nice and flat. The cook gets revenge by mixing goat shit in with potatoes and flour to produce shit rissoles which the Major loves and asks for more. ‘Now he really is full of shit,’ says cook May (p.93).

Spike and his best friend, Edgington, have the bright idea of improving on the idea of a tent by rigging canvas over a wadi, more floor space, well ventilated…until there’s a flash flood in which they discover the dictionary definition of wadi and most of their gear is washed away.

Spike’s band was talent spotted at the ENSA show and is invited to play a bigger concert. He includes a photocopy of the running order or playbill and waxes lyrical about the joy of performing live.

You can’t describe a show, you have to be there at that time with that audience, that’s what makes it come alive and come alive it did… (p.98)

To his surprise his band is ordered to join the concert party on a tour of towns, all along the coast, so there is plenty of swimming during the day. At one place they find in the theatre props room a selection of plaster arms and legs which they take into the sea to fool around with, lots of silliness to impress a party of WRENS (Women’s Royal Naval Service) who are sunbathing nearby. Boys will be boys and puns will be puns:

Carter was a stickler for perfection so it was midnight before we finished. We were all dog tired and barked ourselves to sleep. (p.101)

When his mate gets knocked off a diving board and, as he falls, curls up protectively, he enters the water ‘foetus firstus’ (p.101). They sunbathe and get badly sunburned (I suppose this was before any kind of sun creams existed).

‘Cor, that sun’s hot,’ said Kidgell.
‘Well, you shouldn’t touch it,’ I said. (p.102)

See what I mean by snappy wordplay. Maybe, for the generation which saw Groucho Marx, this was wit:

From out of the sea came the sound of heavy guns.
‘Sounds like a naval engagement.’
‘I hope they’re both very happy,’ I said. (p.103 )

Mind you, Spike refers to the (very British) Crazy Gang in the text. I think you’d have to be familiar with the Crazy Gang and other popular comic acts of the 1930s to really understand the context of Spike’s humour. Read cold, now, 80 years after the event, is, I suppose, unfair. This becomes increasingly obvious as the final 30 or so pages dwell on this travelling revue, describing each night’s performance, analysing improvements, the evolution of the gags and turns, and so on.

Something sets him thinking about Christmas back in Blighty, at Bewhill (does he mean Bexhill? the text is full of typos and dubious punctuation) and the time a nice local lady’s dog ran into a minefield on the cliffs and got blown to smithereens.

The Concert Party that had toured Tunisian seaside towns during July is so popular it is revived for a few last shows in August. But then the good times come to an end and there’s a sudden blizzard of training and route marches. A week on artillery ranges revising their skills, they’re issued with a new type of wireless, taught new signal codes, had to adopt the American phonetics (A for Able instead of Ack, B for Baker instead of Beer etc).

8 September the amazing news that Italy has surrendered. Compare how this affected Eric Newby in his Apennine prisoner of war building and the Italians on Cephallonia in Captain Corelli’s Mandolin. Next day the Allies landed at Salerno but encountered stiff opposition from the Germans. Apparently it was Churchill’s idea to attack Germany via ‘the soft underbelly of Europe’ and it turned out to be nearly as disastrous as his idea of attacking Germany via Turkey in the previous war (p.120).

Spike makes the point that none of them realised how brutal the fighting at Salerno was; he only really found out when he read General Alexander’s biography in 1973, which was about 30 years too late! (p.117)

Spike and his battery are ordered to load up and proceed in convoy with their guns to an embarkation point back in Tunisia (this was a bit unclear to me; have they been in neighbouring Libya for the last sections?). Anyway, it means driving through the scenes of the brutal fighting back at the start of 1943, when artillery regiments like his suffered heavy losses. Burned out tanks and cemeteries.

They arrive at a vast American base, ranks of vehicles and munitions, outside Bizerta. They are issued Italian money and a booklet on the customs and language of Italy. Finally they realise they’re departing when they see the officers running round like blue-arsed flies, and line up in their vehicles to embark on ‘landing ships, tank’ or LSTs.

And the narrative ends with him lying atop a huge Scammell lorry overnight, with the ship still anchored, smoking fags and laughing with his mates about his last will and testament, joking about the ‘birds’ back home he’ll leave to them, and teeing us up for volume 4.

Monty

Despite being named in the title of the book, I don’t think there’s a single reference to Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery (1887 to 1976) anywhere in the actual text. There’s just one photo of him with four Chinese soldiers (?) with a typically ‘humorous’ caption reading: ‘General Montgomery wondering why he is surrounded by Chinese generals – as he neither drinks nor smokes’ (p.111).

Nature

Apart from music, the other thing which lights his soul is nature, which brings out a surprisingly poetic streak in the gag-meister:

22 May 1943. That evening, excited as schoolboys, we drove off along the Tunis-Bezerta road, it was as though the war didn’t exist, eventually we pull up on a sandy beach for the night.
There was no moon but the sky was a pin cushion of stars. Great swathes of astral light blinked at us across space. We made a fire, glowing scarlet in cobalt black darkness, showers of popping sparks jettisoning into the night air. (p.58)

This is so unlike Spike the joker that you wonder how much of these kinds of passages was written by his editor and collaborator Jack Hobbs, although even passages like this have the Spike clumsiness (‘jettisoning’). Or:

The beach was copper coloured, sunlight reflecting from the bottom gave the water a shimmering Caesar’s royal purple colour. (p.88)

Thoughts

Apparently Spike was needled that reviewers of the first in the series, ‘Adolf Hitler: My Part in his Downfall’, thought most of it was made up. This motivated him to emphasise the rock-solid truthfulness of his accounts in all the subsequent books, especially of the actual fighting in the Rommel book. Thus, I would say, over the course of the three books, there’s a tendency to rely more and more on these half dozen diaries, journals and other sources and the net effect of that is … to make it more boring. Despite the blizzard of gags the basic underlying structure is a simple day-to-day diary and this, accurate enough in its own terms, lacks any depth, any sense of a deeper narrative, any sense of the opening of themes at the beginning and their crafted resolution at the end.


Credit

Monty: His Part in My Victory by Spike Milligan was published by Michael Joseph in 1976. References are to the 1978 Penguin paperback edition.

Related reviews

Letters of Cicero edited and translated by L.P. Wilkinson (1966)

This is an old book (published in 1966) containing 196 pages of Cicero’s most interesting letters, selected and translated by L.P. Wilkinson. Wilkinson’s introduction is a bit waffly but conveys the key facts: Marcus Tullius Cicero was born in 106 BC and rose to high office in Rome. Having studied philosophy and oratory in Greece, he went on to become the premiere lawyers and orator of his time. He then rose through the set series of official posts or magistracies (the cursus honorem), attaining the post of consul in 63 BC, aged 43. It was towards the end of that year that he had to deal with the notorious Cataline conspiracy.

After a brief exile in 58, to flee his political enemies, in the later 50s he played a key role in trying to effect a compromise between the partisans of Caesar and Pompey. In 51 he was sent to serve as governor of the province of Cilicia in the south of modern-day Turkey, a post he filled with conspicuous rectitude. But it meant he was absent from Rome as the great political crisis between Caesar and Pompey came to a head.

When civil war broke out in January 49, Cicero agonised about choosing a side and eventually plumped for Pompey, still hoping the latter could become the leader who could restore what Cicero optimistically called the ‘harmony of the orders’, and so followed Pompey and his army when they crossed the Adriatic to Greece. After Caesar decisively defeated Pompey at the battle of Pharsalus in August 48, Cicero returned to Rome, where he reluctantly acquiesced in the dictatorship of Caesar.

It is from this period of withdrawal from political life that date most of his written works, including books about oratory, law, the ideal republic, on the duties of the citizen, the nature of the gods and many more.

After the assassination of Caesar in March 44, Cicero threw himself behind the cause of the dictator’s 18-year-old great-nephew, Octavian, in opposition to the crude and brutal Mark Antony, against whom he wrote several vitriolic diatribes. This proved to be a miscalculation, for only a year later Octavian made peace with Antony to form the Second Triumvirate (along with Lepidus), the three partners drew up lists of political enemies to be ‘proscribed’, and Antony put Cicero at the top of his list of opponents to be killed. And so he was.

Cicero’s correspondence

Cicero’s correspondence is ample but slow to get going. There’s nothing from his youth or young manhood i.e. the 90s, 80s or 70s BC. The first letter dates from 68 BC but between that date and 65 there are only eleven letters. There’s nothing from his early career as a lawyer or his campaign to be elected consul. The latter is a particular shame as his consulship, in the year 63, coincided with the conspiracy of the senator Catiline to overthrow the state, which Cicero was instrumental in uncovering. Cicero was instrumental in rounding up the ringleaders (in Rome; Catiline himself remained at large in Italy) and then took the lead, after a fiery debate in the senate, in executing them. (See Sallust’s Catiline Conspiracy and Plutarch’s Life of Cicero.)

Cicero’s correspondence doesn’t become continuous until the year after his consulship, in 62 BC. But from that year until July 43 (when Cicero was executed on the orders of Mark Anthony) more than 900 letters survive, about 835 by him and 90 addressed to him. Of his own letters, half (416) were addressed to his friend, financial adviser, and publisher, Titus Pomponius Atticus, who he describes as:

my constant ally in public affairs, my confidant in private, my partner in every conversation and project.

He wrote so many letters to Atticus because the latter had (very wisely) withdrawn from Rome altogether to live in Athens. In fact ‘Atticus’ is a nickname referring to Pomponius’s preference for Greek culture. Cicero’s other 419 letters are to a wide range of friends, acquaintances and relatives, some 94 named individuals in all.

It is important to note that Cicero and Atticus were not only friends of long standing (possibly they went to school together) but had the further tie that Cicero’s brother, Quintus Tullius Cicero, was married to Atticus’s sister, Pomponia – although it was an unhappy marriage, something Cicero refers to in some of his letters.

Wilkinson

Wilkinson’s introduction is a bit waffly, generalising about how loveable Cicero is and so on, fondly indulgent of his narcissism as most other commentators are. Wilkinson is much better in the short linking passages which precede each batch of letters, generally only a couple of paragraphs long but in which he briefly explains the historical context of each batch and what we know of the events Cicero is describing, from other sources. These linking passages are concise and fascinating.

In the moment

Cicero’s letters are so interesting for two reasons. I suppose the obvious one is that he was a central, or central-ish, figure in the high politics of the last decades of the Roman Republic. I found it dazzling that he writes letters to, and receives replies from, all the key players – Pompey, Julius Caesar, Mark Antony, Brutus and Octavian.

But he could have done this and the letters still be boring. The real secret of their appeal is Cicero’s immense and eloquent involvement in the politics of his time and because his letters plunge you into the moment. All the histories of late republican Rome which I’ve read, ancient or modern, are written with the benefit of hindsight i.e. they often mix up events with their consequences, giving a sense that events were fore-ordained, fated to happen and are a foregone conclusion, regarding them as done and dusted and fodder for thematic analysis.

Wilkinson’s brief introductions, by contrast, give you a snappy resumé of events up to the moment when the next batch of letters start, and then plunge you into the present of the letters in which none of the characters know what is going to happen next.

And all sway forward on the dangerous flood
Of history, that never sleeps or dies,
And, held one moment, burns the hand. (from To a writer on his birthday by W.H. Auden)

As we read the letters, we are living in the dangerous present, alongside Cicero, sympathising with his efforts to figure out what the hell to do, given the immense press of fast-moving events. As the letters progress, they become more and more dramatic and immersive, and genuinely gripping, as gripping as any thriller.

Political parties?

One thing which surprised me in Wilkinson’s introduction is how confidently he talks about political parties with a capital P – the People’s Party, the Senate Party, the Knights Party. Obviously these were not political parties in the modern sense. All the authorities emphasise this. Instead they were loose and flexible affiliations, generally clustered around powerful individuals, because that was the structure of Roman society at large. The Roman ruling class was based on the notion of rich patrons who were surrounded by a host of ‘clients’, who benefited from their largesse and in return offered services. It was a subtle, complicated, ever-changing flux of relationships – personal, familial, military and political.

Given all this, I was surprised to read Wilkinson very much using the language of ‘parties’ and surprised at how acutely it shed light on events which had been more personalised in other accounts. All the accounts I’ve read tend to focus on individuals and their rivalries and hatreds, for example between Marius and Sulla. But Wilkinson recasts this in terms of ‘parties’.

Thus he sees the rivalry between Gaius Marius and Lucius Cornelius Sulla as not only a fierce personal and professional rivalry (which it undoubtedly was) but as a struggle between the People’s Party of the former and the Senatorial Party of the latter. He explains how Gnaeus Pompey at first appeared to follow in Sulla’s footsteps but, during the 70s, left the Sullan cause and helped pass a series of laws which rolled back all the laws Sulla put in place at the end of the 80s to try and bolster the power of the senate.

Alongside Pompey, was Marcus Licinius Crassus (born 115 BC, so 9 years older than Cicero) the richest man in Rome, who Wilkinson puts at the head of the Equites or Knights, the class of often very rich businessmen who sat, as it were, just beneath the senate in terms of power and prestige.

And coming up on the outside was the young, but poor, and extremely ambitious Julius Caesar, born in 100 BC and so 6 years younger than both Pompey and Cicero. By temperament, and family ties (his aunt had been Marius’s wife) Caesar was the rising star of the People’s Party.

Pompey sponsored a bill which removed control of the juries in trials from the Senate and gave a third of juries to the Equites, thus securing the support of the Knightly Party. And then, after being awarded enormous powers to rid Rome of the pirate scourge 67 BC, Pompey won such overwhelming popularity with the People that he was given huge powers to go east and deal with the ongoing problem of King Mithradates VI of Pontus in 66.

When you see Crassus, Pompey and Caesar as not only extremely ambitious individuals, but as representatives of interest groups or ‘parties’, it makes even more sense that in 60 BC Caesar persuaded the other two to join him in an informal pact to manipulate elections and laws and award each other official positions which suited their interests – the first triumvirate.

Cicero’s initial hopes for Pompey

Wilkinson begins his collection with a letter from Cicero to Pompey, written in 62, the year after Cicero’s consulship (when, as he never stopped reminding people, he claimed to have more or less single-handed saved Rome from overthrow by Catiline and his conspirators).

At this point, before the triumvirate was set up, Cicero was still hero-worshipping Pompey and hoping that he would become an enlightened leader and centre of a circle of intellectuals (such as himself). More importantly that Pompey could straddle the interest groups of the different parties (senate, knights and people) and so effect what Cicero called ‘the harmony of the orders’ i.e. put an end to the continual conflict between the different ‘parties’ and reconcile them to work together for the good of Rome.

Pompey had dramatically demonstrated his dedication to the constitution when, upon returning to Italy from his triumphs in the East, he didn’t march on Rome as Marius and Sulla had done, but simply disbanded his army and returned as a private citizen at the beck of the senate. Good man.

(This first letter establishes a recurring theme of the correspondence which is Cicero’s enormous sense of his own importance. Cicero never loses an opportunity to brag at length how the whole world recognises how he single-handedly saved the state during the Cataline crisis.)

Thus, in this first letter, he expects that, despite his (Pompey’s) recent letter to him (Cicero) being restrained and distant, nonetheless, once he arrives in Rome and learns what a hero Cicero is, he (Pompey) will be all the readier to allow Cicero to consort with him in private and in politics. ‘Once you realise how heroically I saved Rome you will want to hang out with me’.

Timeline of Cicero’s letters

63 BC

Cicero serves as consul. November to December the Catiline conspiracy. After a debate in the Senate a vote was taken choosing to execute the known conspirators and, as a result, Cicero promptly led five of them to Rome’s gaol where they were garrotted without a trial. This prompt but rash action, in a moment of national crisis, was to haunt Cicero for the rest of his life and be used against him by his enemies who claimed it was illegal and itself deserving the death penalty. It was the threat of prosecution for it which sent Cicero into self-imposed exile in March 58. And it helps explain the boastfulness when you realise every time he mentioned it he was also in part exonerating himself, building up his defence with everyone he spoke to or wrote to.

62 BC

First letter to Pompey insisting he ought to take him (Cicero) seriously as the man who saved Rome the year before.

61 BC

January: Long gossipy letter to Atticus mentioned the scandalous affair of Publius Clodius Pulcher impersonating a woman to enter Caesar’s house during a women-only religious ceremony. Bitchy remarks about Pompey. June: Cicero describes the trial of Clodius in colourful terms. Cicero intervened to demolish Clodius’s alibi, thus making a mortal enemy who terrified him into exile three years later. From mid-61 to 58 Cicero missed the help of his brother, Quintus Cicero, who went to serve as governor of Asia Minor.

60 BC

January: Cicero complains to Atticus about not having anyone to trust. June: another letter about Clodius’s ongoing intrigues. He was rumoured to have had incestuous affair with his sister, Clodia, who features in the poetry of Catullus as his beloved ‘Lesbia’. Clodia was married to that year’s consul, Metellus. Cicero says she’s a disgrace and he ‘hates’ her.

Julius Caesar invited Cicero to join with him, Crassus and Pompey in what would become known as the Triumvirate. Cicero declined out of loyalty to the constitution.

59 BC

Julius Caesar takes up office for a year as consul. He brings in a Land Bill for the settlement of his servicemen. He ignored the opposition of the senate and vetos by the tribunes i.e. a clear indication that the triumvirate were going to ignore constitutional checks. Next, the tax collectors got a remission of one third on the price they’d paid to collect taxes in the East, to please their representative, Crassus. As his reward for organising all this, the other two arranged for Caesar to be made governor for 5 years of Cisalpine Gaul, Illyrium and Transalpine Gaul. Caesar also married his young daughter, Julia, to Pompey, in order to cement their political bond. She was 17 and Pompey was 47, but in fact he became devoted to her.

Summer: Cicero writes to Atticus telling him the actions of the triumvirate have created a climate of fear, disgust and universal despair at the loss of political freedoms and the state of ‘general servility’. Cicero tells Atticus how at the gladiatorial shows and the theatre Pompey is hissed and booed. Caesar offers Cicero a job as one of the 20 Land Commissioners deciding which land should be assigned to ex-soldiers, but Cicero realises it’s a trap i.e. will associate him with the regime and lose him the support of ‘loyalists’.

58 BC

The Triumvirate arrange for the patrician Clodius to be adopted into a plebeian family so he could be elected as one of the ten tribunes of the plebs. Clodius introduced laws which benefited them all. Caesar encouraged him to persecute Cicero because the triumvirs feared his continued opposition to them jeopardised their programme.

Thus it was that Clodius was encouraged to propose a law threatening exile to anyone who executed a Roman citizen without a trial. Cicero, having executed members of the Catiline conspiracy four years previously without a formal trial, was the clear target of this proposal. After senators and colleagues failed to offer him the assurances he needed, Cicero wisely departed Italy for Greece. A few days later Clodius put forward another bill formally exiling Cicero and confiscating his property. Cicero’s house on the Palatine Hill was destroyed by Clodius’ supporters, as were his villas in Tusculum and Formiae. On the ruins of the Rome house Clodius had a temple dedicated to Libertas built.

The more dangerous, because principles and unbending, opponent of the triumvirs, Cato, was, via another of Clodius’s proposals, sent as governor to Cyprus to get him out of the way.

[What strikes the casual reader of both the general background and Cicero’s letters is how immensely personalised this all was. It’s as if ‘the state’ only consisted of half a dozen people who make and break friendships like schoolboys in a playground.]

April: a letter to Atticus from Brindisi saying he’d love to come to Athens. A sad and moving letter to his wife, Terentia, who he calls the ‘best and most devoted of wives’. She has stayed behind in Rome to see their houses confiscated etc. Practical arrangements about what to do with their large staff of slaves now they have no house. Love to his wife and daughter (married to Piso) and little son, Marcus.

 57 BC

Caesar has gone to Gaul to take up what would turn into 8 years of successful campaigning (see Caesar’s Gallic Wars). Having created a leader of street gangs and proposer of strident laws in Publius Clodius Pulcher, Pompey found him impossible to control, and begins to lobby for Cicero’s return. Clodius’s gangs riot but Pompey helped set up a rival and opposing gang leader, Titus Annius Milo, and got him elected tribune of the plebs, who proposed a law repealing Cicero’s exile. The start of a five year period of unpredictable street battles between the rival gangs and supporters. For example, on 23 January 57, when Clodius tried to use a force of gladiators to block a move to recall Cicero from exile, Milo arrested Clodius’ gladiators. Milo was subsequently attacked by Clodius’ gangs. Milo attempted to prosecute Clodius for instigating this violence but was unsuccessful. The warfare between Milo and Clodius’s gangs became a feature of Roman life. But meanwhile, with the support of Pompey and that year’s consul, Lenthulus Spinther, Cicero’s exile – which he had spent mostly in Salonika – was ended.

September: letter to Atticus rejoicing at being back in Rome. Far more than that, it celebrates in hyperbolic terms what Cicero describes as widespread celebrations of his return, so that at every city and town he was feted by cheering crowds, received delegations of civic worthies etc. Cheering crowds at the gates of Rome, in the forum, on the Capitol. He is immediately back in the buzz of political life and makes a speech in support of a motion to award Pompey control of the corn supply, seeing as there’s a shortage. Fascinating detail of the way the consuls proposed the law giving Pompey control of the corn supply throughout the empire for 5 years, but then Messius introduced an amendment giving Pompey a fleet and army and complete authority over regional governors. Superpowers. This is evidence for the case that the Republic collapsed not because of a handful of ambitious men, but because it was no longer up to administering such a huge area. Anyway, he also hints that all is not well in his household, first hint of deteriorating relationship with Terentia.

November: description of how a mob led by Clodius knocked down Cicero’s half-rebuilt house then incited them to set fire to Cicero’s brother’s house and then ran amok through the city promising to free slaves who joined them. He describes how on 11 November he and his entourage were proceeding along the Sacred Way when Clodius’s gang appeared and produced stones, clubs and swords so that Cicero et al were forced to take refuge in a friend’s house and barricade themselves in.

Clodius is a one-man evidence for the argument that the collapse of law and order in Rome set the scene for the end of the republic. Cicero describes feeling resentfully jealous of Milo and his complete lack of scruples, Milo openly saying he will murder Clodius if he can (though it would be four more riotous years till he did).

56 BC

February: Letter to his brother Quintus describing the attempted trial of Milo. When Pompey attempted to speak for him, Clodius’s gang erupted in shouts and catcalling, then a near riot broke out and Cicero fled. In the following days there was a meeting of the senate, proposals that the riots amounted to sedition. Cato made a violent speech against Pompey who then stands and makes a measured reply. Cicero makes the shrewdest comment on Cato that I’ve read:

from the highest principles he sometimes does the state harm (p.39)

Pompey confides in Cicero that there is a conspiracy against his (Pompey’s) life. He thinks Crassus is encouraging Cato’s attacks while continuing to fund Clodius’s gangs. Cicero allies himself with Milo and the constitutionalists.

April: a sweet letter to Atticus asking him to send some of his slaves or servants who are expert at book management to help restore his library.

In April 56 Cicero made a career-changing mistake. He still thought he could break up the Triumvirate with a view to restoring traditional senatorial rule. The strategy he chose was to launch an attack on Caesar’s Land Bill, which sequestered land to give to his war veterans. But it had the opposite effect, for Pompey supported Caesar’s measure. Indeed it led to the entrenching of triumvirate power when Caesar called Pompey, Crassus and 120 senators to a meeting at Lucca in his province of Cisalpine Gaul, where the pacts behind the Triumvirate were reconfirmed. They agreed that Caesar’s command in Gaul was to be extended by a further five years, that Pompey and Crassus would be consuls for 55, the former with responsibility for Italy and Spain, but remaining in Italy to keep an eye on Rome while the latter went hunting for glory against the Parthian Empire in the East. He had for some years been complaining about the spinelessness of the ‘nobles’, especially when they failed to stand up to Clodius about his exile. Now his patience snapped and he washed his hands of the senatorial party (‘had they not led me on, then ratted and thrown me over…I must finish with them’), made his peace with the Triumvirate (‘let me endeavour to make friends with those that have power’) and retired from politics, concentrating on his writing (p.55).

May: The famous letter to the historian Lucius Lucceius unashamedly sucking up to him and suggesting he write an historical account of the Catiline conspiracy giving pride of place, of course, to Cicero’s heroic achievements in saving the state! Interestingly, he describes in detail his conviction that a mere chronicle of events is boring; what brings it alive is describing the vicissitudes of fortune, the rise, setbacks and triumphs of individuals. This is interesting in itself but indicates the gulf between the ancient and modern world: what interests us is analysis which is undertaken on the basis of a whole range of modern theories, economic, sociological, political, Marxist along with various schools of psychology. By contrast with the web of sophisticated interpretative theories which modern readers and commentators have at their fingertips, the ancients had just one: Fortune and its impact on the rise and fall of great men.

May: letter to Atticus bemoaning his situation whereby if he speaks out about what is right in politics, he is thought mad; if he agrees with the triumvirate, he is thought servile; if he says nothing, he feels crushed and helpless.

May: letters to Lentulus Spinther who, as consul in 57, supported Cicero’s return from exile and is now governor of Cilicia. Cicero describes how the triumvirate have succeeded in gaining their goals beyond their wildest dreams and how he is being realistic and attaching himself to Pompey. He laments that he once looked forward, after a lifetime of service, to giving independent advice in the Senate. But now that vision and world have disappeared. There is now only a choice between ‘humbly agreeing or disagreeing to no purpose.’ ‘The whole essence of the Senate, law courts and the State in general has changed’ (p.61).

55 BC

Cicero sent his brother, Quintus Tullius Cicero, to join Caesar in Gaul. Caesar repelled an incursion by two Germanic tribes and then made his first expedition to Britain. In November Crassus departed Rome to sail to Asia (Turkey) with a view to heading on to Syria to raise the forces for his ill-fated campaign against the Parthian Empire.

April: letter to Atticus from his country house in Cuma where he laments his impotence in politics but:

The more I am robbed of my relish for material pleasures by the thought of the political situation, the more comfort and recreation I find in literature. (p.61)

September: long letter to Marcus Marius giving descriptions of a festival which the former missed and Cicero says he would have hated, describing the bad plays, terrible acting and excessive props; the grimness of the gladiator games and animal hunts, with a word for how the killing of the elephants elicited not pleasure but horror.

54 BC

Cicero’s brother, Quintus Tullius Cicero, took part in Caesar’s second expedition to Britain, which is referred to in Cicero’s letters to him. Julius Caesar’s daughter, Julia, died, aged just 22, leaving her husband, Pompey, bereft. She had provided an important link between the two men and from this point they began to drift apart. Caesar tried to re-secure Pompey’s support by offering him his great-niece in marriage, but Pompey declined.

Spring: an uneasily sycophantic letter to Julius Caesar recommending a friend and colleague Gaius Trebatius Testa for service in Caesar’s army in Gaul.

June: letter to his brother Quintus Cicero. These letters reveal an effort by Cicero to really ingratiate himself with Caesar, to seek his friendship and approval. He regrets being slow to cultivate Caesar’s friendship and promises his brother he will now speed up. These letters with their record of who he’s recommending to who for what position or post, with whose support or opposition, take us into the network of friendships, family and professional and political obligations, alliances, rivalries and enmities which characterised Rome.

September: a famous letter to his brother describing the building works being done to the latter’s villa at Arce and problems with the builder, Diphilus.

October: fascinating letter to his brother describing progress on his book on politics, The Republic. He had cast it in nine books in the form of discussions between Scipio Africanus and his literary circle in the 120s BC. However, when he had it read out at his house in Tusculum in the presence of (the 32-year-old) Gaius Sallustius Crispus, the latter said it would have much more power if it was set in the present day and had Cicero himself as a speaker. This shook his confidence in his conception and he’s now reconsidering.

December: letter to Gaius Trebatius Testa who, as we saw, Cicero recommended to Caesar to be his legal counsel.

53 BC

In June 53 Marcus Crassus was killed leading Roman legions against the Parthian Empire at the Battle of Carrhae in Syria. (See the description in Plutarch’s Life of Crassus.) The Triumvirate was thus ended and became a duumvirate, with an uneasy peace between Caesar and Pompey lasting for the next four years. Milo made a bid for one of the consulships for 52 while Clodius was standing for the praetorship. Milo had won popular support by staging extravagant games and enjoyed the support of the Optimates but Pompey supported Clodius. Milo and Clodius’s supporters clashed in the streets leading to such a breakdown of order that the elections were declared void.

52 BC

In January 52 Milo and Clodius and their respective entourages met by chance on a provincial road outside Rome and a scuffle turned into a fight during which Clodius was wounded then killed. Clodius’s followers brought his body back to Rome and laid it in the Senate House which, after more rioting, they set fire to and burned down. As a result the Senate elected Pompey as sole consul for that year to restore order. Cicero was pleased that the man who had him exiled was now dead and, when Milo was brought to trial for murder, defended him in a speech which became famous, Pro Milone. True to the spirit of the times, though, Clodius’s supporters made such a racket and surrounded the proceedings in such number that Cicero was intimidated into delivering the speech poorly and it couldn’t be heard (though he took care to have it published soon after). Milo was convicted and sent into exile at Massilia.

Caesar was granted permission to stand for the consulship in his absence, being far away on campaign in Gaul – but a powerful party in the Senate wanted him both stripped of his command in Gaul and prevented from holding office back in Rome. Marcellus specified the date 1 March 50 for when Caesar should be relieved of his role. This was to become the crux which sparked the civil war.

51 BC

May: letter to Atticus complaining about the behaviour of his sister, Pomponia, to her husband i.e. Cicero’s brother, Quintus. ‘I never saw anything so polite as my brother or as rude as your sister’ (p.71).

Before he left for Cilicia Cicero secured Marcus Caelius Rufus, a clever unprincipled young man, to be his eyes and ears in Rome (see section, below).

May: first of Caelius’s letters explaining that he has sub-contracted writing out a really thorough account of all the acts of the senate and the assemblies, plus all stories, rumours, jokes and gossips, to another hand. This is just an accompanying letter with highlights.

June: letter to Atticus en route to Cilica, stopping over at Athens. He has behaved well and prevented his staff using their privileges to requisition or spend excessively. But oh he is not looking forward to this governorship.

June: letter to Gaius Memmius who was the dedicatee of Lucretius’s famous poem On the nature of the universe. It’s in fact a boring letter about the preservation of a building once belonging to Epicurus.

July: a suite of letters telling Atticus about the journey by boat from Athens via various islands to Epidaurus.

August: Caelius writes with news of the debate about the end of Caesar’s command in Gaul.

Cicero writes to Atticus saying his governorship commenced on his arrival in Laodicea on 31 July and he is bored to death. He describes the state of the province of Cilicia, which has been mulcted by his predecessor and Roman tax collectors: on all sides he hears complaints about the amounts demanded and the brutality of his predecessor as governor, Appius Claudius Pulcher, in punishing anyone who objected. As the natives have realised, Cicero is determined to be fair, they flock to him in adulation.

[It’s worth pausing a moment over this Appius Claudius Pulcher (97 to 49) because he’s such a good example of the way family ties were vital in understanding the minutiae of Roman politics and society. Appius Claudius Pulcher was head of the senior line of the most powerful family of the patrician Claudii. The Claudii were one of the five leading families (gentes maiores or ‘Greater Clans’) which had dominated Roman social and political life from the earliest years of the republic. He was also the elder brother of Publius Clodius Pulcher the rabble rouser who was responsible for driving Cicero into exile in 58. In the summer 55 Appius married his younger daughter to Pompey’s eldest son, Gnaeus Pompeius (born c.79 BC), thus ensuring his election to the consulate for the following year. He served as consul in 54, along with Cato’s brother-in-law Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus. Then he was proconsul for Cilicia for two years, 53 to 51, when Cicero took over. Elected censor in 50 with Caesar’s father-in-law, Lucius Calpurnius Piso Caesoninus (cos.58), Appius was promptly prosecuted for electoral bribery by Cicero’s new son-in-law Publius Cornelius Dolabella. At some stage he had married his other daughter to Marcus Junius Brutus and so Brutus now came to his defence, along with the famous advocate, Quintus Hortensius, and he was acquitted. It’s important to note that Cicero was very cautious and politic both in his letters to Appius and in any comments about him because he knew he would need Appius’s support to be voted the triumph he so dearly hoped for. Thus the byzantine personal relationships of Roman society and politics.]

Letter to Appius laying out how friendly and positive Cicero has been, and reproaching Appius for refusing to meet him, moving to the furthers part of the province and taking the cohorts with him.

There’s a running thread in letters of Caelius to Cicero asking for panthers for the games which, as aedile, he is charged with arranging. Where are my panthers? Just give the orders for them to be captured. Caelius has sent people to arrange their transport back to Rome.

October: Caelius writes to tell Cicero the latest developments in Rome on the issue of whether Caesar can stand for consul in his absence. Caesar wants to do this is so he can pass straight from being commander of the army in Gaul to being consul without a break. If there is a break and he returns to Rome as a private citizen, he knows that his enemies have compiled a list of his alleged misdemeanours in Gaul and will immediately prosecute him, with the very real risk that he will be sent into exile and stripped of citizenship, thus ending his career.

November: letter to Caelius. It always comes as a surprise to realise how military these men are. Thus Cicero gives a detailed account of the military affairs of his province, his various campaigns against enemy peoples and the fact that his writing this letter from a Roman army which he is supervising in the siege of Pindenissus, on Mount Amanus (which he was to take after 57 days). This was the military campaign upon which Cicero was later to base his (repeated) request for a triumph to be held in his honour.

50 BC

Caelius writes to tell Cicero that Appius is being impeached for corruption during his governorship of Cilicia, but that Pompey (whose son is married to Appius’s daughter) is actively supporting him. [Later that year, in August, Cicero learns that his daughter, Tullia, fairly recently widowed, has married Publius Cornelius Dolabella. This placed Cicero in an awkward position because this same Dolabella led the prosecution of Appius for corruption at the same time as Cicero was trying to cosy up to him (Appius).]

February: a long letter to Atticus demonstrating in great detail Cicero’s attempts to be fair to natives in the case of the Roman moneylender Marcus Scaptius who was insisting on repayment of a debt from the people of Salamis on Cyprus at a rate of 48% compound interest. Cicero calls off the moneylenders soldiers, who had been threatening the Salaminians, and remits the interest to 12%.

May: a letter from Cato explaining why he proposed a vote of thanksgiving to Cicero in the Senate to recognise his good governance of Cilicia (p.94).

At the end of July Cicero’s governorship expired, he packed his bags and left Cilicia. But he didn’t reach Italy till November and Rome till January 49. During the second half of the year the political situation in Rome darkened. Various factions were lobbying for Caesar to return from Gaul and surrender his command, some in order that he could take up the consulship, some that he be arrested, or other types of legalistic intervention. The point being that everyone agreed that Caesar’s return would trigger some great crisis.

August: In a series of letters, Caelius gives a running commentary, explaining that the crux is that Pompey insists Caesar cannot take up his consulship until he has given up his army; but Caesar refuses to give up his army because only with it does he feel safe. Caesar has suggested that both he and Pompey give up their armies at the same time, but Pompey refuses. Impasse (pp.97 and 100).

October: Cicero writes to Atticus that he has received letters asking for his support from both Pompey and Caesar. The former he assesses as doing the right thing by the constitution, but the latter has incomparably the stronger army. So what should he do?

A comic note is introduced in the fact that, as the republic slides towards civil war, Cicero’s main concern is fussing to Atticus about lobbying the senate to be awarded a triumph for his campaigns in Cilicia.

Some of the letters describe the moment when Gaius Scribonius Curio went over to active support of Caesar, having been paid an enormous bribe to do so. Curio had been elected tribune and promptly used his veto to block any attempt to recall Caesar or separate him from his army. On 1 December 50 he proposed yet again that Pompey and Caesar lay down their arms simultaneously but it was vetoed by other tribunes. Instead Pompey accepted command of the army in Italy, just as Caesar was heading over the Alps with the army of Gaul. On the day his term of office expired (10 December) Curio went straight to Caesar at Ravenna and urged him to march on Rome. Caesar had his loyal supporter Mark Antony lined up to step into Curio’s shoes as tribune and continue supporting him.

December: At Pompeii Cicero met Pompey who was friendly and supportive of his request for a triumph. Pompey tells him his estrangement from Caesar is complete. In his last letter before civil war breaks out, Cicero laments that they should all have resisted Caesar before he was powerful. Now he is too powerful. But he equally laments that there is no obvious patriotic party in Rome, just different interest groups none of which have the Republic, as such, at heart.

49 BC

In early January, Pompey’s father-in-law, Scipio, proposed to the senate that Caesar be forced to lay down his military command in Gaul. The new tribunes, Mark Antony and Quintus Cassius, tried to use their veto against this but were physically ejected from the Senate. In fear of their lives, they fled Rome and reached Rimini on the north-east coast of Italy on 10 January. On the night of 11 January Caesar led his legions across the little river Rubicon. The significance of this was that the Rubicon formed the border between Cisalpine Gaul, where Caesar legitimately was governor and military commander, and Italy proper, where he was not, and where to lead legions was expressly against the law.

Cicero arrived in Rome after his long, roundabout journey back from Cilicia the next day, on January 12. His letters explode with drama as panic grips Rome and Pompey and his supporters first of all flee Rome to the south-east, then move on to Brundisium which they barricade and fortify, and then depart Italy altogether for north-west Greece.

During these feverish days Cicero sends letters to his faithful freedman and servant, Tyro, with updates on the situation, and to Atticus agonising about what to do. For me what stood out is a sentiment he repeats several times, which is the discovery that ‘on both sides there are people who actually want to fight.’ (p.108) This is the truth that dare not speak its name in liberalism: the college-educated middle class and women want peace; but there is always a significant minority who let themselves get worked up enough to declare peace shameful etc and determine to fight come what may, ‘Death or glory’ etc. Thus the eminently sane, rational and civilised Cicero is bewildered to discover ‘the amazing passion’ which has gripped so many of his acquaintance in Rome.

Very quickly Cicero realises ‘the improvidence and negligence’ of his side, of Pompey, the senate and the consuls, none of whom have made adequate preparations. He realises immediately that it was a fatal mistake for the Pompeians and constitutionalists to abandon Rome.

On 16 February he writes to Pompey himself, saying he is holding the area south of Rome he was tasked with (the senate divided Italy into provinces and assigned governors for the duration of the crisis). But he writes to Atticus fairly certain that Pompey will flee and, sure enough, on 17 March Pompey evacuated his army of 30,000, plus most of the senate, the 2 consuls and tribunes across the Adriatic to Greece. Cicero tells Atticus about a face to face meeting with Caesar who begged him to come to Rome to discuss the issue further. (Persuading Cicero to stay would be a big propaganda coup for Caesar and persuade many other waverers to say and thus validate his regime.)

In April Cicero decided to join Pompey but not because he thought it would save the republic, which he now regards as finished; or because he thought Pompey would win, having displayed such indecision and fear. But in case people think he is ungrateful to the man who helped end his exile.

April: Cicero’s friend Marcus Caelius is on Caesar’s side and writes an impassioned letter warning him not to go over to Pompey, especially at this point when it has become clear Caesar will win. What would be the point?

May: his beloved daughter Tullia had a baby boy, born prematurely. In June he wrote to his wife, Terentia, telling her he is aboard the ship which will take him across the Adriatic to join Pompey, and to go and stay in one of their country houses and so avoid the war areas.

48 BC

During the next few troubled years there are few letters. Having secured the flight of Pompey and his army, Caesar marched all the way to Spain where he defeated all of Pompey’s seven legions and secured the peninsula. In September he returned to Rome and undertook a suite of reforming legislation. In the spring of 48, having built up sufficient fleet, Caesar took his army across the Adriatic and besieged Pompey at Dyrrhachium. Here he suffered a confusing defeat so struck camp and headed east into Greece to relieve pressure on a Caesarian legion facing attack by Pompey’s father-in-law Scipio. Pompey shadowed Caesar and eventually, against his better judgement was persuaded by his camp followers of politicians, to give Caesar battle. He lost the battle of Pharsalus in August 48 and fled to Egypt where he was murdered. Cicero missed Pharsalus having remained ill at a camp on the coast. After the defeat, he opted not to join the hard core Pompeians – Labienus, Cato, Scipio and Pompey’s sons – but returned to Italy where he was grudgingly allowed to stay in Brundisium by Mark Antony who Caesar had appointed his deputy in Rome while he pursued the war in Egypt, Asia and Spain.

November: Cicero writes to Atticus bewailing his fate. How can he secure his return to Rome? He is worried about is family. He doesn’t regret joining Pompey and is upset by his miserable murder.

47 BC

June: To Atticus he says he understands Caesar is in a tight spot in Alexandria. Meanwhile he just wants to be allowed to leave Brundisium, no matter how angry the Caesarians are with him. He is saddened by news of Marcus Caelius Rufus.

Caelius sided with Julius Caesar against Pompey in the civil war, warning Cicero not to align his fortunes with Pompey. In 48 he was rewarded with the office of praetor peregrinus. However, when his proposed program of debt relief was opposed by the senate and he was suspended from office, he joined in a rebellion against Caesar which was quickly crushed and Caelius was killed.

Cicero is troubled by the divorce of his beloved daughter Tullia from Dolabella who turns out to be a swine. If Dolabella divorces her Cicero will get back the dowry he paid for her, which was not inconsiderable.

At the end of 47 Cicero divorced his wife of 30 years, Terentia. He has confirmed that she has been swindling him over money for years, and he is fed up with her bad temper. It’s worth noting she was a true religious believer and devout in her worship of the gods, something Cicero teased her about.

46 BC

After campaigns in Egypt, Asia Minor and Spain, Caesar finally returned to Italy. Here he met with Cicero and formally pardoned him, allowing him to return to Rome. He kept his head down, settled in his country estate at Tusculum, and devoted himself to literature. Many commentators think these among the most momentous years of western civilisation, for in the next three years he produced a series of works which invented philosophical discourse in Latin and popularised to the Romans and, later, for all western civilisation, the ideas of the great Greek philosophers.

In December 47 Caesar crossed to Tunisia to take on the Pompeian forces there. It took till April when he wiped them out at the battle of Thapsus. Cato, the great politician and inflexible moralist, committed suicide at the garrison city of Utica.

Cicero agonises about whether to deliver a eulogy for Cato, who was great but unwise. Any praise will only bring criticism on his head from the Caesarians.

April: letters to Marcus Terentius Varro, the polymath and a prolific author, giving the advice to lie low and study, to live with their books and, if they can no longer advise from the senate, to offer advice from the library and study.

July: five letters to Lucius Papirius Paetus, who has warned him about anti-Cicero gossip in Caesar’s circle, reassuring him that his policy, now that Caesar has triumphed utterly, is to do or say nothing to offend Caesar or his supporters. He discusses the merits of opening a sort of school for student orators, amid jokes about haute cuisine and eating peacocks, the kind of luxury talk Cicero absent from his letters till now. He describes a dinner party with unexpectedly celebrity company (Cytheris, a famous actress) and how, nowadays, deprived of political action and the freedom to speak his mind independently, there’s nothing he enjoys more than dining with friends, addressing his wit to whatever subject crops up and turning grumbling into laughter. In various ways he reformulates the same basic thought: that he is lucky to be alive and that they must obey the powers that be:

What will happen is whatever pleases the powers that be; and power will always be with those that have the arms. We ought therefore to be happy with what we are allowed. (p.139)

[The calendar: throughout 46 and 45 Caesar carried out widespread reforms. The most notable of these was reforming the calendar. Because of the discrepancy between the Roman year of 355 days and the actual solar year of 365.242 days, a large discrepancy had opened up, with the Roman calendar 2 months out of true. Caesar consulted mathematicians and had 67 extra days inserted between November and December 46, gave some of the months extra days to being the total up to 365, and instituted the idea of adding an extra day to the calendar every four years. A reform which survives, in essentials, to this day.]

45 BC

After defeat in north Africa the surviving Pompeians rallies in Spain, under the great survivor Titus Labienus and Pompey’s sons. At the end of 46 Caesar went there with an army and eventually brought them to battle and defeated them at Munda on 17 March 45.

To Cassius he writes a brief letter explaining his new mode of life, explaining that: ‘I am ashamed to be a slave, so I make a show of being busy over other things than politics’ (p.140)

In February his beloved daughter Tullia died, leading to a series of letters from condoling friends, Cicero’s replies, and then his plans to have a permanent shrine built to her.

March: long letter from Servius Sulpicius offering carefully thought through advice on managing his grief. Cicero movingly explains to him that he had lost everything else in life, all his public works and political actions and the law courts, everything, and Tullia was the one good thing left to him and now she is dead.

In all these letters Cicero refers to Caesar rather spookily as ‘he’ by whose patience and generosity they now live, creating the sense of an all-powerful dictator who suffers his subjects to live and a painful sense of having lost his freedom to say and do whatever he wants. Against this backdrop it is striking to have a letter (March) addressed directly to Caesar and recommending to his service a young man named Precilius.

More correspondence with Atticus about buying the land and paying for a mausoleum to be erected to Tullia. Then (May) he has clearly published a eulogy to Cato because he writes about the invective against Cato written by Caesar. He doesn’t give a summary or even any of the arguments, which is irritating because the invective has disappeared, but then Cicero’s letters contain almost nothing about the content of his or anyone else’s writings, a big omission.

May: Atticus seems to have suggested Cicero write a letter to Caesar full of advice but Cicero says he can’t bring himself to; not out of shame, although he is ashamed to be still alive, but because he can’t find anything to say. ‘I would rather he regretted my not writing than disapproved of what I wrote…’

June: a letter to Atticus about some of the philosophical discourses he’s working on and, as usual, he doesn’t discuss the philosophy at all, but just the mechanics of the writing, namely who to dedicate the work to (he is dedicating his dialogue On Aims to Brutus, as Atticus has advised) and swapping round the names of some of the characters who appear in other dialogues, to please figures like Varro, Catulus and Lucullus.

July: this theme continues in a letter he writes to Varro accompanying a copy of his dialogue, the Academica, explaining that he has cast him, Varro, as one of the chief speakers, himself (Cicero) one of the others. As usual there is no indication whatsoever of the content, the subject matter or the actual arguments.

July: he tells Atticus he attended a triumph given to Caesar in Rome, where the dictator’s statue was next to Victory’s. He had been nerving himself to write some kind of official letter of advice to Caesar, such as ought to come from such a distinguished statesman, but seeing this procession put him off.

December: Cicero describes to Atticus that Caesar came and stayed in person at one of his country homes. The throng was immense – he brought 2,000 soldiers! But Caesar was affable and polite, did some administrative work, walked along the seashore, had a bath and at heartily a well prepared meal. They kept off politics and discussed literature so nothing unwise was said and Cicero didn’t offend his guest and so the whole visit passed off without embarrassment. But he wouldn’t like it to happen again.

December: a letter to Manius Curius describing the scandalous incident whereby on the last day of the year, the sitting consul Quintus Maximus died in the morning and, hearing this, Caesar gave the consulship for the remainder of the year i.e. for the afternoon and evening, to a friend Gaius Caninius Rebilus. This allows Cicero to make a few weak jokes, such as: During Caninius’s consulship no-one had lunch. And: Such was Caninius’s vigilance that during his entire consulship he didn’t sleep a wink! But he declares himself sickened by Caesar’s contemptuous, offhand treatment of the great offices of state.

[Personally I find this attitude a little hard to credit and to sympathise with. It would make sense if the republic whose loss Cicero laments had been a Scandiniavian style paradise of social democracy. But even a reading of his letters indicates the political instability sometimes descending to chaos of the previous two decades, from the Catiline conspiracy through to the violent street fighting between Clodius and Milo’s gangs in the late 50s, with politicians routinely attacked in the street and fleeing for their lives. To a very senior political figure like Cicero ‘freedom’ might have a particular meaning, namely that he could speak out and play a role in the senate. But the reader suspects that to many ordinary Romans, peace and stability was more important than ‘freedoms’ none of them enjoyed, and that’s without mentioning the up to 20% of the population who were slaves. Persuasive though Cicero’s self pity can be, this is essentially rich man’s discourse.]

44 BC

Caesar’s assassination on 15 March in a meeting of the senate came as a great shock to Cicero. Although the conspirators ran out of the building waving their bloodsoaked daggers and shouting Cicero’s name (!) he was not approached to join the conspiracy and was, apparently, as surprised as everyone else. There is a gap around the event itself and the first letter we have is from 7 April, 3 weeks later.

[To my surprise he describes the assassins – or liberatores as they liked to style themselves – as ‘heroes’ who have behaved ‘most gloriously and magnificently’. He says the assassination ‘consoles’ him (p.160). At the same time the impression his letters give is of chaos in domestic politics, as the Senate votes to ratify all Caesar’s reforms but at the same time to declare an amnesty for the assassins. He shows the first signs of realising that assassinating the dictator won’t lead to the restoration of the republican constitution, but to a further sequence of civil wars because the republican constitution was irreparably broken. He also describes (albeit sketchily) something other accounts miss, which is the immediate impact of Caesar’s assassination on the empire. Thus war seems to be continuing against Parthia, but to everyone’s surprise there isn’t a widespread uprising in Gaul, whose leaders politely report to the Roman governor, Aurelius, that they will follow his orders. Having read Caesar’s long, gruelling account of his Gallic Wars, I am very surprised there was no uprising in Gaul and would be interested to read an explanation why.]

April: letter to Atticus lamenting the fact that by the second day after the assassination, which happened to fall on the feast of the Liberalia, it was already too late to move decisively to restore the republic, because on that day the Senate met and agreed that all of Caesar’s acts and laws should be confirmed, that his funeral be held in the Forum and his will read in public. Nobody suspected that Mark Antony would seize the opportunity to not only read the will, but show the mob Caesar’s body, and his toga gashed with bloody holes, and so inflame them that they would grab firebrands from the funeral pyre and run off to burn down the houses of the leading conspirators (and Cicero’s house, though he had no part in the conspiracy) with the result that the so-called liberatores (chief among them Brutus and Cassius) would be forced to flee the city they had supposedly liberated.

In April Octavian arrived in Rome, Caesar’s great-nephew who he had adopted as his legal heir. The Caesarians, led by Mark Antony, spurned him so he realised he’d have to worm his way up the ladder using the republicans. And so he curried favour with Cicero, among others.

April: letter to Atticus explaining that Octavian is staying with him and is surrounded by people breathing slaughter against the liberators. Already Cicero has a bad feeling that ‘our side’ will go under. Amazingly, he admits to wishing Caesar were still here because at least he had principles. In his absence Mark Antony is proposing all sorts of corrupt procedures, based on memos fraudulently claimed to have been signed off by Caesar, specifically a request to recall one Sextus Clodius from exile.

He writes in praise of Dolabella who had had a memorial to Caesar which his supporters had erected in the Forum demolished and its constructors thrown off the Tarpeian rock or crucified!

There’s a running thread of concern over his student-aged son Marcus, who is studying philosophy in Athens. Atticus gives reports of him, as does a friend, Trebonius, who looks him up in Athens. This is the same conspirator Trebonius who was tasked with keeping Mark Anthony in conversation outside the building where the other conspirators murdered Caesar.

June: he hears that the Senate will appoint Brutus and Cassius commissioners for supplying Rome with corn from Asia Minor and Sicily. Then he describes to Atticus the scene when he visited Brutus at his place in Anzio and, in front of the latter’s wife and children, was asked whether he, Brutus, should accept the Senate’s commission. He was in the middle of doing so when the impetuous Cassius burst in. Good God, it’s like a movie, it’s like being in the room with Lenin and Stalin arguing, it’s history at first hand. I am surprised to discover that Cicero thought Mark Antony should have been murdered at the same time as Caesar. Now he is emerging as the central political figure, but far more corrupt and tyrannical than Caesar had been. And the liberators who, as we’ve seen, he knows well and meets and advises, they have ‘No plan, no principle, no system’ (p.169).

Almost comically, there is a letter about Cleopatra who Cicero heartily disliked and found insolent and aloof. She had been staying in Rome under Caesar’s protection and fled the city when he was murdered.

There’s a slight oddity which is that the manuscript collections include 2 letters from Brutus and Cassius to Mark Antony. He was consul for 44 and they were praetors so they had to do business, but very uneasily since he had vowed to capture and execute them but had to acquiesce in the Senate’s decision to send them to governorships in Greece. They had asked Cicero whether they should return to Rome, even briefly, before they set out and he strongly advised against it.

August: Cicero tells Atticus he had set sail for Greece when a wind blew him back to Italy and he got messages of a big meeting happening in the Senate and none other than Brutus came to see him on foot. He praised Piso, Caesar’s father in law, who publicly stood up to Antony in the Senate.

Cicero returned to Rome but refused to attend the meeting of the Senate on 1 September when Caesar was officially deified. Antony made a furious speech criticising him for this. Cicero replied with a speech known as the first Philippic, because modelled on the famous speeches of Demosthenes against Philip of Macedon. This prompted Antony to a furious invective and triggered Cicero’s second Philippic. This is important because this animus led Antony, the following year, to condemn Cicero to death.

September: Cicero writes to Cassius in Athens telling him Antony is seeking any excuse for a massacre and to have him killed, making it unsafe for him to visit the Senate. So we are right back to the days of street violence and extreme instability of the 50s before Caesar made himself dictator.

November: Cicero tells Atticus he has received a letter from Octavian outlining his plans, which is to bribe ex-servicemen to his cause, which Cicero takes to be opposing Antony, and inviting him to a secret meeting at Capua. Meanwhile Antony is marching 3 legions towards Rome. Cicero asks Atticus what he should do, who he should support, and whether he should leave his rural idyll for Rome as things seem to be coming to a head?

43 BC

In June 46 Antony had passed a decree declaring himself governor of Hither Gaul instead of Decimus Brutus. On November 28 he learned that two of the four legions he had summoned from Macedonia had gone over to Octavian, so he took the other two and marched north to Hither Gaul where he besieged Decimus in Modena. Cicero played an important role in Rome, supporting the two new consuls who took office on 1 January, Hirtius and Pansa, and rallying anti-Antony forces with his Philippics. He based his position on support for Octavian as the least worst option. War was declared on Antony on 2 February.

February: a letter to Trebonius wishing he had not taken Antony aside on the Ides of March but had arranged to have him murdered, too. Now Antony has marched north, Cicero describes his leading role in rallying the Senate and trying to reintroduce Republican practices. He now sees Octavian rallying the ex-servicemen and detaching 2 of Antony’s four legions as preventing the latter instituting a new tyranny.

In the next few months Cicero played a central role, co-ordinating efforts by republicans around the empire. He corresponded with Brutus in the Balkans, Cassius in Syria, Trebonius in Asia Minor, Cornificius in north Africa, Pollio in Spain, Plancus and Lepidus in Transalpine Gaul and Galba and Decimus Brutus in Hither Gaul.

He warns Brutus against mercy. ‘If you are going to be merciful, civil wars will never cease’ (p.185).

In April there were two battles at Modena. Mark Antony defeated Pansa but was worsted by Hirtius. Octavian defended the camp against Antony’s brother, Lucius. A few days later, Decimus Brutus sallied out from the city and defeated Antony though both consuls were killed. But Antony got away.

April: Cicero writes to Brutus telling him the news, and describing ‘the boy’ Caesar, remarkably mature and shrewd at 19. He hopes that as he matures, he will be guided by Cicero and the republicans. He then swanks that when news of the first victory at Modena was brought, the population of Rome came flocking round his house and carried him, cheering, to the Capitol and set him up on the rostrum.

Antony fled north over the Alps. Lepidus, Brutus’s brother-in-law, went over to him and was declared a public enemy.

June: Pollio, governor of Hispania, writes to explain that he has kept his legions loyal to the Republic, despite the efforts of Antony and his brother to bribe them away.

June: a very shrewd letter from Brutus to Atticus in which he criticises Cicero for recklessly encouraging Octavian. In short: he thinks Cicero, with good intentions, has ended up supporting a man who will turn out to be more of a tyrant than the one they overthrew. Brutus powerfully expresses the belief in the Republican system i.e. no man should be above the law, for which he was famous in his day and ever since.

July: Cicero’s last letter is a long one to Brutus explaining and justifying his policy, the core of which is support for Octavian, justifying the various honours and ovation he got the Senate to award him, on the basis that he is their bulwark against the corruption and tyranny of Antony, and that he, Cicero, can guide and control and moderate a young man of just 19 who likes to call him ‘father’. In all this, he would prove to be terribly wrong.

When the Senate refused to vote Octavian the proposed honours he marched his army back to Rome and demanded one of the consulships left vacant by the deaths at Modena, the other one for a kinsman, Pedius. He revoked the outlawry of Antony and Dolabella, and secured the condemnation of Caesar’s assassins, confirming Brutus in his fears. Having unoutlawed him, Octavian proceeded to meet Antony in November 43 on an island near Bologna and formed the second triumvirate with him and Lepidus. The three then drew up lists of political enemies to be proscribed i.e. murdered. Top of Antony’s list was Cicero. Octavian held out in defence of his ‘father’ for 2 days but gave in on the third. Cicero was tracked down to a country estate and murdered by bounty hunters on 7 December 43.

Wilkinson ends his text not with a summary or conclusion or analysis, but by excerpting the last few chapters of Plutarch’s life of Cicero, describing in the detail his final flight to the country, and his tracking down and decapitation by the assassins. His head and hands were cut off and taken to Rome where Antony had them nailed to the rostrum in the forum as revenge, being the head and hand which wrote the Philippic speeches which so incensed him. A visual image of the barbarity which Cicero fought against all his life but which always lay implicitly within the Roman culture he loved so much and which, in the end, did for him so brutally.

Thoughts

What an extraordinary record these letters are, what an amazing insight into the actual dynamics of power at the highest level, during one of the most intense and fascinating periods of world history. And what an amazing character Cicero emerges as, wise, foolish, passionate, ever-thoughtful, highly literate and educated, an effective administrator and military governor in Cilicia, a fluent and attractive writer and, in the end, tragically deluded by the ‘boy’ Octavian.


Themes

Cicero’s narcissism

As all the other sources I’ve read point out Cicero is hilariously self-obsessed. Quite quickly you get used to him describing how important he is, how he single-handedly saved the state during the Catiline Conspiracy, how wherever he goes crowds flock out to see him and call his name. He comes across as a pompous, fuss, narcissistic booby.

As a result it’s hard to take him very seriously as either a politician or philosopher. It beggars belief that this man who frets about his sister-in-law’s behaviour, about the number of statues in his country home, who insists that wherever he goes he is mobbed by crowds calling his name, was seriously invited by Caesar, Pompey and Crassus to join the triumvirate.

Philosophy and writings

As to philosophy, these is none in the letters. He refers to Epicurean and Stoic philosophers by name but only to gossip about meeting them, dining with them and so on. There isn’t a word about The Good Life or The Ideal Citizen or any of the other issues Cicero wrote formal essays about. He mentions that he is working on the texts, such as the six volumes of The Republic, but describes or explains none of the actual ideas.

This is a striking gap or lack. Keats’s letters shed all kinds of light on his poetic theories and practice; Cicero’s letters shed no light at all on the ideas expressed in his essays and dialogues. Possibly this is because they were all secondary, in the sense that he was basically copying out ideas developed by Greeks. He had few if any original ideas of his own and therefore didn’t need to discuss them or work them through with correspondents. He administered his philosophical and political ideas, as a good governor administrates his province.

Atticus

It is sweet and lovely to read Cicero’s many letters to his friend Atticus in which he swears deep friendship and affection. I can see why the correspondence inspired all those humanists of the Renaissance who wrote so many essays about the value of friendship.

Quintus Tullius Cicero

The letters to his brother about a) the latter’s sister, who was married to his best friend Atticus, b) endless building works to the latter’s mansion and c) his service with Caesar in Gaul and on the expedition to the new island of Britain, are fascinating and very human.

Marcus Caelius Rufus

Caelius, born in 82 BC was an orator and politician. He is famous for his trial for public violence in March 56 BC when Cicero defended him in the speech Pro Caelio which is widely regarded as one of the greatest pieces of oratory from the ancient world. He is recipient and author of some of the best letters, with Cicero routinely begging him for the latest gossip during his exile in Greece and governorship in faraway Cilicia. There is a comic running thread with Caelius pestering Cicero to supply him with panthers, exotic animals which he wanted for the games he was organising as curule aedile in 50 BC. Cicero refuses, saying paying from public funds for a panther hunt would be against the reputation for good government he is trying to create.

Roman mosaic showing a wild animal hunt in North Africa (third century AD) Musée Archéologique d’Hippone (Algeria)

Tiro

Cicero’s beloved freedman, secretary, amanuensis. After Cicero’s death it was Tiro who edited and published Cicero’s letters to the immense benefit of western civilisation. It’s logical that Robert Harris makes Tiro the narrator of his 2006 novel about Cicero, Imperium.


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