Tom Sharpe reviews

Tom Sharpe (1928 to 2013) was an English satirical novelist, best known for his Wilt series, as well as ‘Porterhouse Blue’ and ‘Blott on the Landscape’, all three of which were adapted for TV.

After prep school, public school, national service and Cambridge, in 1951 Sharpe went to live and work in South Africa as a social worker and a teacher, and this is the setting of his first two, and arguably best, novels, the outrageous satires ‘Riotous Assembly’ and ‘Indecent Exposure’.

After returning to England in 1961, Sharpe worked as a history lecturer at the Cambridge College of Arts and Technology (later Anglia Ruskin University) and this provided the material for his hapless comic anti-hero, demoralised English lecturer Henry Wilt, who appears in five campus novels, putting Sharpe in the same campus comedy territory as his younger contemporaries, David Lodge (b. 1935) and Howard Jacobson (b.1942).

Sharpe’s novels

1971 Riotous Assembly Absurdly violent and frenzied black comedy set in apartheid South Africa as three incompetent police officers try to get to the bottom of the murder of her black cook by a venerable old lady who turns out to be a sex-mad rubber fetishist, a simple operation which leads to the deaths of 21 policemen, numerous dogs, a vulture and the completely wrongful arrest and torture of the old lady’s brother, the bishop of Basutoland.

1973 Indecent Exposure Sequel to the above, in which the same Kommandant van Herden is seduced into joining a group of (fake) posh colonial English at their country retreat, leaving Piemburg in charge of his deputy, Luitenant Verkramp, who sets about a) ending all inter-racial sex among the force by applying drastic aversion therapy to his men b) tasks with flushing out communist subversives a group of secret agents who themselves end up destroying most of the town’s infrastructure.

1974 Porterhouse Blue Hilarious satire on the stuffiness and conservatism of Oxbridge colleges epitomised by Porterhouse, as a newcomer tries in vain to modernise this ramshackle hidebound institution, with a particularly cunning enemy in the ancient college porter, Skullion.

1975 Blott on the Landscape MP and schemer Sir Giles Lynchwood so loathes his battleship wife, Lady Maud, that he connives to have a new motorway routed slap bang through the middle of her ancestral home, Handyman Hall, intending to abscond with the compensation money. But he reckons without his wife’s fearsome retaliation or the incompetence of the man from the Ministry.

1976 Wilt (Wilt 1) Hen-pecked lecturer Henry Wilt is humiliated with a sex doll at a party thrown by the infuriatingly trendy American couple, the Pringsheims. Appalled by his grossness, his dim wife, Eva, disappears on a boating weekend with this ‘fascinating’ and ‘liberated’ couple, so that when Wilt is seen throwing the wretched blow-up doll into the foundations of the extension to his technical college, the police are called which leads to 100 pages of agonisingly funny misunderstandings.

1977 The Great Pursuit Literary agent Frederick Frensic receives the anonymous manuscript of an outrageously pornographic novel about the love affair between a 17-year-old boy and an 80-year-old woman, via a firm of solicitors who instruct him to do his best with it. Thus begins a very tangled web in which he palms it off as the work of a pitiful failure of an author, one Peter Piper, and on this basis sells it to both a highbrow but struggling British publisher and a rapaciously commercial American publisher, who only accept it on condition this Piper guy goes on a US tour to promote it. Which is where the elaborate deception starts to go horribly wrong…

1978 The Throwback Illegitimate Lockhart Flawse, born and bred in the wastes of Northumberland, marries virginal Jessica whose family own a cul-de-sac of houses in suburban Surrey, and, needing the money to track down his mystery father, Lockhart sets about an elaborate and prolonged campaign to terrorise the tenants out of the homes. Meanwhile, his decrepit grandfather has married Jessica’s mother, she hoping to get money from the nearly-dead old geezer, he determined to screw as much perverse sexual pleasure out of her pretty plump body before he drops dead…

1979 The Wilt Alternative (Wilt 2) After a slow, comic, meandering first 90 pages, this novel changes tone drastically when international terrorists take Wilt and his children hostage in his nice suburban house leading to a stand-off with the cops and Special Branch.

1980 Ancestral Vices Priggish left-wing academic Walden Yapp is invited by cunning old Lord Petrefact to write an unexpurgated history of the latter’s family of capitalists and exploiters because the old bustard wants to humiliate and ridicule his extended family, but the plot is completely derailed when a dwarf living in the mill town of Buscott where Yapp goes to begin his researches, is killed in an accident and Yapp finds himself the chief suspect for his murder, is arrested, tried and sent to prison, in scenes strongly reminiscent of Henry Wilt’s wrongful arrest in the first Wilt novel.

1982 Vintage Stuff A stupid teacher at a minor public school persuades a gullible colleague that one of the parents, a French Comtesse, is being held captive in her chateau. Accompanied by the stupidest boy in school, and armed with guns from the OTC, master and pupil end up shooting some of the attendees at a conference on international peace taking part at said chateau, kidnapping the Comtesse – who turns out to be no Comtesse at all – and blowing up a van full of French cops, bringing down on themselves the full wrath of the French state.

1984 Wilt On High (Wilt 3) Third outing for lecturer in Liberal Studies, Henry Wilt who, through a series of typically ridiculous misunderstandings, finds himself, first of all suspected of being a drug smuggler and so bugged by the police; then captured and interrogated on a US air base where he is delivering an innocuous lecture, on suspicion of being a Russian spy; before, in a frenzied climax, the camp is besieged by a monstrous regiment of anti-nuke mothers and news crews.

1995 Grantchester Grind The sequel to Porterhouse Blue, following the adventures of the senior college fellows as they adopt various desperate strategies to sort out Porterhouse College’s ailing finances, climaxing with the appointment of a international drug mafiosi as the new Master.

1996 The Midden Miss Marjorie Midden discovers a naked ex-City banker trussed in bedsheets hidden in her rural farmhouse, The Midden, and then the ancestral hall she owns under attack from the demented forces of nearby Scarsgate police force led by their corrupt chief constable Sir Arnold Gonders, in a blistering satire on the corruption and greed of post-Thatcher Britain.

2004 Wilt in Nowhere (Wilt 4) Fourth novel about the misadventures of Henry Wilt in which his wife Eva and the 14-year-old quads ruin the life of Uncle Wally and Auntie Joanie over in the States, while Wilt goes on an innocent walking holiday only to be accidentally knocked out and find himself implicated in a complicated murder-arson-child pornography scandal.

2009 The Gropes Driven out of his mind by his wife, Vera’s, sentimental fantasies, timid bank manager Horace Wiley pretends he wants to murder their teenage son Esmond, who is therefore hustled off to safety by Vera’s brother, Essex used-car dealer, Albert Ponson. Albert gets the teenage boy so drunk that his wife, Belinda, leaves him in disgust – locking their bungalow’s internal and external doors so securely that Albert has to call the police to get released, with disastrous results – while Belinda drives with the unconscious Esmond back to her ancestral home, the gloomy Grope Hall in remote Northumberland where – to the reader’s great surprise – they fall in love and live happily ever after.

2010 The Wilt Inheritance (Wilt 5) Sharpe’s last novel, the fifth and final instalment of the adventures of Polytechnic lecturer Henry Wilt, his naggy wife, Eva, and their appalling teenage daughters, all of whom end up at the grotesque Sandystones Hall in North Norfolk, where Wilt is engaged to tutor the lady of the manor’s psychotic teenage son, and Eva gets caught up in complications around burying dead Uncle Henry, whose body the quads steal from the coffin and hide in the woods with dire consequences that even they don’t anticipate.

Desmond Bagley reviews

Desmond Bagley (1923 to 1983) was an English journalist and novelist, best known for his bestselling thrillers. When I read him as a boy in the early 1970s, I found him a kind of second-string Alistair MacLean; in fact, early on in his career, Bagley was actually marketed as writing “in the MacLean style.” But whereas Maclean goes straight for thrills and spills with a clear male lead, Bagley’s stories are more thoroughly researched and realistic, often with a lot of technical information, and helmed by ‘ordinary’ professionals (pilot, shipbuilder, engineer, journalist) with the result that they are often less thrilling.

Many MacLean books were made into great movies (Guns of Navarone, Where Eagles Dare, Ice Station Zebra) whereas Bagley’s more humdrum characters and realistic plots weren’t really the stuff of movies, and the ones that were made (The Mackintosh Man, 1973; The Vivero Letter, 1998; The Enemy, 2001) were quickly forgotten. He did better with TV adaptations which a) don’t demand such a steady stream of thrills and b) have the time to develop character more than a movie (Running Blind, 1979; Landslide, 1992).

Bagley’s books

1963 The Golden Keel South African boatbuilder Peter ‘Hal’ Halloran leads a motley crew to retrieve treasure hidden in the Italian mountains by partisans during WWII, planning to smuggle it out of Italy and back to SA as the golden keel of a boat he’s built for the purpose.

1965 High Citadel Pilot Tim O’Hara leads the passengers of a charter flight crash-landed in the Andes in holding off attacking communists.

1966 Wyatt’s Hurricane A motley crew of civilians led by meteorologist David Wyatt are caught up in a civil war on the fictional island of San Fernandes just as a hurricane strikes.

1967 Landslide Tough Canadian geologist Bob Boyd nearly died in a car wreck ten years ago. Now he returns to the small town in British Columbia where it happened to uncover long-buried crimes and contemporary skulduggery.

1968 The Vivero Letter ‘Grey’ accountant Jeremy Wheale leads an archaeology expedition to recover lost Mayan gold and ends up with more adventure than he bargained for as the Mafia try to muscle in.

1969 The Spoilers Heroin specialist Nick Warren assembles a motley crew of specialists to help him break up a big drug-smuggling gang in Iraq.

1970 Running Blind British secret agent Alan Stewart and girlfriend fend off KGB killers, CIA assassins and traitors on their own side while on the run across the bleak landscape of Iceland.

1971 The Freedom Trap British agent Owen Stannard poses as a crook to get sent to prison and infiltrate The Scarperers, a gang which frees convicts from gaol but who turn out to be part of a spy network.

1973 The Tightrope Men Advertising director Giles Denison goes to bed in London and wakes up in someone else’s body in Norway, having become a pawn in the complex plans of various espionage agencies to get their hands on vital secret weapon technology.

1975 The Snow Tiger Ian Ballard is a key witness in the long formal Inquiry set up to investigate the massive avalanche which devastated the small New Zealand mining town of Hukahoronui.

1977 The Enemy British Intelligence agent Malcolm Jaggard gets drawn personally and professionally into the secret past of industrialist George Ashton, amid Whitehall power games which climax in disaster at an experimental germ warfare station on an isolated Scottish island.

1978 Flyaway Security consultant Max Stafford becomes mixed up in Paul Billson’s quixotic quest to find his father’s plane which crashed in the Sahara 40 years earlier, a quest involving extensive travel around North Africa with the charismatic American desert expert, Luke Byrne, before the secret is revealed.

1980 Bahama Crisis Bahamas hotelier Tom Mangan copes with a series of disastrous misfortunes until he begins to realise they’re all part of a political plot to undermine the entire Bahamas tourist industry and ends up playing a key role in bringing the conspirators to justice.

1982 Windfall – Max Stafford, the protagonist of Bagley’s 1978 novel Flyaway, gets involved in a complex plot to redirect the fortune of a dead South African smuggler into a secret operation to arm groups planning to subvert Kenya, a plot complicated by the fact that an American security firm boss is simultaneously running his own scam to steal some of the fortune, and that one of the key conspirators is married to one of Stafford’s old flames.

1984 Night Of Error Oceanographer Mike Trevelyan joins a boatload of old soldiers, a millionaire and his daughter to go looking for a treasure in rare minerals on the Pacific Ocean floor, a treasure two men have already died for – including Mike’s no-good brother – and which a rival group of baddies will stop at nothing to claim for themselves, all leading to a hair-raising climax as goodies and baddies are caught up in a huge underwater volcanic eruption.

1985 Juggernaut Neil Mannix is the trouble shooter employed by British Electric to safeguard a vast transformer being carried on a huge flat-bed truck – the juggernaut of the title – across the (fictional) African country of Nyala towards the location of a flagship new power station, when a civil war breaks out and all hell breaks loose.

Celtic Dawn: A Portrait of the Irish Literary Renaissance by Ulick O’Connor (1984)

We will show that Ireland is not the home of buffoonery and easy sentiment, as it has been represented, but the home of ancient idealism.
(Prospectus for the Irish Literary Theatre drafted by Lady Gregory, 1897; page 188)

This is a much more substantial work than O’Connor’s 1975 history of the Easter Rising. That was a slender pocket-sized 180 pages, this is a bigger format 416-page book complete with hefty index, 17-page bibliography and all. But like the earlier book, it’s still very much a personal account, and based on biography and anecdote rather than more scholarly history.

O’Connor (1928 to 2019) wrote a lot but he was neither a professional historian nor literary critic. He was more an erudite and impassioned amateur. And so this isn’t a scholarly or historically profound account, more an attempt, in his own words, ‘to convey the energy and elation of an era on Europe’s last island, perhaps the last in a series of renaissances which flourished in different countries since the Italian one in the fourteenth century’.

As with the earlier book, O’Connor is not shy about describing his own connections with the various settings and people involved, which makes for sweet anecdotes which, however, tend to bring out its rather home-made feel.

I was led to believe it’s a group biography of the key figures of the Celtic renaissance but, as you can see from my summary (below), it’s more like an interlocking series of biographies of all the Irish writers of the time, plus a fair few political figures.

One by one O’Connor introduces them to us and gives pen portraits. (I double checked I was using this phrase correctly. A pen portrait is ‘a brief, vivid and written description of a person, providing a “snapshot” of their character, lifestyle, and key traits, rather than just objective data’, which seems accurate enough.)

First of all we’re introduced to the key figures in chronological order and then, as they begin to work together, write for each other’s magazines or theatres, introduce each other to new ideas etc, the stories overlap and intertwine to build up a mosaic portrait of a major literary movement. At key moments when the central players, Griffiths, Yeats, Lady Gregory, AE, Edward Martyn, see their vision for a mature national Irish literature come to fruition, it can be very moving. And the figure of George Moore, the mocking dandy novelist, weaves in and out of the story like Puck, helping, mocking and memoiring.

The key players are:

Standish O’Grady (1846 to 1928)

Son of a Church of Ireland minister, O’Grady retained his aristocratic Unionist beliefs till the end of his life, but he played a pivotal role in the Celtic Renaissance by researching, writing, publishing and publicising the ancient legends of Ireland. His academic works – ‘History of Ireland: Heroic Period’ (1878–81) and ‘Early Bardic Literature of Ireland’ (1879) – didn’t sell so he realised he needed to dramatise them and romanticise Irish legends in a series of historical novels including ‘Finn and his Companions’ (1891), ‘The Coming of Cuculain’ (1894), ‘The Chain of Gold’ (1895), ‘Ulrick the Ready’ (1896) and ‘The Flight of the Eagle’ (1897). His insistence that the ancient Irish legends ranked with the tales of Homer inspired Yeats and others, leading to the title ‘Father of the Celtic Revival’. A lot later Yeats wrote: ‘whatever is Irish in me he kindled to life’ (p.25).

Douglas Hyde (1860 to 1949)

Son of a Church of Ireland rector, Hyde was home schooled among gillies and labourers, where he heard Gaelic spoken and started to study it. He began transcribing folk songs and discovered the people of Connacht remembered courtly songs and poems, which he translated and published. It was his poems published between 1890 and 1894 that inspired Yeats and Lady Gregory to realise the folk culture could be the basis for a national revival.

Around 1880 Hyde joined the Society for the Preservation of the Irish Language. Between 1879 and 1884 he published more than a hundred pieces of Irish verse under the pen name An Craoibhín Aoibhinn.

In 1886 Hyde met and became close friends with W.B. Yeats (then 21). They often met and discussed each other’s poetry.

In 1892 Hyde helped establish the Gaelic Journal, and wrote a manifesto called ‘The necessity for de-anglicising the Irish nation’ arguing that Ireland should follow its own traditions in language, literature, and dress. O’Connor sees it as a pivotal moment (p.165) because it led to…

In 1893 he helped found Conradh na Gaeilge (the Gaelic League) to encourage the preservation of Irish culture, music, dance and language. Ten years later there were 600 branches with a membership of 50,000. The next generation of Irish republicans (including Pádraig Pearse, Éamon de Valera, Michael Collins) became politicised through their involvement in Conradh na Gaeilge.

In the same year he published ‘Love Songs of Connacht’. The book had Gaelic poems on one page and prose and verse translations on the other. O’Connor thinks it ‘set the style of the literary renaissance’ (p.170).

Charles Stewart Parnell (1846 to 1891)

1875: Charles Stewart Parnell elected MP for Meath. O’Connor thinks the crucial fact of his life was that his other was American, from a family of heroes who fought against the British. By 1880 Parnell had succeeded Isaac Butt as leader of the Irish Party. In 1888 he was vindicated by an enquiry into his role in the Phoenix Park Murders (which Skin-the-Goat in James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’ was meant to be the getaway driver for). Here and in his Easter Rising book, O’Connor thinks Parnell’s achievement was to bring together land reformers, constitutionalists and physical force advocates into one party to win the electoral success which gave them 70 or so seats in the London House of Commons and so made them the decisive force in British politics during the 1880s.

Parnell generated an energy which fuelled the elation unleashed in the national being.

Parnell had been having an affair with Katherine ‘Kitty’ O’Shea, a married woman, lived with her and fathered two children by her, when her husband, Captain O’Shea, brought a divorce suit against her, citing Parnell as co-respondent. The case came to court in November 1890 causing a scandal. The Catholic hierarchy turned against him, Gladstone was forced to criticise him. His closest associates in his own party deserted him to form the Irish National federation. The alliance of nationalist forces he had carefully assembled fragmented, and Irish nationalism was set back by a generation.

The following year he died of tuberculosis in Hove, aged just 45. His body was brought back to Dublin and given the biggest funeral procession ever seen. Yeats wrote several poems about it. So did the 9-year-old James Joyce, who went on to dramatise the bitterness surrounding his fall in the famous Christmas dinner scene in ‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’.

O’Connor thinks Parnell united the Anglo-Irish and the Gaelic Irish into the new identity of the nationalist Irish. (O’Connor nowhere really tackles the more obvious divide between Protestant and Catholic.)

Yeats believed part of the inspiration for the Irish Literary Renaissance was that the people’s creative energies were turned away from politics by Parnell’s fall and sought alternative outlets: folk stories, pagan religion, poetry and drama.

Lady Gregory (1852 to 1932)

Isabelle Augusta Persse, Lady Gregory was the 14th of 18 children! From a Protestant low church background but had a Catholic nanny who told her rebel stories. Met and married Sir William Gregory, recently retired as governor of Ceylon, 62 to her 28. Engaged in political campaigns. Affair with Wilfrid Blunt, the explorer, adventurer, poet and anti-imperialist. Jailed for chairing an anti-eviction meeting in Galway. Husband Sir William died in 1892 aged 74, leaving Augusta aged 40, mistress of Coole Park. She needed income so set about writing, and turning the Park into a venue for Irish nationalist writers. Her momentous meeting with 31 year-old Years was in 1896.

Agreed to create an Irish Literary Theatre for him, to be funded by Edward Martyn.

Studied Gaelic and collected folktales in west of Ireland, heading towards ‘Visions and Beliefs in the West of Ireland’, published in 1920 with notes and two essays by W.B. Yeats.

Memorably wrote: ‘I defy anyone to study Irish history without getting a dislike and distrust of England’ (p.201).

By the later 1890s Coole Park was recognised as a meeting place for writers, with Yeats often there, and AE, Douglas Hyde, Martin. George Bernard Shaw visited and John Masefield. When she heard Irish literature being condemned by Trinity College academics it inspired her to devote two years to retelling the stories from O’Grady’s History of Ireland but in her own style which she had developed over years of translating. The result was ‘Cuchulainn of Muirthemne: The Story Of The Men of the Red Branch Of Ulster arranged and put into English by Lady Gregory, with a preface by W. B. Yeats’, published in 1902. The book is a centrepiece of the literary renaissance. It was well reviewed, and Yeats later used stories in it as the basis for no fewer than five plays, and Synge based his last play, Deirdre, on it.

George Moore (1852 to 1933)

Irish novelist, short-story writer, poet, art critic, memoirist and dramatist. Moore came from a landed family of Catholics who lived at Moore Hall in Carra, County Mayo. The estate had 12,000 acres and his father had not only a stables but a full scale racecourse built on the model of Aintree racecourse in Liverpool.

Moore’s father wanted him to go into the Army but young George wanted to be a painter and so went to Paris in 1873 to study art. There, he befriended many of the leading French artists such as Manet (who painted his portrait) and Degas, and writers such as Villiers de l’Isle-Adam and Mallarmé. Failing as a painter he had a go at poetry but was bad at that, too. At which point he commenced writing prose fiction which turned out to be his metier. He wrote in the naturalist style pioneered by Émile Zola. According to Richard Ellmann, his writings influenced the early James Joyce.

In 1880 he heard his estate was in trouble and so returned. The 1879 harvest had been as bad as the potato famine years and tenants were refusing to pay rents. Moore toured the estate and was shocked at their abject poverty. Having sorted out new, lower rents in order to maintain the estate, he moved to London and started writing at a prodigious rate:

  • A Modern Lover, 1883
  • A Mummer’s Wife, 1885 – Kate Ede, bored housewife in the Potteries, runs away to join a troupe of travelling actors
  • A Drama in Muslin, 1886 – satire on the annual season at Dublin Castle
  • A Mere Accident, 1887
  • Parnell and His Island, 1887 – factual often scathing essays and portraits
  • Confessions of a Young Man, 1888
  • Modern Painting, 1893 – factual book introducing the French Impressionists
  • Esther Waters, 1894 – portrait of a serving girl
  • Celibates, 1895 – three characters explore love, sex and social conventions
  • Evelyn Innes, 1898

He had a love-hate relationship with his country, writing in the factual book ‘Parnell and His People‘ that Ireland was ‘a primitive country and barbarous people’, and:

Ireland is a bog, and the aborigines are a degenerate race — short, squat little men — with low foreheads and wide jaws.

Fifteen years later he would write about the British Empire and its administrators in much the same terms. O’Connor quotes Martyn saying Moore observed himself, his actions and beliefs with the detached attitude of a scientist.

Edward Martyn (1859 to 1923)

Another landlord of a large estate and urban property except that Martyn’s family was Catholic. He was cousin and boyhood friend with George Moore: George the sensualist and Edward the ascetic. They visited Bayreuth together.

Tulira Castle Martyn was eccentric. He comprehensively renovated the family property, the Gothic Tulira Castle, but chose to live in a spartan bedroom. He was a connoisseur of church music. Tulira was and is only 4 or so miles from Coole Park, home of Lady Gregory.

Music He was a fine musician in his own right, giving memorable performances for guests on an organ he had installed at Tullira.

Cultural sponsor Martyn used his wealth to benefit Irish culture. His activities and sponsorships included:

  • 1897: co-founder and endowing of the Feis Ceoil
  • 1903: foundation of the Palestrina Choir (the resident choir at the St Mary’s Pro-Cathedral, Dublin)
  • funding and direction of St. Brendan’s Cathedral, Loughrea
  • president of Na hAisteoirí, the Irish-language drama group
  • sponsored and guided An Túr Gloine, Ireland’s first stained-glass workshop
  • sponsored the Irish Theatre

Martyn was reportedly pivotal in introducing William Butler Yeats and Lady Gregory to each other in 1896. The three founded the Irish Literary Theatre, for whom Martyn wrote his best and most popular plays ‘The Heather Field’ and ‘A Tale of a Town’. He covered the costs of the company’s first three seasons, which proved crucial to establishing the company and the future of the Abbey Theatre.

Irish republicanism He became involved with the political work of Maud Gonne and Arthur Griffith. He was a vocal opponent of the visit of Queen Victoria to Ireland in 1897 and of Edward VII in 1903, this time as chairman of the People’s Protection Committee.

He became close friends with Griffith and funded the publication of his tract ‘The Resurrection of Hungary in 1904’ which publicised Griffith’s abstentionist strategy i.e. non-cooperation with every aspect of the British administration.

From 1905 to 1908 he was the first president of Sinn Féin (the party only taking that name in the latter year). In 1908, he resigned from the party and politics in general to concentrate on writing and his other activities.

He was on close personal terms with Thomas MacDonagh, Joseph Mary Plunkett and Patrick Pearse and mourned their executions in the aftermath of the Easter Rising. A parish hall and church that he founded at Labane, near Tullira, were burned by the Black and Tans. In ‘A Terrible Beauty’ O’Connor quotes the letter Yeats wrote to the Times protesting this.

John Butler Yeats (1839 to 1922)

From an Anglo-Irish = Protestant family, he studied at Trinity College, briefly pursued the law before switching to painting. He became a prolific portrait painter but was not a good businessman, so he and his family were always hard up and regularly moved. ‘In a material sense he had been a hopeless parent’ (p.110).

In 1863 he married Susan Pollexfen (1841 to 1900) daughter of a Sligo merchant and shipowner. She was dismayed when he abandoned the law. They had six children: three sons and three daughters, the oldest son being the Nobel Prize winning poet and dramatist William Butler Yeats. The two daughters most mentioned are Lily and Elizabeth, known as Lolly. Apparently, Susan went slowly mad.

Surprisingly, in 1907 at the age of 68, he travelled to New York aboard the RMS Campania with his daughter Lily and never returned to Ireland, dying in a boarding house in New York.

William Butler (W.B.) Yeats

J.B. was an atheist materialist, a follower of Comte and Darwin. His son, Willie, reacted against this into his Celtic Dawn love of fairies and spiritualism, describing himself as ‘a voice of the revolt of the soul against the intellect’ (p.150). In reaction against his Victorian materialist father, from his teenage years onwards Yeats subscribed to every spiritualist fad available, setting up the Hermetic Society with a friend, meeting Madame Blavatsky and getting into Theosophy, studying ancient Indian texts etc.

In the 1880s father John moved the family to London, to Bedford Park, introducing young Willie to Oscar Wilde among others. One day in June 1889, Maud Gonne turned up on their doorstep. She was already a legend and said to be the most beautiful women in Europe.

Yeats joined the Order of the Golden Dawn led by Mcgregor Mathers. He took to Rosicrucianism as an ideal synthesis of Christianity and paganism. In 1889 he had published his first book of poems, ‘The Wanderings of Oisin and other poems’, supported by the Fenian John O’Leary.

In 1890 Yeats along with Welsh poet Ernest Rhys founded The Rhymers’ Club which met at the London pub ‘Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese’ in Fleet Street.

Later Yeats and others glamorised members of the club as the ‘doomed generation’ because so many died of poverty, alcoholism or disease. Hmm. This is a typical example of literary types’ self-mythologisation. Compare the peace and plenty they enjoyed with the experience of the generation who reached manhood as the First World War broke out; who were the real doomed generation?

The most notable of the Rhymesters was Arthur Symons who wrote an excellent book ‘The Symbolist Movement in Literature’; read to Yeats from French and Latin poetry; and gave Yeats introductions to key literary figures in Paris (Verlaine, d’Adam) when he went to visit the French capital.

1894 production of his first play, ‘The Land of Heart’s Desire’ in London. In it a young woman about to be married is lured into the otherworld by a fairy. George Moore attended and was put off Yeats by his posing in a big black cloak and walking up and down the back of the dress circle wearing a ridiculous sombrero. He had a pathological dislike of Ibsen and issue-led theatre, thus profoundly disliked Shaw’s plays.

Hard up, in autumn 1894 Yeats went to stay out in Sligo with his uncle George Pollexfen. Although a successful merchant, George was also into mysticism and a member of the Hermetic Dawn. He was single, living alone apart from a serving girl he was convinced had second sight.

In 1896 Yeats, aged 30, moved to rented rooms at 18 Woburn Buildings in London where he would live for the next 15 years.

In August the same year, Edward Martyn invited Yeats and Arthur Symons to visit him at Tulira. The visitors asked if they could take a boat to the Isles of Aran, the most remote and unspoiled part of Ireland, which they did for five days. During the visit Lady Gregory invited them to nearby Coole Park. This was the decisive visit which began their collaboration. Amusingly, Symons witnessed their conversation and instantly realised that she would seduce Yeats away from lyric poetry. He ever afterwards referred to her as ‘the witch’ (p.182).

In 1897 Yeats went for another stay with Martyn. While Martyn was elsewhere Yeats was left with Lady Gregory, lamenting that there was nowhere for him to get his plays produced in a Dublin dominated by plays and entertainments imported from England. Within an hour she had mapped out a scheme to set up an Irish national theatre. She would call on her connections via her dead husband with establishment figures and ask them all to cough up £25 for three years to fund the thing. When Martyn rejoined them and heard the plan, he immediately signed up.

In 1898 Yeats, exhausted by his unrequited love for Gonne, came back to Coole. Lady Gregory let him rest in bed, created a daily timetable, had his food sent up, let him walk through the grounds and round the lake where he got to know the wild swans. For the next 20 years she was to be his rock and support until he married in 1917, and she had a hand in arranging that.

George Russell (A.E.) (1867 to 1935)

Met Yeats at art school. The Russell and Yeats families lived near each other. Professional seer of visions which he depicted in his drawings, sacred mountains, druids, the Hindu and Irish gods were related. He did a painting of a divine being and, wondering what to call it, heard the word ‘aeon’ being whispered to him, a few weeks later opening a book about the Gnostics and discovering ‘aeon’ was the name they gave to the first order of beings created by the Divine Mind. From that moment till his dying day he signed his works AE and the brand stuck. He used to go to the esplanade at Bray and hold forth to passersby about the glories of the ancient religion of mankind. Standish O’Grady heard him and was impressed.

In the late 1880s he gave up painting and got a job as a draper’s assistant during the day, so as to be free to practice mystical mind exercises at night.

Despite all this he had a practical side: at Yeats’s suggestion, Horace Plunkett appointed Russell assistant secretary of the Irish Agricultural Organisation Society (IAOS), an agricultural co-operative society Plunkett founded in 1894. He was responsible for developing the credit societies and establishing Co-operative Banks in the south and west of the country.

From 1905 to 1923 he was editor of the influential Irish Homestead, the journal of the IAOS.

O’Connor quotes a good thing A.E. said to a Catholic friend who was twitting him about his mystical beliefs: ‘Like all Irish Catholics you are an atheist at heart’ (quoted page 157).

Sir William Wilde (1815 to 1876)

From a Protestant family, Wilde was an ophthalmologic surgeon and the author of significant works on medicine, archaeology and folklore, particularly concerning his native Ireland. Also, the father of Oscar Wilde.

Wilde was a founder member of the Irish nationalist Home Government Association, established by his Trinity College Dublin colleague Isaac Butt as the precursor to the Irish Parliamentary Party.

In 1851 Wilde married the poet Jane Francesca Agnes Elgee, who wrote and published under the name of Speranza. The couple had two sons, William (Willie) and Oscar, and a daughter, Isola Francesca, who died in childhood.

He was knighted in 1864, mostly for his help conducting a census in Ireland.

Wilde was promiscuous (‘Sir William had a name as a lecher’, p.101). He fathered three children by two women before he married Jane. In 1864 his reputation was damaged by the Travers libel trial. There’s a good summary in the Irish Times:

Wilde is important for O’Connor because he a) spoke Irish like a native and b) collected folklore from his estate in the west of Ireland.

Jane Francesca Agnes Elgee Wilde (Speranza) (1821 to 1896)

From a prosperous Protestant family in Dublin. The plaque on the grave of her husband describes her as ‘Speranza of The Nation, writer, translator, poet and nationalist, author of works on Irish folklore, early advocate of equality for women, and founder of a leading literary salon’.

Speranza As a young woman in the 1840s, Elgee wrote for the Young Ireland movement, publishing patriotic ballads in The Nation under the pseudonym of Speranza, calling for Irish independence and anti-British. Charles Gavan Duffy was the editor when ‘Speranza’ wrote commentary calling for armed revolution in Ireland as a result of which the authorities at Dublin Castle shut down the paper and brought Charles Duffy to court but he refused to name the person who had written the offending article.

Marriage In 1851 Elgee married the successful society doctor and ophthalmologist, William Wilde, thus becoming Jane Wilde. When he was knighted in 1864, she became Lady Wilde.

Folklore When Wilde died in 1876, the family discovered that he was virtually bankrupt. Lady Wilde joined her sons in London in 1879, living with Willie in poverty, supplementing their meagre income by writing for fashionable magazines. She wrote several books based on the research of her late husband into Irish folklore, notably ‘Ancient legends, mystic charms, and superstitions of Ireland’ (1887). O’Connor thinks it ‘contains some of the most beautiful folk tales in existence’ (p.100), although he tells us that the expert, Douglas Hyde, was sceptical about them, given that Jane didn’t actually speak Gaelic. Yeats on the other hand thought they were so good he didn’t care if Lady Jane had embellished them or not (p.115). There’s an obvious study to be done comparing Jane’s folk stories and her son Oscar’s fairy stories…

Feminist Jane was an early advocate of women’s rights, and campaigned for better education for women. She invited the suffragist Millicent Fawcett to her home to speak on female liberty. She praised the passing of the Married Women’s Property Act of 1882, which prevented a woman from having to enter marriage ‘as a bond slave, disenfranchised of all rights over her fortune’.

Oscar Wilde (1854 to 1900)

Yeats’s father moved the family to London and introduced young Willie to Oscar, who he knew through his parents. Wilde was ten years older than Willie and tried to help the young poet. Willie was impressed by Oscar’s attempt to make every aspect of his life beautiful but he deprecated the older man’s sloth. O’Connor points out that when Oscar toured the USA for almost the whole of 1882, he was feted among Irish audiences as much for being the son of the nationalist Speranza as for being a London aesthete. George Bernard Shaw, 2 years older than Oscar, thought him ‘a very Irish Irishman’.

John O’Leary (1830 to 1907)

An Irish separatist and a leading Fenian. He studied both law and medicine but did not take a degree. For his involvement in the Irish Republican Brotherhood, he was imprisoned for five years in England. He spent time in Paris among other political exiles and developed a strong sense of the importance of having a national culture in order to promote independence. He’s important to this narrative because he got to see W.B. Yeats debate and orate and came to believe he was the national poet Ireland was waiting for.

O’Leary was on the Supreme Council of the Irish Republican Brotherhood and inducted Yeats into it. Yeats was to remain involved for the rest of his life. The IRB would regard Yeats as ‘their man’ in the literary movement. Later Yeats would say ‘to him I owe everything I set my hand to’. O’Leary arranged for the publication of Yeats’s first volume, and introduced him to folklorists who supplied the material for his books ‘

Maud Gonne MacBride (1866 to 1953)

Born of an English mother and father in the army, brought up in the barracks, lived with the family in Austria and the south of France, attended the 1886 season at Dublin Castle, attended balls and was presented to the Prince of Wales. But Maud rebelled against her upbringing to become a firebrand Irish nationalist and suffragette.

In 1889 she was introduced to W.B. Yeats who was driven mad with love for her, but she refused to become his lover a) because she was already having an affair with a Frenchman Lucien Millevoye, later b) because she later fell in love with and married (in 1903) the nationalist activist John MacBride (one of the leaders of the Easter Rising, executed by the British in 1916).

William Morris (1834 to 1896)

English textile designer, poet, artist, writer, and socialist activist associated with the British Arts and Crafts movement. In the late 1880s and 90s he was for a while an idol of Yeats’s (‘one of the few men he ever really worshipped’, p.138), who visited him at Kelmscott House and attended meetings of his Socialist League. When Yeats’s collection of essays, ‘the Celtic Twilight’ was published in 1893, the Morris group hailed it as the Irish equivalent of their own pre-Raphaelite movement. What they had in common was a rejection of Victorian pragmatism, mercantilism and science in favour of romantic worlds of faerie. But O’Connor suggests the difference was that the pre-Raphaelites were nostalgic for a vanished English past whereas Yeats was trying to instil the folk culture of Ireland in the here and now.

Eventually they split after Yeats sat through a socialist meeting consisting of attacks on religion before getting to his feet and insisting that only through religion and imagination could the revolution come, before being told to desist and sit down. He never attended another meeting.

George Bernard Shaw (1856 to 1950)

Of Protestant Anglo-Irish descent, Bernard Shaw was a playwright, critic, polemicist and political activist. His father was an alcoholic corn merchant, but his mother, Lucinda, was a noted opera singer, she sang at the Castle and was congratulated by the Lord Lieutenant. Shaw grew up in a household saturated with classical music which is why he was able to become a music critic when he moved to London in 1876. This was encouraged by the mentorship of George Lee who formed a sort of menage with the Shaw household and organised classical concerts. He was also a Catholic who introduced young George to Irish nationalism.

He wrote more than sixty plays, including major works such as Man and Superman (1902), Pygmalion (1913) and Saint Joan (1923). He worshipped Ibsen for confronting the middle classes with truths they’d prefer to ignore.

His first success was Arms and The Man, first staged in 1894. It was funded by Shaw’s lover, Florence Farr and staged alongside Yeats’s first play ‘The Land of Heart’s Desire’. Wilde wrote to congratulate Shaw.

John Millington Synge (1871 to 1909)

Another protestant, from a wealthy Anglo-Irish background, Synge went to Paris to study music. Realising he was not going to become a composer, he met Yeats on a visit to the capital, who advised him to go to the Aran Islands (which Yeats had visited only months before) to learn from the peasants. Two years later, in May 1898, Synge did just that. He made five visits over the next few years. By the end he was fluent in Gaelic. It helped that he was a fine violinist and picked up many airs and tunes which he played for the locals.

(In between these trips he spent five successive summers at Coole Park, collecting stories and folklore, perfecting his Irish, but living in Paris for most of the rest of each year.)

Then he set about writing the half a dozen plays that he is remembered as a key figure of the Irish Literary Revival.

Horace Plunkett (1854 to 1932)

Phenomenally posh, Plunkett was born in Sherborne, Gloucestershire, the third son of Admiral Edward Plunkett, the 16th Baron of Dunsany, of Dunsany Castle, Dunsany, near Dunshaughlin, County Meath, and the Honourable Anne Constance Dutton (daughter of John Dutton, 2nd Baron Sherborne).

Raised in County Meath, Plunkett was Anglo-Irish, raised in the Church of Ireland, educated at Eton College and University College, Oxford.

However, he appears in this story because he went to Wyoming in America to try and cure his incipient tuberculosis, spending ten years there and turning out to have a talent for running ranches at a profit. And when he returned to Ireland, in 1891, he ended up, through a series of initiatives, becoming a pioneer of agricultural cooperatives. In 1894 he set up the Irish Agricultural Organisation Society (IAOS).

Among many other appointments, he heard about Lady Gregory’s good works in Galway and went down to visit. Here he met Yeats who he initially thought an ass until he heard him address a meeting of local farmers and realised there was more to him than first appeared. Plunkett needed an organiser to tour the west of Ireland. Yeats recommended his friend AE who had developed practical experience working for his draper’s company. After years on the road, in 1901 he became editor of the co-op’s magazine, The Irish Homestead.

Irish Literary Theatre

The first plays staged in the theatre’s first season, in 1899, were:

  1. Yeats’s The Countess Cathleen, first published in 1892: is set during a famine in Ireland, where the noblewoman Countess Cathleen sells her soul to demons to save the starving peasantry.
  2. Edward Martyn’s The Heather Field: Carden Tyrrell, a visionary landowner, becomes obsessed with reclaiming a barren, heather-covered field and transforming it into fertile pasture, mortgaging his estate and ignoring his family’s needs, causing conflict with his practical wife, Grace; as the project fails, Tyrrell withdraws into madness.

O’Connor gives a humorous account of the runup to the productions, which Yeats got George Moore to help with, and he was a tyrant who enraged everyone, writing a letter to Martyn so offensive that the latter threatened to withdraw his play.

The famous thing is that the Catholic hierarchy and traditional nationalists got wind of the plot and decided it was a libel on Irish peasantry and Irish womanhood etc. A claque of students attended the first night to yell abuse and boo, but they were combated with cheers. George Moore had played a vital role in securing appropriate actors and directing them. He now sent London critics over to Dublin who loved it. So he had a big hand in launching the theatre.

A celebration dinner was held for all involved at the Shelborne Hotel. Moore described it in his Autobiography:

Yeats rose, and a beautiful commanding figure he seemed at the end of the table, pale and in profile, with long nervous hands and a voice resonant and clear as a silver trumpet. He drew himself up and spoke against Trinity College, saying that it had always taught the ideas of the stranger, and the songs of the stranger, and the literature of the stranger, and that was why Ireland had never listened and Trinity College had been a sterile influence. The influences that had moved Ireland deeply were the old influences that had come down from generation to generation, handed on by the story-tellers that collected in the evenings round the fire, creating for learned and unlearned a communion of heroes.

The second season was staged in 1900 at the Gaiety Theatre and featured two plays by Edward Martyn – Maeve, The Tale of a Town – and The Last of the Fianna by Alice Milligan. The mere fact that these were successfully staged at the 1,200 seat Gaiety and not the 500-seat Antient Common Rooms, showed how the theatre was becoming a commercial as well as cultural success.

Arthur Griffith (1871 to 1922)

Griffith was a key but complicated figure. He was an Irish writer, newspaper editor and politician who founded the political party Sinn Féin. He led the Irish delegation at the negotiations that produced the 1921 Anglo-Irish Treaty, and served as the president of Dáil Éireann from January 1922 until his death that August.

But back in the period O’Connor is covering Griffith is important because he articulated an entirely new strategy for achieving independence. Parnell thought he could do it in the English Parliament; physical force revolutionaries thought they could do it through targeted assassinations and taking on the British Army of occupation. Griffith suggested a third way which was for the Irish to retire entirely from British politics – the policy of ‘abstentionism’ – and instead set up their own administration entirely separate from the British: for the MPs elected in the (British defined) constituencies to not only not go to London, but to set up their own Parliament (the Dail), giving everything Irish Gaelic names, to create their own laws, their own budget, their own courts and system of justice, to create a parallel and independently Irish administration at all levels. Hence the name of his organisation, Sinn Fein which means ‘ourselves alone’.

This was a compelling new idea which caught everyone’s imagination (it’s even mentioned several times in James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’).

Yeats’s anti-Britishness

1898 – elected president of the committee to celebrate the centenary of the 1798 uprising.

1899 – October, second Boer War broke out and Yeats, Gonne and Martyn became members of the Transvaal Committee protesting Britain’s treatment of the Boers.

1900 – April, the same group plus others formed a committee to protest a planned visit of Queen Victoria to Dublin. (The old queen was 81). (Here as in his Easter rising book, O’Connor tells us that Maud Gonne’s future husband, John Macbride, was in South Africa leading a brigade of Boers against the British.)

O’Connor quotes a letter by Yeats to the Daily Express on 3 April 1900 which gives you a real feeling of his anti-British republicanism. Speaking of Victoria, he writes:

She is the official head and symbol of an empire that is robbing the South African republics of their liberty, as it robbed Ireland of hers. Whoever stands by the roadway cheering for Queen Victoria cheers for that empire, dishonours Ireland, and condones a crime. But whoever goes tomorrow night to the meeting of the people and protests within the law against the welcome of that Unionists and time-servers will have given this English Queen, honours Ireland and condemns a crime.

Moore moves back to Dublin

The Boer War prompted George Moore to revise his opinions of England and Ireland. He began to hate the former and romanticise the latter, forgetting all about his amusingly insulting opinions of 15 years earlier. Strikingly, he is quoted saying he has come to hate the English language and wants to flee the English country and English people (p.282).

He moved back to Dublin in 1901. He’s in this account a) because he was an important novelist in his own right but b) because of his close relationship with the founders of the Literary Theatre, which extended, as O’Connor shows, to a major rewrite of one of Edward Martyn’s plays, which infuriated his old friend. It must be said, his droll insouciance and wit make him one of the most attractive characters in the book. O’Connor devotes quite a few pages to just comic anecdotes from his own autobiography and other people’s reminiscences.

O’Connor gives a comic account of Moore and Yeats struggling to collaborate on a play based on the legend of Diarmuid and Grania, Moore’s attitude is priceless. He was then chosen to direct a production of Douglas Hyde’s play ‘The Twisting of the Rope’ but resigns after 3 weeks. Hyde himself played the lead role of Hanrahan the poet and turned out to be sprightly and antic onstage, completely the opposite of his sober, scholarly everyday persona. The two plays were performed in October 1901. Grania wasn’t a success whereas ‘The Twisting of the Rope’ was the first play to be performed in Irish and was joyously received by nationalists. The audience sang patriotic songs. The audience mobbed Yeats at the stage door. In the audience was John Millington Synge, who saw the language and imagery he had been collecting on the Aran Isles come to life onstage. Within a few months he’d written his first play and within a year the first of his five masterpieces.

Joyce

Joyce loathed these productions and wrote a savage indictment of their success titled ‘The Day of the Rabblement’. He thought Yeats and Co were catering to the low, debased tastes of the Irish people by sinking themselves deeper into the mire of illiterate peasant superstition, whereas Joyce wanted to join and become a star in the great European tradition. Which is why he had to leave Ireland altogether.

Joyce walked across Dublin one night to AE’s house and waited till the established writer returned at midnight. They talked till 4 in the morning. Easy-going AE was impressed and wrote to Lady Gregory warning him about this ‘spectre of fastidiousness’ (p.296). When Joyce left Ireland for Paris in 1904, Lady Gregory gave him money.

The Fays and the Abbey Theatre

The origins of the famous Abbey Theatre in the work of two brothers, William and Frank Fay. In the 1890s, William had worked with a touring company in Ireland, Scotland and Wales while Frank was heavily involved in amateur dramatics in Dublin. After William returned, the brothers began to stage productions in halls around the city. O’Connor gives his usual pen portrait and explains how Frank asked AE permission to use a play which he, AE, had written solely for literary interest, ‘Deirdre’. Discovering it wouldn’t fill a whole evening they approached Yeats for a short filler and he gave them ‘Cathleen Ni Houlihan’ and suggested Maud Gonne play the lead role. Amazingly, she agreed. The brothers hired the cramped St Theresa’s Hall on Clarendon Street for the production. Opening night was 2 April 1902. Deirdre was well received but the Yeats play is about the allegorical figure of Ireland depicted as a long-suffering old crone, who is transformed into a beautiful queen by the sacrifice of a young man. There were cheers throughout and, at the end, a standing ovation. Partisans like Arthur Griffith saw it as the start of a national revival. I’ll now quote from Wikipedia because the events surrounding the foundation of the Abbey Theatre are a bit convoluted and not fully explained by O’Connor:

Encouraged by the St Theresa’s Hall success, Yeats, Lady Gregory, Æ, Martyn, and John Millington Synge founded the Irish National Theatre Society in 1903 with funding from Annie Horniman. Horniman was a middle-class Englishwoman with previous experience in theatre production, having been involved in the presentation of George Bernard Shaw’s Arms and the Man in London in 1894. An acquaintance of Yeats from London circles, including the Order of the Golden Dawn, she came to Dublin in 1903 to act as Yeats’ unpaid secretary and to make costumes for a production of his play ‘The King’s Threshold’. They were joined by actors and playwrights from Fay’s company.

At first, they staged performances in the Molesworth Hall. When the Mechanics’ Theatre in Lower Abbey Street and an adjacent building in Marlborough Street became available after fire safety authorities closed it, Horniman and William Fay agreed to buy and refit the space to meet the society’s needs.

On 11 May 1904, the Society formally accepted Horniman’s offer of the use of the building. As Horniman did not usually reside in Ireland, the royal letters patent required were granted in the name of Lady Gregory, although paid for by Horniman. The founders appointed William Fay theatre manager, responsible for training the actors in the newly established repertory company. They commissioned Yeats’ brother Jack to paint portraits of all the leading figures in the society for the foyer, and hired Sarah Purser to design stained glass for the same space.

On 27 December 1904, the curtains went up on opening night. The bill consisted of three one-act plays, ‘On Baile’s Strand’ and ‘Cathleen Ní Houlihan’ by Yeats, and ‘Spreading the News’ by Lady Gregory. On the second night, ‘In the Shadow of the Glen’ by Synge replaced the second Yeats play. These two bills alternated over a five-night run.

In addition to providing funding, Horniman’s chief role with the Abbey over the coming years was to organise publicity and bookings for their touring productions in London and provincial England.

‘The Shadow of the Glen’ caused a furor. I have written a separate blog post about it.

Codas

Towards the end of the book, O’Connor deals increasingly briskly with his charges.

Joyce He portrays Joyce leaving for the continent, helped with cash from Lady Gregory, and even Yeats who met him at Euston station, bought him breakfast and helped him catch the boat train to Paris. In O’Connor’s portrait Joyce comes over as fiercely arrogant, angry, bitter and determined. In Paris he met Synge but the two didn’t get on at all. He’d only been there a few months when his father telegraphed him to return to Dublin because his mother was dying. It was then that occurred the famous occasion when Joyce refused to kneel and pray for his mother, letting her die distraught that her son was an atheist, leaving him gnawed with guilt which provides a central thread to ‘Ulysses’, where he grandly renames it ‘agenbite of inwit’. It was on 16 June 1904 that he had a second date with an uninhibited Galway girl who kissed him and touched his willy through his trousers, thus persuading the highly sexed Joyce that she was the girl for him, and indeed they spent the rest of their lives together, and she was the rock which enabled him to write his masterpieces.

Lady Gregory Having been midwife to numerous plays, Lady Gregory now started writing her own. Amazingly, she ended up writing about 100, and many were very popular. Her best works are probably ‘The Rising of the Moon’ and ‘The Workhouse Ward’. It was seeing plays like these on the Abbey Theatre’s first tour of America, which apparently inspired American playwright Eugene O’Neill to write his first plays. In the 1920s, when finances were tight, she persuaded the new Free State government to give the Abbey Theatre a stipend, making it the first state-sponsored theatre in the world.

Climax and aftermath

It turns out that those 1904 productions are the climax of O’Connor’s book. The precursor to the Abbey Theatre had been created and Yeats, Gregory, AE had seen their vision of a native Irish theatre based on native Irish legends and themes come true. From left-field came J.M. Synge whose Aran Island-inspired plays would expand and consolidate the genre.

So instead of continuing to take things forward at the slow incremental pace he’d used up till now, rather surprisingly O’Connor leaps forward to the first night of Sean O’Casey’s ‘The Plough and the Stars’ in 1926. After a vivid description of the protests and catcalling which forced Yeats to call in the police, again, O’Connor relaxes on the final pages of his book and turns into lists. The renaissance was underway and he lists the next generation of playwrights which came through along with a sudden interest in painting, which had until these last few pages only received passing mention in reference to John Yeats. Now there’s a sudden list of Irish painters who flourished in the 00s, 10s and 20s. The outstanding art collector Hugh Lane left his collection to the Dublin Art Gallery. In less than a page he skips over the East Rising and civil war to the creation of the Irish Free State, and then the last 3 or 4 pages concern the afterlives of his central characters.

Edward Martyn broke with the Abbey Theatre founders, founded his own rival theatre, died in 1924.

George Moore argued with everyone in the movement and, in 1912, left Ireland a second time, reverting to his initial contempt for his homeland. He died in 1933. He always felt James Joyce had plagiarised his ‘Confessions of a Young Man’ in his ‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’, and stole his famous short story ‘The Dead’ from the end of his novel ‘Vain Fortune’. But the pair met in Paris in 1929 when Joyce was eager to conciliate the older man and they got on surprisingly well.

Lady Gregory stopped writing plays in the 1920s, negotiated a government subsidy for the Abbey Theatre in 1925. Her son Robert was killed serving in the air force in 1918. Coole Park had to be sold off, along with its wild swans and the tree she had her famous writers carve their names into. She died in 1932.

W.B. Yeats came to be recognised as one of the greatest poets of the age, receiving the Nobel Prize in 1924. He was made a senator in the new Free State. In 1928 he entered a late flowering period of creativity with ‘The Tower’. He died in the south of France in 1939.

Douglas Hyde was installed as president of Ireland in 1938. He had faded out of public life after refusing to let his Gaelic League get involved in politics. The decision to bring him out of retirement paid homage to his work as a young man in rescuing the Celtic language and its stories.

O’Connor ends with a charming story, of how the following year, when war broke out, coal became scarce, so Hyde opened the coal cellars of the Viceregal Lodge to the population of Dublin. Instead he had turf brought from the countryside so that the grand dinning, ball and state rooms of the palace, which had echoed to the social life of the conqueror for so many years, were now filled with the aromatic smoke betokening authentic Irish peasant life.

Firesides

O’Connor is a romantic, sometimes sentimental author. Peasants are noble. Aristocrats are noble. All his upper class characters are fine riders and excellent shots. He takes a heroic view of Irish patriots. One aspect of this is his fondness for ‘firesides’ as a symbol of authenticity, especially, of course, the firesides of the people and peasants.

[Henry Grattan]’s speech at the inauguration [of the 1782 parliament] would become a hymn of nationalism recited around the firesides of nationalist Ireland in the nineteenth century. (p.15)

Under the name of Speranza [Francesca Elgee] wrote patriotic ballads about the Fenians and English misrule, like ‘The Famine Year’ which was recited around firesides throughout the country. (p.100)

Soon [Synge] had mastered the Irish jigs and reels and slow airs, and he would sit at night near the firelight in the cottages and play his airs for the dancing boys and girls. (p.191)

This [lines from a Yeats poem] could be from the court of Aquitaine; or that its sentiment is a trifle extravagant, the address of a Cavalier. Least of all does one think of it as a poet’s address to his country in one of the traditional names which were used for Ireland in the seventeenth century, and that this was perfectly understood by the people when it was sung for them round their firesides or in the fields. (p.214)

[Of ‘In the Shadow of the Glen’] It was, after all, a daring theme for those days to depict a wife leaving a husband, however aged, for a tramp travelling the roads. The fact that it was based on an Irish folk tale told around the firesides of the west would not make it any more palatable when it would be acted out in front of urban audiences who would lack the Rabelaisian acceptance of farmyard life. (p.333)

The story of how Cuchulain inadvertently kills his own son whom he had had (unknown to him) by a Scottish princess, Aoife, was still told around the country firesides in the west. (p.352)

Documentary

There are many documentaries on the subject. This one is an easy-going complexity-free example, bolstered by extensive interviews with the eminent academic Fintan O’Toole. Most interesting for me was the section about Patrick Pearse’s objections to the movement which he said ought to be ‘strangled at birth’. He thought Yeats and Lady Gregory, Protestants both, were denying the Catholic faith of the peasants they depicted, and Ireland as a whole, in order to promote their own personal vision of a pagan Ireland, the Ireland of the myths and legends they collected and they promoted.

There was also a class aspect, because the revivalists’ plays focused on peasants or aristocrats, itself an ancient binary, with no space for the majority population of working and middle class. In this sense, their vision was utterly unrepresentative of Ireland’s realities. (Just one reason for James Joyce’s complete rejection of their vision and aesthetic, although the movement was, eventually, to be large enough for the working class dramas of Sean O’Casey.)


Credit

‘Celtic Dawn: A Portrait of the Irish Literary Renaissance’ by Ulick O’Connor was published by Hamish Hamilton in 1984.

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Ulysses by James Joyce: Eumaeus

Cooks rats in your soup, he appetisingly added, the chinks does.
(Tall story-telling traveller D.B. Murphy)

—Then, Stephen said staring and rambling on to himself or some unknown listener somewhere, we have the impetuosity of Dante and the isosceles triangle miss Portinari he fell in love with and Leonardo and san Tommaso Mastino.
(Joyce satirising his own character, and technique)

It’s a patent absurdity on the face of it to hate people because they live round the corner and speak another vernacular.
(Part of Leopold Bloom’s extended soliloquy about toleration and fairness)

Intellectual stimulation, as such, was, he felt, from time to time a firstrate tonic for the mind. Added to which was the coincidence of meeting, discussion, dance, row, old salt of the here today and gone tomorrow type, night loafers, the whole galaxy of events, all went to make up a miniature cameo of the world we live in…
(Bloom’s thoughts giving one of the many summaries of ‘Ulysses’ itself)

give us this day our daily press.

‘Eumaeus’ is the 16th of the 18 chapters in James Joyce’s novel, ‘Ulysses’. Here’s a reminder of the book’s chapter numbers and names:

Part 1. Telemachiad

  1. Telemachus
  2. Nestor
  3. Proteus

Part 2. Odyssey

  1. Calypso
  2. Lotus Eaters
  3. Hades
  4. Aeolus
  5. Lestrygonians
  6. Scylla and Charybdis
  7. Wandering Rocks
  8. Sirens
  9. Cyclops
  10. Nausicaa
  11. Oxen of the Sun
  12. Circe

Part 3. Nostos

  1. Eumaeus
  2. Ithaca
  3. Penelope

Place in the sequence

‘Eumaeus’ follows the longest chapter, ‘Circe’, which is an extended fantasia which sees the book’s two protagonists, young intellectual Stephen Dedalus and middle-aged advertising salesman Leopold Bloom, meet in a brothel in Dublin’s red light district.

Time

Each of the chapters covers about an hour in the course of one day, Thursday 16 June 1904, and into the early hours of the following Friday. ‘Eumaeus’ takes place roughly between 12.45 and 1.40 am i.e. in the early hours of the morning of the next day, Friday 17 June.

Context

‘Circe’ had ended with Stephen, very drunk, getting involved in a fight in the street with a British soldier. After a prolonged standoff, the soldier, Private Carr, punches Stephen in the face, knocking him to the ground. The pair are surrounded by a shouting crowd and the cops turn up, threatening to arrest Stephen. But the situation is defused by the fairy godmother-like arrival of a character met much earlier in the story, Corny Kelleher, who has some influence with the cops and gets them a) not to arrest Stephen and b) to disperse the threatening crowd.

This leaves Bloom looking down at the prone, mumbling figure of Stephen wondering what to do with him. He can’t leave him there on the street but is in a quandary where to take him. Eventually he thinks of a late-night café for nightworkers down by the docks, hoists Stephen to his feet and helps him stagger there.

Homeric parallel

Each of the chapters in ‘Ulysses’ is based on an episode from the Odyssey of Homer, the famous epic poem composed some 750 years BC, which describes the ten-year-long voyage back from the Trojan War of the Greek hero Odysseus and his crew which was packed with encounters with mythical creatures and legendary figures such as the giant Cyclops or the witch Circe.

This chapter, coming near the end of the story is loosely based on the Homeric character of Eumaeus. In the Odyssey, Odysseus finally makes it home to his kingdom of Ithaca but his palace is occupied by a horde of fit young men all vying to marry his wife, Penelope and thus gain control of his kingdom. Odysseus can’t just walk in so he disguises himself as a beggar and goes to the hut of Eumaeus, his faithful swineherd. Eumaeus had been bought as a slave as a baby by Odysseus’s father and the two men had grown up together. In other words, Eumaeus knows Odysseus better than anyone except his wife, Penelope.

After he has told Eumaeus a few old stories designed to test his faithfulness, Odysseus reveals his real identity to his delighted servant. Soon afterwards, in Eumaeus’s hut, the hero is reunited with his son, Telemachus. Together the three men plan how to take on the small army of suitors which are occupying his palace.

Modern equivalent

Back to the novel and Bloom helps Stephen on quite a long walk through the streets of Dublin to the all-night café where they encounter a drunken sailor named D.B. Murphy, who tells tall tales of his many sea journeys to exotic destinations.

So the parallel with Homer is there but, as you can see, is quite loose: Murphy is Eumaeus (even though he has not known Bloom/Odysseus since they were boys); and they take shelter with him but not in his hut or shelter, in a public café; and Bloom and Stephen certainly take shelter together but they do not meet there, they first back met in the maternity hospital in chapter 14 and then again in the brothel in chapter 15.

So the Homeric parallel is there but loosely applied and, like a cinematic effect, fades in and out of focus.

Style

After the mayhem of ‘Circe’, which is cast in the form of a surrealist absurdist play, ‘Eumaeus’ is much, much more restrained. It’s a return to traditional prose cast in sentences and paragraphs, all done in a unified tone of voice with no dramatic interruptions. This style is in a distinctive narrative voice completely different from any previous chapter but it is admirably clear and understandable compared to the clotted, truncated and often impenetrable style of earlier chapters.

Instead it’s written in a style variously described by commentators as ‘old’, ‘tired’, ‘worn out’ or ‘threadbare’ which, after all, is entirely appropriate to two protagonists who have had a long, trying day, particularly to Stephen who is sobering up after an all-day bender.

The tiredness is indicated by the way it is stuffed with clichés and worn-out expressions.

It was just the wellknown case of hot passion, pure and simple, upsetting the applecart with a vengeance…

The night air was certainly now a treat to breathe though Stephen was a bit weak on his pins.

That kind of thing. Thus after they enter the shelter:

A few moments later saw our two noctambules safely seated in a discreet corner only to be greeted by stares from the decidedly miscellaneous collection of waifs and strays and other nondescript specimens of the genus homo already there engaged in eating and drinking diversified by conversation for whom they seemingly formed an object of marked curiosity.

The effect is of a not-very-educated person, possibly a bit tipsy, striving to sound intelligent, or to put on their best style. Some critics suggest it’s what Leopold Bloom would sound like if he tried to write a piece of fiction. Not stupid, just clichéd and, as you can see from that one excerpt, also quite rambling.

Preparatory to anything else Mr Bloom brushed off the greater bulk of the shavings and handed Stephen the hat and ashplant and bucked him up generally in orthodox Samaritan fashion which he very badly needed. His (Stephen’s) mind was not exactly what you would call wandering but a bit unsteady and on his expressed desire for some beverage to drink Mr Bloom in view of the hour it was and there being no pump of Vartry water available for their ablutions let alone drinking purposes hit upon an expedient by suggesting, off the reel, the propriety of the cabman’s shelter, as it was called, hardly a stonesthrow away near Butt bridge where they might hit upon some drinkables in the shape of a milk and soda or a mineral.

As you can see it’s not just Readers Digest/Titbits magazine clichés (‘bucked him up’, ‘not exactly what you would call’), several other things are going on. Among other things, the sentences are long and rambling, and you can hear the base note of Joyce’s characteristic clunkiness of phraseology, his tendency to bolt several shorter sentences together into a clumsy longer one. In fact, so long and rambling, it often feels like a kind of dress rehearsal for Molly Bloom’s long soliloquy which ends the book. Here is just one sentence from Bloom’s thoughts on how hardworking men and women need a nice holiday once a year:

There were equally excellent opportunities for vacationists in the home island, delightful sylvan spots for rejuvenation, offering a plethora of attractions as well as a bracing tonic for the system in and around Dublin and its picturesque environs even, Poulaphouca to which there was a steamtram, but also farther away from the madding crowd in Wicklow, rightly termed the garden of Ireland, an ideal neighbourhood for elderly wheelmen so long as it didn’t come down, and in the wilds of Donegal where if report spoke true the coup d’œil was exceedingly grand though the lastnamed locality was not easily getatable so that the influx of visitors was not as yet all that it might be considering the signal benefits to be derived from it while Howth with its historic associations and otherwise, Silken Thomas, Grace O’Malley, George IV, rhododendrons several hundred feet above sealevel was a favourite haunt with all sorts and conditions of men especially in the spring when young men’s fancy, though it had its own toll of deaths by falling off the cliffs by design or accidentally, usually, by the way, on their left leg, it being only about three quarters of an hour’s run from the pillar.

In fact at one point Bloom himself ponders the possibility of him writing up an account of his mad day, specifically the events in the cab shelter, strongly hinting at the Bloom-as-author theory.

He wondered whether he might meet with anything approaching the same luck as Mr Philip Beaufoy if taken down in writing suppose he were to pen something out of the common groove (as he fully intended doing) at the rate of one guinea per column. My Experiences, let us say, in a Cabman’s Shelter.

Hugh Kenner points out that Bloom speaks like the narrator, in the same mix of long-winded cliches and rather pompous phraseology, indicating either that he is speaking the style he would write (unlikely) or that, as in many other places by now, the narrative style has taken over the characters (Kenner p.130).

Cast

  • Leopold Bloom
  • Stephen Dedalus
  • Gumley – nightwatchmen asleep in his ‘sentrybox’ by the docks
  • Corley – unemployed, scrounging son of a Dublin police inspector who asks Stephen for money – first appeared in the Dubliners story ‘Two Gallants’, extracting money from a naive girlfriend – nicknamed Lord John Corley because his mother was a servant in the house of an aristocrat
  • Skin-the-Goat – alias ‘the keeper’ – owner of the all-night café
  • D. B. Murphy of Carrigaloe – an occasional stammer and his gestures being also clumsy – teller of tall stories about his travels
  • a figure who may or may not be town clerk Henry Campbell, Bloom can’t decide (theme of confused identities)
  •  a streetwalker ‘glazed and haggard under a black straw hat’ makes a brief appearance

Detailed summary

Walking It’s further to the cabman’s shelter than summaries imply. They walk there in a passage which shows off Joyce’s command of Dublin’s street layout, you can imagine him carefully poring over a map: they walk along Beaver Street (more properly Lane) as far as the farrier’s, encountering the distinctly fetid atmosphere of the livery stables at the corner of Montgomery Street; turn left into Amien Street near Dan Bergin’s pub, where they see a four-wheeler cab outside the North Star Hotel. Bloom whistles for it but it doesn’t budge. So they head off for in the direction of Amiens Street railway terminus by way of Mullett’s and the Signal House.

Trams A Dublin United Tramways Company’s sandstrewer passes by which prompts Bloom to tell Stephen how he nearly got run over by a tram at the start of ‘Circe’ – so that incident, at least, was ‘real’ (within the terms of a fictional narrative). They pass the main entrance of the Great Northern railway station and the backdoor of the morgue, arriving at the Dock Tavern before turning into Store Street, famous for its C division police station. They continue past the tall warehouses of Beresford Place, past the turning on the right into Talbot Place, and Bloom enjoys the smell coming from James Rourke’s city bakery nearby.

Corny Bloom tells Stephen how lucky he was that Corny Kelleher turned up to sort things with the police, and rambles on to comment on the well-known corruption of some parts of the constabulary and snipe at the way you could never find one in the rough parts of town but there were plenty protecting the rich areas; and generally cautions against getting drunk and wasting your money on prostitutes. (Bit late for advice since we know from ‘Portrait’ that Stephen has been frequenting prostitutes since he was 16 i.e. 6 years.) Then he laments the way Stephen was ‘abandoned’ by all his pals, the drunk medics we met in ‘Oxen of the Sun’.

The sleeping nightwatchman On they walk, passing behind the Custom House, under the Loop Line Bridge, spotting the corporation watchman inside a sentrybox who, after some effort, Stephen remembers is a friend of his father’s, Gumley who, now he recognises him, he walks away so as to avoid. (Gumley having this job as nightwatchman is mentioned among the crew in the Evening Telegraph offices in chapter 8 ‘Aeolus’, and explicitly noted by Stephen.)

Lord John Corley But Stephen is hailed by a dubious figure who emerges from the shadows and proves to be Corley, an impoverished scrounger, nicknamed Lord John Corley because one of his female ancestors was a serving woman in a fine country house where, malicious rumour had it, she was impregnated by the aristocratic owner: hence the joke that noble blood runs in his veins and the facetious nickname.

Corley begs Corley now begs, saying his mates have abandoned him, he hasn’t a penny in the world and nowhere to sleep. As it happens, neither has Stephen: he suggests he tries for a vacancy coming up at Deasy’s school, then gives Corley a random coin from his pocket thinking it a penny, it’s in fact a half crown so Corley promises to pay it back. Corley carries on about needing a job, he asks Stephen to ask Bloom to ask a certain Boylan if he can get a job as one of the sandwich board men we’ve seen walking about Dublin earlier. This may or may not be the ‘Blazes’ Boylan who is at the centre of the narrative, but the name gives Bloom a turn.

Where will Stephen stay? Stephen quits Corley and rejoins Bloom who summarises the accommodation situation. 1) Stephen walking out to Sandycove, to the Martello Tower where he’s been sleeping, is out of the question (why? it’s only about 3 miles?). More importantly, if he did walk there, Mulligan wouldn’t let him into the tower. Why not? Because. Bloom reminds him, of ‘what occurred at Westland Row station’. What was this?

Bloom’s witness Bloom goes on to describe how he himself witnessed Buck Mulligan and Haines dodging among the crowd to avoid Stephen.

the very unpleasant scene at Westland Row terminus when it was perfectly evident that the other two, Mulligan, that is, and that English tourist friend of his, who eventually euchred their third companion, were patently trying as if the whole bally station belonged to them to give Stephen the slip in the confusion, which they did.

Did Stephen punch Mulligan? But critic Hugh Kenner thinks something more happened: he thinks Stephen’s bubbling resentment at Mulligan finally boiled over and Stephen hit Mulligan. This would explain why a) there are scattered references to Stephen’s hand hurting him in ‘Circe’ and this chapter] and b) explain why he absolutely cannot go back to the tower. The rupture is now final.

Family Why doesn’t he go and stay the night with his family? Bloom assures him his father, Simon Dedalus, often speaks proudly of him. This triggers a vivid memory in Stephen of his family’s poverty, of:

His family hearth the last time he saw it with his sister Dilly sitting by the ingle, her hair hanging down, waiting for some weak Trinidad shell cocoa that was in the sootcoated kettle to be done so that she and he could drink it with the oatmealwater for milk after the Friday herrings they had eaten at two a penny with an egg apiece for Maggy, Boody and Katey, the cat meanwhile under the mangle devouring a mess of eggshells and charred fish heads and bones on a square of brown paper,

Mulligan Meanwhile Bloom is rambling on about what an up-and-coming man Mulligan is, destined for a fine career, plus the story of him bravely rescuing a man from drowning. Stephen doesn’t say anything but we can imagine his inner chagrin.

Ice cream Italians The pair come up to an ice cream car (parked next to the men’s public urinal?) around which a group if Italian men are volubly arguing. They walk past them and enter ‘the cabman’s shelter’. It’s always described in these terms but the owner sells hot coffee, there’s a printed price list, and quite a few people are sitting around in it, so the word ‘shelter’ seems pretty misleading. That’s why I envision it as more of an all-night café, albeit of primitive wooden construction.

Skin-the-goat The owner of the shelter/café is said to be ‘Skin-the-Goat Fitzharris, the invincible’, a real-life historical figure famous because he was the getaway driver for the gang of nationalists who committed the notorious Phoenix park murders i.e stabbed to death the British officials, permanent undersecretary Thomas Henry Burke and Chief Secretary for Ireland, Lord Frederick Cavendish.

This Fitzharris was mentioned in chapter 8, ‘Aeolus’, as part of the story of Gallaher’s scoop told by the editor of the Evening Telegraph, Myles Crawford.

The fog of history Fitzharris symbolises several of the chapter’s themes, namely ambiguity and shifting identities. 1) Nobody knows whether the shelter keeper is the famous Skin, it’s just a widely held assumption; and 2) nobody is totally sure of his history, how long he was sentenced to prison, when he was released, some people said he emigrated to America etc. I.e. a fog of uncertainty. 3) The Phoenix Park murders themselves are long enough ago (1882, being discussed in 1904) for all kinds of other rumours and legends to have gathered around it, some of which the characters discuss.

Coffee The pair take a seat, Bloom orders Stephen a cup of coffee and a roll, and they settle back and review the shifty looking clientele. Bloom asks Stephen why, if he understands Italian, he doesn’t write poetry in it, such a beautiful language. Stephen explains that the Italians were arguing over money (in other words, just like so many of the Dubliners we’ve met).

Shocking coffee The café owner brings over ‘a boiling swimming cup of a choice concoction labelled coffee on the table and a rather antediluvian specimen of a bun’.

Red-haired man One particular red-haired, half-drunk bloke at a nearby table, a seaman by the look of him, asks Stephen what his name is. When he replies Dedalus, the sailor asks if he knows Simon Dedalus (i.e. Stephen’s father). With studied detachment, Stephen says he’s heard do him. Irish nationalism, and Stephen’s steady resistance to it, flare in the brief exchange about Simon:

—He’s Irish, the seaman bold affirmed, staring still in much the same way and nodding. All Irish.
—All too Irish, Stephen rejoined.

D.B. Murphy The sailor launches into an anecdote about seeing a man named Dedalus shoot eggs over his shoulder, as part of a travelling circus. Then introduces himself as D.B. Murphy of Carrigaloe, tells his listeners he has a wife down in Carrigaloe that he hasn’t seen for seven years. Which triggers thoughts in Bloom of various stories about sailors returning after long absences, obviously invoking the Odysseus parallels.

Chews tobacco Murphy asks one of the surrounding jarveys i.e. drivers of horsedrawn taxi cabs, for a wad of tobacco; the keeper gives him one, he bites a big hunk and starts chawing it. And Murphy embarks on a series of sailor yarns. If you think about it, it’s characteristically clever of Joyce to have a seasoned old sailor tell his yarns in a chapter characterised by knackered, cliched, threadbare prose. They suit each other.

A crocodile bites Remember how many inanimate objects got to talk in ‘Circe’? and Bloom’s general principle that ‘Everything speaks in its own way.’ Something similar here, for a moment, as Murphy re-enacts the sight of a crocodile biting off part of an anchor.

—I seen a crocodile bite the fluke of an anchor same as I chew that quid.
He took out of his mouth the pulpy quid and, lodging it between his teeth, bit ferociously:
—Khaan! Like that.

South American tribes Murphy shows round a postcard of primitive tribespeople in the south American jungle. This triggers Bloom’s long-held ambition to go on a sightseeing tour of England, which morphs into the idea of setting up his own travelling music company, with his wife Molly the soprano at its core. Which morphs into the general idea that the hardworking people of Dublin need an annual holiday (see the long quote above).

The sailor’s tattoo After a few more tales, the sailor declares he’s had enough, he’s sick of the sea, he wants a nice cushy landlubber job, like his mate who’s a gentleman’s valet. He laments that his son Danny abandoned a good apprenticeship and ran away to sea. He opens his shirt to show everyone a tattoo of an anchor on his chest, with a face above it (the face of the tattooist, named Antonio who was later, in a farfetched detail eaten by sharks). He shows how, if he pinches his skin, the face makes different expressions. A symbol of changeable identities, a central theme of the novel.

Prostitute appears A haggard streetwalker opens the door and peers in, maybe touting for business. Bloom recognises her and hides behind someone reading a newspaper. Commentators claim this is Bridie Kelly, the degraded prostitute who years earlier, Bloom lost his virginity to, although her name doesn’t occur her in text. But it would explain why Bloom ducks. Anyway, the shelter owner tells her to beat it.

Bloom’s plan to vet prostitutes This triggers Bloom to tell Stephen how shocking it is that such diseased women can haunt the streets, they ought to be vetted by the authorities, which leads on to speculation about the difference between soul and body, which triggers in Stephen a typically over-learned and satirical reply. Bloom replies to Stephen’s super-sophisticated theology with everyman common sense.

Motherly Bloom Bloom prompts Stephen to try some of the (revolting) coffee and stirs it to whisk up the sugar settled on the bottom. He also advises the young man to eat regular meals. He sounds like everyone’s mum.

Tall tales Bloom goes on to reflect about the sailor’s tall tales and wonder whether all manner of stories are true, such as Sinbad et al, describes visiting museums etc. In other words, the chapter brings together all manner of stories to question the nature of storytelling itself.

National characteristics Bloom rambles on to talk about national characteristics e.g. the Spanish for being hot-blooded and tells Stephen his wife is half-Spanish, born in Gibraltar.

Interest, however, was starting to flag somewhat all round and then the others got on to talking about accidents at sea, ships lost in a fog, collisions with icebergs, all that sort of thing.

The sailor swigs and pees Bloom watches the sailor bestir himself, ask others to move out of the way, go to the shelter door and exit, take a swig of the booze in one of the bottles in his pockets, then take a prolonged piss so loudly it wakes up a horse in the cab rank and disturbs the nightwatchmen slumbering in the sentrybox, previously mentioned.

Shipping news Meanwhile the other patrons of the shelter carry on discussing ships, the decline in the shipping trade and shipbuilding, along with famous wrecks and disasters at sea.

Irish nationalism The sailor re-enters the shelter and spits out his wad of tobacco, bringing an atmosphere of booze and starts singing a sea shanty. The owner, Skin-the-goat (if it is indeed him) launches on a setpiece speech about the rise of Ireland, about Ireland’s strong economy milched for generations by England, but how England’s day is nearly over, symbolised by her near failure to win the Boer War, how Germany and Japan are on the rise etc.

His advice to every Irishman was: stay in the land of your birth and work for Ireland and live for Ireland. Ireland, Parnell said, could not spare a single one of her sons.

Nationalists argue This, as we know from ‘Portrait’ and earlier in ‘Ulysses’ is the diametric opposite of Stephen’s view, who knows the only thing he must do is escape. More to the point, Murphy the old salt disagrees with the view that England’s power is about to collapse (‘—Take a bit of doing, boss, retaliated that rough diamond’) and this triggers an argument between the two (demonstrating the futile, inward-looking internecine argumentativeness of Irish nationalism which Stephen wants to escape).

Memories of the Citizen’s abuse All this triggers a chain of thoughts in Bloom which leads him to remember the incident with the Citizen in ‘Cyclops’. He tells Stephen the Citizen accused him of being a Jew whereat Bloom pointed out that his God (Jesus) and all his followers were Jews, which was the final straw which made the Citizen leap to his feet and make to attack Bloom, who ran out the pub. But his account includes a very important phrase for the book as a whole.

—He called me a jew and in a heated fashion offensively. So I without deviating from plain facts in the least told him his God, I mean Christ, was a jew too and all his family like me though in reality I’m not.

Bloom is not a Jew Bloom does not think of himself as a Jew, as he is not, either ethnically (his mother being a non-Jew) or religiously (having been brought up a Protestant and converted to Catholicism before marrying Molly). But this is confirmation of the fact in the man’s own words.

(Further confirmed in ‘Ithaca’ where we are given Bloom’s heritage: ‘only born male transubstantial heir of Rudolf Virag (subsequently Rudolph Bloom) of Szombathely, Vienna, Budapest, Milan, London and Dublin and of Ellen Higgins, second daughter of Julius Higgins (born Karoly) and Fanny Higgins (born Hegarty)’).

Bloom’s politics Bloom goes on to enunciate his belief in pacifism and non-violence, his liberal toleration, which has endeared him to all right-thinking readers ever since:

—Of course, Mr B. proceeded to stipulate, you must look at both sides of the question. It is hard to lay down any hard and fast rules as to right and wrong but room for improvement all round there certainly is though every country, they say, our own distressful included, has the government it deserves. But with a little goodwill all round. It’s all very fine to boast of mutual superiority but what about mutual equality. I resent violence and intolerance in any shape or form. It never reaches anything or stops anything. A revolution must come on the due instalments plan. It’s a patent absurdity on the face of it to hate people because they live round the corner and speak another vernacular, in the next house so to speak.

But fine speeches by fictional characters, loved by all bienpensant readers, don’t change anything. ‘Great hatred, little room’ as Yeats wrote about the civil war that was ravaging Ireland as Joyce wrote his novel. ‘Only’ about 1,500 people died in the Irish Civil War. it was the long legacy of resentment and intolerance it left which bit.

Bloom’s defence of the Jews And Bloom then whispers (so as not to be overheard) an extended defence of the Jews:

—Jews, he softly imparted in an aside in Stephen’s ear, are accused of ruining. Not a vestige of truth in it, I can safely say. History, would you be surprised to learn, proves up to the hilt Spain decayed when the inquisition hounded the jews out and England prospered when Cromwell, an uncommonly able ruffian who in other respects has much to answer for, imported them. Why? Because they are imbued with the proper spirit. They are practical and are proved to be so. I don’t want to indulge in any because you know the standard works on the subject and then orthodox as you are. But in the economic, not touching religion, domain the priest spells poverty.

Bloom’s socialism And then goes on to avow a kind of socialism based on a universal income:

I’m, he resumed with dramatic force, as good an Irishman as that rude person I told you about at the outset and I want to see everyone, concluded he, all creeds and classes pro rata having a comfortable tidysized income, in no niggard fashion either, something in the neighbourhood of £300 per annum. That’s the vital issue at stake and it’s feasible and would be provocative of friendlier intercourse between man and man. At least that’s my idea for what it’s worth. I call that patriotism. Ubi patria, as we learned a smattering of in our classical days in Alma Mater, vita bene. Where you can live well, the sense is, if you work.

Stephen the aesthete Interesting suggestion, right? But it is entirely characteristic of Stephen that he doesn’t process Bloom’s words in the way intended, instead perceiving them in purely aesthetic terms, in fact in terms of their colours.

He could hear, of course, all kinds of words changing colour like those crabs about Ringsend in the morning burrowing quickly into all colours of different sorts of the same sand where they had a home somewhere beneath or seemed to.

Difference between Bloom and Stephen This moment crystallises the differences between then: Bloom the earnest common sense everyman is on a completely different wavelength from Stephen the fastidious aesthete for whom meanings, in themselves, are passe, who is only interested in their sounds and shapes and patterns. And Joyce has Stephen make a joke which made me laugh out loud. Bloom, sensing Stephen’s reluctance at his ideas, hastens on to say that Stephen, too, would be rewarded in his scheme of universal work and payment, his writing being as important as the work of the peasant.

—You suspect, Stephen retorted with a sort of a half laugh, that I may be important because I belong to the faubourg Saint Patrice called Ireland for short.
—I would go a step farther, Mr Bloom insinuated.
—But I suspect, Stephen interrupted, that Ireland must be important because it belongs to me.

Eccentrics and scandal Bloom doesn’t think he can have heard this right and withdraws into his mind to process it, which gives rise to a long ramble which starts with Irish eccentrics (which he takes Stephen to be the latest in a long line of) but quickly segues into gossip about the sexual peccadilloes of the rich, in particular the British Royal Family, namechecking some scandalous court cases which dogged the young prince of Wales (future Edward VII) in the 1880s and 90s (sex, and naughty kinky sex, is never far away in ‘Ulysses’).

Reading the paper Abruptly, Bloom is distracted by a copy of ‘The pink edition extra sporting of the Telegraph’ which has been left on the table nearby. He scans the headlines (and so does the text) then settles to read the account of Paddy Dignam’s funeral written by Hynes. This contains several errors: in the list of attendees it misnames Bloom as Boom and includes Stephen Dedalus BA who was not, in fact, present.

Brief reversion of style With the entry of the newspaper something interesting happens to the style: it reverts to the more sober, clipped and telegraphic style from much earlier in the novel, the so-called initial style, just locally, just a little outbreak, which makes you realise how indebted the initial style is to the whole concept of pithy headlines and truncated snippets:

First he got a bit of a start but it turned out to be only something about somebody named H. du Boyes, agent for typewriters or something like that. Great battle, Tokio. Lovemaking in Irish, £ 200 damages. Gordon Bennett. Emigration Swindle. Letter from His Grace. William ✠. Ascot meeting, the Gold Cup. Victory of outsider Throwaway recalls Derby of ’92 when Capt. Marshall’s dark horse Sir Hugo captured the blue ribband at long odds. New York disaster. Thousand lives lost. Foot and Mouth. Funeral of the late Mr Patrick Dignam.

Parnell, again It’s just a local eddy, like a backwash in a river near a weir, then the text reverts to the ‘tired’ style. Meanwhile, in a very cryptic connection, the text implies that while Bloom’s been reading all this the conversation among the other customers has wheeled round, with a certain inevitability, to the tired old subject of the death of Charles Stewart Parnell, the great leader of the Irish independence movement who was brought down by being cited in a divorce case and so was immediately dropped by the Church and all good Catholic nationalists, lost his position and soon afterwards died of pneumonia on October 6, 1891, at the age of 45. Or did he? Aha!

Parnell will return! And this is the section of the tired old round-and-round-in-circles subject which the others have arrived at when Bloom notices what they’re discussing. They’ve just got to the urban legend that it wasn’t Parnell’s body that was buried, that his coffin was full of stones and that Parnell is just waiting for the right moment to return from his exile across the water (or South Africa among the Boers, where many swear they saw him) and lead the Irish to glorious independence.

Bloom and Parnell Turns out Bloom met the great man once, was present when the authorities smashed up the typesetting machines of his independence newspaper. In the mayhem, Parnell’s hat was knocked off and Bloom, with characteristic kindness, retrieved it and handed it back to him, at which the Lost Leader said Thank You. A characteristically humble and kind Bloom anecdote. (The incident of his presses being smashed up was a true event took place on 11 December 1890.)

More Parnell The Parnell passage rumbles on at length, Bloom describing the way the whole affair came out (Parnell had an affair with Katherine ‘Kitty’ O’Shea wife of Captain William O’Shea, for ten years, before the affair was revealed to the press in 1890, leading to the sensational divorce case, Parnell’s fall from political power, and death the next year). Bloom blames the husband, thinking him inadequate compared with the 6-foot, commanding Parnell who Bloom clearly identifies with, as a reformer and gentleman. But as to the idea of Parnell returning, Bloom thinks it wouldn’t be the panacea the nationalists think, it would only stir up the same mess of problems:

Still as regards return. You were a lucky dog if they didn’t set the terrier at you directly you got back. Then a lot of shillyshally usually followed,

The possible return of Parnell prompts Bloom to think about stories about missing husbands who returned after long absences or were imposters, as in the case of Roger Charles Tichborne. These obviously pick up the chapter’s theme of long-delayed returns, and false identities.

Infidelities As Bloom’s account proceeded I realised that the issue of marital infidelity raised by Parnell strikes close to home with Bloom, given that his whole day has been dominated by knowledge of his wife’s unfaithfulness to him. When he summarises the Parnell love triangle you realise he is summarising his own:

It was simply a case of the husband [O’Shea/Bloom] not being up to the scratch, with nothing in common between them beyond the name, and then a real man arriving on the scene [Parnell/Boylan], strong to the verge of weakness, falling a victim to her siren charms [Kitty/Molly] and forgetting home ties…

Molly and Blazes Can Bloom still love his wife Molly after he knows she has shagged Blazes Boylan?

The eternal question of the life connubial… Can real love, supposing there happens to be another chap in the case, exist between married folk? Poser.

To university professors who have to follow strict moral codes, and their woke students quick to judge inappropriate behaviour of all kinds, No. To anyone who’s knocked about a bit, Yes, because love is complicated, love is strange and unpredictable. Also, if you really love someone, it’s for life, no matter what American divorce lawyers tell you.

Photo of bosomy Molly Given his earlier thoughts about hot-blooded Mediterranean types, Bloom wonders whether Kitty O’Shea had Spanish blood and this leads him back to thoughts about his wife, and so he gets a proper studio photo of Molly out his pocket and shows it to Stephen. It confirms the impression we’ve got earlier of Molly’s amplitude.

Stephen, obviously addressed, looked down on the photo showing a large sized lady with her fleshy charms on evidence in an open fashion as she was in the full bloom of womanhood in evening dress cut ostentatiously low for the occasion to give a liberal display of bosom, with more than vision of breasts, her full lips parted and some perfect teeth, standing near, ostensibly with gravity, a piano on the rest of which was In Old Madrid, a ballad, pretty in its way, which was then all the vogue.
—Mrs Bloom, my wife the prima donna Madam Marion Tweedy, Bloom indicated. Taken a few years since. In or about ninety six.

Naked statues Yes, ‘her symmetry of heaving embonpoint’ triggers associations with the naked bosomy statues he saw outside the National Library, and then on to wondering whether she’ll be asleep by the time he gets back.

More Parnell And for some reason this triggers another page-long recap of the Parnell scandal, and another memory of the smashing up of the presses which he was present at, this time we learn he received a nasty poke in the ribs from the rioters – which triggers a memory of Bloom earlier that day pointing out the dent in John Henry Menton’s hat at Paddy Dignam’s funeral, a kindly gesture curtly rejected by Menton, in contrast with Parnell’s gentlemanliness.

Don’t consort with prostitutes Bloom’s thoughts turn to concern for Stephen and the risks to health and wallet of consorting with prostitutes. As to their relationship, his and Stephen’s:

The queer suddenly things he popped out with attracted the elder man who was several years the other’s senior or like his father

Back to Bloom’s? Bloom’s thoughts finally turn to practical matters and where Stephen is going to sleep for the night. He can’t see any alternative but to take him back to his place, offer him a nice cup of cocoa and make a bed on the sofa – although they mustn’t make a noise given that Molly has quite a temper on her and would dislike being woken up in the early hours.

Newspaper snippets Bloom pays the keeper the bill, while tired old jossers around the room read out various snippets from the newspaper, to general apathy (repeating the mood of worn-out lassitude). There’s still a bit more business to get through. The ‘ancient mariner’ as he is now jokingly referred to by the text (showing signs of the name-changing shapeshifting of the ‘Circe’ episode) asks for the paper and carefully puts on some striking green glasses, which resemble ‘seagreen portholes’.

They leave the shelter So Bloom pays up 4 pence for the coffee and roll and helps Stephen out of the shelter. He nips round to Stephen’s right side, always preferring to be on the right:

So saying he skipped around, nimbly considering, frankly at the same time apologetic to get on his companion’s right, a habit of his, by the bye, his right side being, in classical idiom, his tender Achilles.

Their musical tastes And they set off across Beresford Place, walking back to his place. Bloom takes the opportunity to share some of his thoughts about music. He shares with Stephen his favourite pieces of classical music (Mozart’s Twelfth Mass, Mendelsohn) along with popular airs, among them the one he heard Simon Dedalus sing in the Ormond Hotel yesterday. Surprisingly for a man who’s been silent for most of the chapter, Stephen pipes up but, characteristically, evinces a fondness for the more recondite lute music of Shakespeare’s day.

Sweeper horse They pass a horse dragging a sweeper which makes such a racket they can’t hear each other. Bloom feels sorry for the horse. Once it’s past he conversationally tells Stephen his wife would like him, she’s a musician etc. Surprisingly, Stephen sings a song, an old German song of Johannes Jeep about the clear sea and the voices of sirens, sweet murderers of men, which boggled Bloom a bit:

Von der Sirenen Listigkeit
Tun die Poeten dichten.

Clearly, this links together a number of threads: the sea – across which Odysseus sailed and which has been the theme of this chapter; and the sirens who we met in chapter 11.

Stephen’s singing impresses Bloom Anyway, Stephen’s tenor singing voice enormously impresses Bloom who immediately thinks Stephen could make a living from it, and be a social hit, getting entrance to all the finest houses, and (being Bloom) stirring the cockles of many a fine lady – ‘causing a slight flutter in the dovecotes of the fair sex and being made a lot of by ladies out for sensation’.

The horse poos In Joyce sex, or gross physical functions are never far away, because ideologically he is committed to the materiality of life. We’ve had the old sailor taking a swig of his grog before liberally pissing against a wall. Now this big horse pulling its sweeping chain is here, mainly for its turds:

The horse having reached the end of his tether, so to speak, halted and, rearing high a proud feathering tail, added his quota by letting fall on the floor which the brush would soon brush up and polish, three smoking globes of turds. Slowly three times, one after another, from a full crupper he mired. And humanely his driver waited till he (or she) had ended, patient in his scythed car.

Walking on Bloom helps Stephen step over the loose chain fence which separates the dock from the road, then carefully step over the horse’s poos and so into Gardiner Street lower while Stephen continues softly singing the German ballad.

And the driver of the sweeping car watches the odd couple walk of into the night.

This is all very beautiful. I far prefer the later, long, highly stylised chapters to the early ones, which I found very hard to follow. Nothing difficult at all here. Simple scenes described in an entertainingly parodic style.

The significance of newspapers

In his 1980 book about Joyce, American academic Hugh Kenner makes another simple but typically insightful point: if ‘Circe’ amounts to a monstrous dramatisation of ‘the nightmare of history’, ‘Eumaeus’ can be said to be the newspaper coverage of it, following the old proverb that history is repeated twice: first as tragedy, then as superficial and inaccurate newspaper coverage (p.131).

Full of tired cliché and ‘hail fellow well met’ pub bore locutions, the central symbol of the chapter is the evening edition of the Telegraph which Bloom finds left on a nearby table and which contains numerous inaccuracies, not least the misspelling of Bloom’s name as Boom. If a journalist who was actually there (at the funeral) can’t get the facts straight, what hope for people writing about events years or decades later i.e. historians?

This theme is dramatised in the prolonged passages about Parnell, which demonstrate the fog of rumours and urban myths which spring up around any historical event, the bigger and more traumatic, the more numerous and garish the rumours (nowadays, in 2026, more than ever with the proliferation of fake news across social media). Which also explains the parodies of Biblical phrases which are slipped into the text:

Sufficient unto the day is the newspaper thereof.

Give us this day our daily press.

Obviously the chaos of the press is explored in hugely more detail in the ‘Aeolus’ chapter. But Kenner’s point remains true that ‘Eumaeus’ gives concrete examples of the media’s tendency to trigger and then place on record all kinds of misleading information.

Not finishing the

As discussed, the prose style of ‘Eumaeus’ is distinctive and carefully chosen to reflect the exhausted subject matter. However it does retain certain elements of the tricky, difficult ‘initial style’ and one of these is the habit of not finishing sentences in Bloom’s stream of consciousness. This is a deliberate tactic to reflect the fast-moving nature of thought which leaps onto a new idea without finishing the current one.

The horse was just then.

Last joke

Having thought about it once, the scene with the Citizen recurs to Bloom several more times throughout the chapter. I particularly like this formulation of it, which made me laugh out loud:

He [Bloom] inwardly chuckled over his gentle repartee to the blood and ouns champion [the Citizen] about his god being a jew. People could put up with being bitten by a wolf but what properly riled them was a bite from a sheep. The most vulnerable point too of tender Achilles. ‘Your god was a jew.’ Because mostly they appeared to imagine he came from Carrick-on-Shannon or somewhereabouts in the county Sligo.


Credit

‘Ulysses’ by James Joyce was published by Shakespeare and Company in 1922.

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Taken at the Flood by Agatha Christie (1948)

‘I was devoted to Daddy! He was terribly attractive and the greatest fun to live with! But I always knew he was a bad hat.’
(We are in posh world)

What was one to do, thought Adela, with someone who didn’t talk gardening or dogs – those standbyes of rural conversation.
(Country Life)

‘You don’t mean – murder -!’ Her voice was horrified.
(The innocence of dim young Rosaleen)

‘She’s quite harmless, you know.’
‘I wonder,’ said Poirot.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is anybody – ever – quite harmless?’
(Wisdom of the wise old owl)

Poirot waved a deprecating hand and tried to look modest.
(Poirot is, essentially, a comic character)

Superintendent Spence stared. ‘Chief Inspector Japp,’ he remarked, ‘always said you
have a tortuous mind.’
(Opinion of an old favourite)

‘It’s the human interest that’s getting you?’
‘Yes,’ said Poirot. ‘It is always the human interest.’
(Poirot’s central motivation)

‘What are you doing, M. Poirot?’
‘Talking to people. That is what I do. Just talk to people.’
(The essence of Poirot’s method)

‘Taken at the Flood’ gets poor reviews as one of Christie’s weaker works and so I nearly didn’t read it but I’m glad I did for the sake of its vivid social history. The big reveal at the end is no more preposterous and far-fetched than the conclusions of most of her books.

1. Gordon Cloade

‘Taken at the Flood’ is the story of the extended Cloade family, four brothers and sisters and a few nephews, and their partners, who had all basked in the generosity of their immensely rich Uncle Gordon Cloade. As well as giving them gifts and subsidies throughout their lives, Gordon made it clear that he would leave them each handsome bequests in his will, and so they carry on leading upper-middle-class lifestyles they could ill afford if solely reliant on their own incomes.

Marriage and death

Until disaster strikes, in fact twin disasters. First, on a boat from South America old Gordon meets and falls in love with a blonde young Irish lovely named Rosaleen and all the Cloades are horrified to get telegrams from New York announcing that he has married her.

But then, he’s barely been back in England a few weeks before the house he’s in is a direct hit from a German bomb which kills all the servants. Cloade is pulled alive from the wreckage but dies on the way to hospital.

The legal situation this creates is that, regardless of a lifetime of promises to fund the Cloades, and in the absence of a new will made since his marriage (and there had barely been time to get back to London and unpack), Gordon’s entire fortune goes to his brainless young wife. She would be completely overwhelmed by all this if she didn’t have in tow her brother, the angry young Irishman, David Hunter, who plays Svengali. It is implied that David it was who guided Rosaleen towards the millionaire on the boat, and snared him into marriage.

So that’s the backstory (or one backstory). The novel opens with all the characters living in the little village of Warmsley Vale:

  • Dr Lionel Cloade, Gordon’s elder brother, and his wife, Katherine ‘Aunt Kathie’
  • lawyer Jeremy Cloade, 63, and his wife, Frances
  • Adela Cloade, over 60, who married a Mr Marchamont, now deceased – known as ‘Mums’ to her daughter, Lynn Marchmont, just back from serving as a Wren in the war
  • and Rowley Cloade, son of Gordon’s brother Maurice

With Rosaleen and David ensconced in the big smart new house Gordon had built for himself upon the hill titled Furrowbank. With Christie’s usual brisk efficiency she not only sketches in all these characters but outlines why all four of these households are in dire financial straits and are reduced to more or less begging money from Rosaleen.

While angry Irish brother David exults in these self-satisfied posh people getting their come-uppance.

Social history

And this is my point about social history: all four households have been brought low, among other things, by the collapse in value of their investments, but more by the new Labour government’s extortionate new taxes and extravagant new paperwork. The hapless older generation doesn’t fully understand where all their money has gone. They stand for the old rentier class which lived such feather-bedded lives between the late nineteenth century and the 1930s, only to see their lifestyles collapse during the war, the end of civilised living bemoaned in Evelyn Waugh’s nostalgia-fest Brideshead Revisited.

While angry, sneering, jeering David stands for the new world, the new generation of angry young men, the poor outsiders who have unexpectedly found themselves kings of the new roost and revel in the snobs’ downfall:

‘That’s just what I get a kick out of,’ said David. ‘I like seeing their smug faces eaten up with envy and malice. Don’t grudge me my fun, Rosaleen.’
She said in a low troubled voice: ‘I wish you didn’t feel like that. I don’t like it.’
‘Have some spirit, girl. We’ve been pushed around enough, you and I. The Cloades have lived soft – soft. Lived on big brother Gordon. Little fleas on a big flea. I hate their kind – I always have.’

This, it seems to me, is what the book is about. It is a long lament for the style and class of the old ways and a bitter recrimination of the new socialist government. This may explain why the plot itself feels a bit of an afterthought.

Heath and Vale

This sense of a clash between two worlds, between civilised old world and functional, charmless new world, between class and vulgarity, is embodied in the contrast between the two adjoining settlements Warmsley Heath and Warmsley Vale. As the text tells us right at the start of chapter 1, laying out the dichotomy which will underpin the narrative:

Warmsley Heath consists of a Golf Course, two Hotels, some very expensive modern villas giving on to the Golf Course, a row of what were, before the war, luxury shops, and a railway station. Emerging from the railway station, a main road roars its way to London on your left – to your right a small path across a field is signposted Footpath to Warmsley Vale.

Warmsley Vale, tucked away amongst wooded hills, is as unlike Warmsley Heath as well can be. It is in essence a microscopic old-fashioned market town now degenerated into a village. It has a main street of Georgian houses, several pubs, a few unfashionable shops and a general air of being a hundred and fifty instead of twenty-eight miles from London.

Its occupants one and all unite in despising the mushroom growth of Warmsley Heath.

There you have as pretty a little microcosm of the English class system and its petty snobberies as you could ask for.

2. Robert Underhay

And this is the second backstory I referred to: because in fact, right at the start of the novel, an old club bore tells the story of one Robert Underhay, a district commissioner (imperial official) in British Nigeria, who met and married a pretty little actress, while he was on leave in South Africa. However, once he’d taken her back to his base it turned out she hated being isolated miles from anywhere in the hot tropical jungle and, after giving it a go for a while, they decided to call it a day. Because he was a practicing Roman Catholic, Underhay arranged to go on a trip up-country and pretend to have died there i.e. get his loyal servants to return to the compound and say he’d died, thus freeing the wife of any obligations without the necessity of a divorce. (Can you feel how this whole scenario is creaking a little with plot holes and inconsistencies?) As the Major tells it:

His natives were a trustworthy lot and they came back with a good circumstantial tale and a few last words scrawled in Underhay’s writing saying they’d done all they could for him, and he was afraid he was pegging out…

Anyway, it is this young lady, recently ‘widowed’, who Gordon met and was manoeuvred into falling in love with and marrying. Yes, the current widow sitting atop a huge fortune, Mrs Rosaleen Cloade, is the very same Rosaleen who married Robert Underhay 4 or 5 years earlier before he disappeared into the jungle, presumed dead.

3. Enter Enoch Arden* the blackmailer

It takes 100 pages, the first third of this 300-page novel, to establish this, to explain the two backstories and to paint in the various characters and their fractious relationships (Lynn Marchmont resents her mother’s obeisance to Rosaleen, she is engaged to oafish Rowley the farmer, though neither of them are very excited about it etc).

And then one fine afternoon, a tall bronzed stranger gets off the train at Warmsley Heath and asks the way for Warmsley Vale (asking the puzzled young farmer, Rowley Cloade on the way).

The man was tall, with a bronzed face, a beard, and very blue eyes. He was about forty and not ill-looking in a tough and rather dare-devil style. It was not, perhaps, a wholly pleasant face.

This stranger checks into the local pub, the Stag, giving his name as ‘Enoch Arden’ and sends a note up to the posh house for the attention of David Hunter, who duly comes to meet him in his room that evening.

Here he makes the staggering revelation that Robert Underhay, rich Rosaleen Cloade’s supposedly dead husband, is still alive! Not only this, but he is fully informed of Rosaleen’s situation i.e. she married an old guy who promptly died and inherited his huge fortune, thus disappointing all his relatives who are filled with fury and frustration. If Underhay reveals that he is still alive, Rosaleen’s second marriage becomes null and void, and so does her inheritance of the fortune. At a stroke she will be penniless again, and the terms of Gordon’s old will come into force, redistributing his fortune to the four Cloade households.

Imagine how much they’d pay for this fact to come out!? So the bronzed stranger proceeds to blackmail David Hunter, asking how much he will pay for this ruinous fact not to be made public.

*Explanation of Enoch Arden

This is a reference to a long narrative poem by the English poet Alfred Tennyson. In it Enoch Arden, a sailor, is shipwrecked on a desert island and spends ten years there. Upon his return, he discovers that his wife, Annie Lee, having believed him dead, has remarried and started a new family with a man named Philip. Tragedy: Rather than reveal his return and disrupt his wife’s happiness, Enoch chooses to remain silent, dying of a broken heart.

When he had canvassed the idea of disappearing into the jungle to fake his own death, Underhay had joked that he might ‘do an Enoch Arden’ and one day return to check up on his remarried wife. Well now, no joke, this is exactly what he’s come to do!

Poirot

Remember how I mentioned that Christie has a club bore tell us a lot of the backstory, on the basis that said bore knew Underhay out in Nigeria, and then read the account of Gordon’s death in the papers and connected it with the pretty little actress he knew Underhay married… Well, as he rattles on his eyes fall disapprovingly on one of the figures sitting nearby:

Again Major Porter paused. His eyes had travelled up from the patent leather shoes – striped trousers – black coat – egg-shaped head and colossal moustaches. Foreign, of course! That explained the shoes. ‘Really,’ thought Major Porter, ‘what’s the club coming to? Can’t get away from foreigners even here.’

‘Who could that be’ we ask ourselves. Yes, Hercule Poirot and this is the twenty-third (I think) Poirot novel (there are 33 in total). That scene is followed by another one in which Poirot is paid a surprise visit at home by Mrs Katherine Cloade. She says she has been told to consult him by the figures from the beyond in her seances and ask him whether they could hire him to investigate the claims that Robert Underhay is not dead. He listens in amusement and then says no, leaving Katherine Cloade to go away disappointed.

These two scenes in the prologue are clearly designed to explain how and why Poirot comes to be involved in the case, as he has already 1) heard the backstories from the club bore and 2) been directly approached by one of the Cloade family.

Then everything goes quiet on the Poirot front, until Christie has painted in all the events summarised above and Poirot makes his reappearance on page 172, exactly halfway through the 325-page novel.

The murder

I’d nearly forgotten the murder. Yes, well first an important fact. The conversation at the Stag in Arden’s private room (room 5) when Arden explained to David Hunter that he thought Robert Underhay was still alive and tried to extort money out of him, all this was overheard by the landlady, Beatrice Lippincott, who promptly sends a message (a letter) to Rowley Cloade. When he comes that evening for a drink, she invites him into the office and describes the whole conversation.

Rowley is flabbergasted, realising that this will change the circumstances of the entire family and so walks to the lawyer, Jeremy Cloade’s house. But while waiting in the lawyer’s study for the family to finish dinner, he has second thoughts and leaves.

The following evening, Lynn is walking over the downs when David Hunter comes bursting out of nearby trees, running fast to Warmsley Heath to catch the train. With no further ado, he embraces and kisses her and tells her she belongs to him, not to that oaf Rowley, and rushes off, leaving poor Lynn bewildered.

Next morning ‘Enoch Arden’s body is discovered in his pub bedroom, his head smashed in with fire tongs. So the reader immediately suspects that David Hunter did it rather than pay Arden off, and that’s why he was running from the scene of the crime in such a hurry to catch the train. He’s the obvious suspect. Or could it have been someone else? But who? And why?

Cast

  • Major Porter – old India hand and club bore at the Coronation Club
  • young Mr Mellon – hosting Poirot at the Coronation Club
  • Hercule Poirot – forced to listen to the club bore’s account of Underhay and Gordon Cloade
    • George – Poirot’s manservant
  • old Gordon Cloade – funder of the whole Cloade family, who all relied on his largesse, until he unexpectedly married a young lovely and, weeks later, was killed in the Blitz on London
  • Rosaleen Cloade – 26, Gordon Cloade’s widow, previously married to Robert Underhay staying at Furrowbank
  • David Hunter – Rosaleen’s rude and controlling brother – ‘a thin young man with dark hair and dark eyes. His face was unhappy and defiant and slightly insolent’ – Irish, in the commandos during the war – ‘tall thin bitter-looking young man’
    • Old Mullard – their gardener
  • Dr Lionel Cloade – ‘spare and grey-haired – but he had not the lawyer’s imperturbability. His manner was brusque and impatient… his nervous irritability’
  • Mrs Katherine ‘Aunt Kathie’ Cloade – between 40 and 50 – into spiritualism, in debt to various clairvoyants
  • Jeremy Cloade – Gordon’s elder brother – senior partner in a firm of solicitors, Cloade, Brunskill and Cloade – ‘a spare grey-haired man of sixty-three, with a dry expressionless face’ – has been embezzling money
  • Frances Cloade – 48, ‘one of those lean greyhound women who look well in tweeds. There was a rather arrogant ravaged beauty about her face which had no make-up except a little carelessly applied lipstick’ – the only daughter of Lord Edward Trenton, who had trained his horses in the neighbourhood of Warmsley Heath
    • Edna – 15-year-old servant
  • Antony Cloade – their son, killed on active service
  • Adela Marchmont née Cloade – aka Mums – over 60, never a strong woman, borne down by bills, begs £500 off Rosaleen – lives at the White House with…
  • Lynn Marchmont – her daughter, a far-travelled Wren during the war (Women’s Royal Naval Service, WRNS, part of the Royal Navy)
  • Rowley Cloade – son of deceased Maurice Cloade – ‘a big square young man with a brick-red skin, thoughtful blue eyes and very fair hair. He had a slowness that seemed more purposeful than ingrained’ – farm called Long Willows
  • Johnnie Vavasour – Rowley’s friend and partner on the farm, killed in the war
  • Beatrice Lippincott – barmaid at the Stag pub
  • Gladys – chambermaid at the Stag pub
  • Superintendent Spence – local police
  • Sergeant Graves – his subordinate (tactful enough not to show off his superior French accent)
  • Mr Pebmarsh – coroner at the inquest on Enoch Arden
  • Jenkins – the police surgeon

Poirot’s foreignness

Poirot’s foreignness is always emphasised.

Rowley Cloade was eyeing Poirot rather doubtfully. The flamboyant moustaches, the sartorial elegance, the white spats and the pointed patent leather shoes all filled this insular young man with distinct misgivings.

‘Do you remember old Jeremy mentioning a chap called Hercule Poirot?’
‘Hercule Poirot?’ Lynn frowned. ‘Yes, I do remember something… Well? Lynn demanded impatiently.
‘Fellow has the wrong clothes and all that. French chap – or Belgian. Queer fellow but he’s the goods all right.’

The impoverishment of the rentier class

As discussed above, the book abounds in descriptions of how the privileged rentier and professional classes of between the wars, had fallen on hard times, by the Labour government’s introduction of ruinous taxes and a jungle of forms, and the general decay in quality and standards left by the war.

Tax

Hence the surprising harping on this issue of new high taxes and how they were affecting numerous characters in the story.

Lynn realised with some dismay how their financial position had changed. The small but adequate fixed income which had kept them going comfortably before the war was now almost halved by taxation. Rates, expenses, wages had all gone up. ‘Oh, brave new world,’ thought Lynn grimly…

Dramatically, and with a trembling lip, Mrs Marchmont produced a sheaf of bills. ‘And look at all these,’ she wailed. ‘What am I to do? What on earth am I to do, Lynn? The bank manager wrote me only this morning that I’m overdrawn. I don’t see how I can be. I’ve been so careful. But it seems my investments just aren’t producing what they used to. Increased taxation, he says. And all these yellow things. War Damage Insurance or something – one has to pay them whether one wants to or not…’

ADELA: ‘I’m overdrawn at the bank, and I owe bills – repairs to the house – and the rates haven’t been paid yet. You see, everything’s halved – my income, I mean. I suppose it’s taxation…’

DAVID: ‘Rosaleen can’t touch the capital, you know. Only the income. And she pays about nineteen and six in the pound income tax.’
‘Oh, I know. Taxation‘s dreadful these days.’

ADELA: ‘Everything is so expensive nowadays. And it gets worse and worse.’

Major Porter had the first floor of a small shabby house. They were admitted by a cheerful blowsy-looking woman who took them up. It was a square room with bookshelves round it and some rather bad sporting prints. There were two rugs on the floor – good rugs with lovely dim colour but very worn. Poirot noticed that the centre of the floor was covered with a new heavy varnish whereas the varnish round the edge was old and rubbed. He realised then that there had been other better rugs until recently – rugs that were worth good money in these days. He looked up at the man standing erect by the fireplace in his well-cut shabby suit.

Poirot guessed that for Major Porter, retired Army officer, life was lived very near the bone. Taxation and increased cost of living struck hardest at the old war-horses.

KATHIE CLOADE: ‘But then, when Gordon died like that – well, you know what things are, M. Poirot, nowadays. Taxation and everything. He can’t afford to retire and it’s made him very bitter…’

Plus, after the Second World War Christie herself became the victim of aggressive tax authorities in both the UK and USA, tax problems which were to dog her for the rest of her life. So there’s personal animus, as well, behind these references.

Forms

And the new levels of post-war bureaucracy:

ROWLEY: ‘I’m only just keeping my head above water as it is. And what with not knowing what this damned Government is going to do next – hampered at every turn – snowed under with forms up to midnight trying to fill them in sometimes – it’s too much for one man.’

‘I wonder what Rowley wants?’
Jeremy said wearily:
‘Probably fallen foul of some Government regulation. No farmer understands more than a quarter of these forms they have to fill up.’

‘Come,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t keep that bucolic young man waiting too long. Go and help him to fill up form eleven hundred and ninety-nine, or whatever it is.’

General decay

Shepherd’s Court, Mayfair, was a large block of luxury service flats. Unharmed by the ravages of enemy action, they had nevertheless been unable to keep up quite their pre-war standard of ease. There was service still, although not very good service. Where there had been two uniformed porters there was now only one. The restaurant still served meals, but except for breakfast, meals were not sent up to the apartments.

‘I’ve checked up,’ said Spence. ‘The last time a woman occupied that room was three weeks ago. I know service isn’t up to much nowadays – but I still think they run a mop under the furniture once in three weeks.’

Says the fierce old lady in the Stag’s Residents Only bar, old Mrs Leadbetter:

‘Every year I come and stay in this place. My husband died here sixteen years ago. He’s buried here. I come every year for a month.’
‘A pious pilgrimage,’ said Poirot politely.
‘And every year things get worse and worse. No service! Food uneatable! Vienna steaks indeed! A steak’s either Rump or Fillet steak – not chopped-up horse!’

Everything is going to the dogs:

‘It [the lipstick] was found on the floor of No. 5. It had rolled under the chest of drawers and of course just possibly it might have been there some time. No fingerprints on it. Nowadays, of course, there isn’t the range of lipsticks there used to be – just a few standard makes.’

‘His reason for coming down,’ the Superintendent broke in, ‘was, according to him, to get certain things he’d left behind, letters and papers, a chequebook, and to see if some shirts had come back from the laundry – which, of course, they hadn’t. My word, laundry’s a problem nowadays. Four ruddy weeks since they’ve been to our place – not a clean towel left in our house, and the wife washes all my things herself now.’

After the war

And it’s not just money. There’s a mean spirit abroad after the war. At least that’s how pukka middle-class Lynn sees it.

Lynn thought suddenly, ‘But that’s what’s the matter everywhere. I’ve noticed it ever since I got home. It’s the aftermath war has left. Ill will. Ill feeling. It’s everywhere. On railways and buses and in shops and amongst workers and clerks and even agricultural labourers. And I suppose worse in mines and factories. Ill will.’

After reading a number of passages like this I began to wonder, Is this what the book is about? About the impoverishment of the rentier class and the revenge of the outsider class? Angry Irishman David Hunter gets quite a few opportunities to express his glee at the humbling of the posh Cloades:

‘Gordon Cloade died before he had time to make a will. That’s what’s called the luck of the game. We win, you and I. The others – lose.’

Self-referentiality

All Christie’s books have characters comparing the events or people to events or people in books or detective stories. There is a continual stagey self-awareness to the characters and events, a regular nudge in the ribs that all this is fiction.

‘Perhaps it’s just a feeling of unreality. In books the blackmailer gets slugged. Does he in real life? Apparently the answer is yes. But it seems unnatural.’

‘I’ve no experience, of course, of police cases. And anyway medical evidence isn’t the hard-and-fast, cast-iron business that laymen or novelists seem to think…’


Credit

‘Taken At The Flood’ by Agatha Christie was published by the Collins Crime Club in November 1948.

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The Sittaford Mystery by Agatha Christie (1931)

The Major blushed like a girl.
(Chapter 1)

There were all the usual laughs, whispers, stereotyped remarks.
(Chapter 2)

‘I think,’ said Inspector Narracott deliberately, ‘that there’s a lot more in this case than meets the eye.’ (Chapter 4)

‘It’s always what you don’t expect in this life that happens, isn’t it, Mr Narracott?’
(The wisdom of Mrs Belling, landlady of the Three Crowns, Chapter 6)

‘That’s a rum go,’ ejaculated the Superintendent.
(Middle class slang, Chapter 10)

‘A lot of chuckleheads the police are, and so I’ve said before now.’
(Working class slang, Mrs Belling, Chapter 12)

Mr Curtis thoughtfully removed an aged pipe from the right side of his mouth to the left side. ‘Women,’ he said, ‘talk a lot.’
(One of the oldest tropes in literature, the hen-pecked husband, Chapter 13)

‘I hate a slobbering female,’ said Miss Percehouse. ‘I like one who gets up and does things.’
(No-nonsense old spinster Miss P, Chapter 17)

She paused, lost in thought. Two very different theories stretched out in opposite directions.
(Emily Trefusis, who emerges as the intellectual heroine of the story, Chapter 17)

‘Brian,’ said Emily thoughtfully, ‘is – well, a person to be reckoned with. He is rather unscrupulous, I should think, and if he wanted anything, I don’t think he would let ordinary conventional standards stand in his way. He’s not plain tame English.’
(Christie’s comic view of her compatriots, Chapter 25)

‘Never part with information unnecessarily. That’s my rule,’ said Inspector Narracott.
(Wise words, Chapter 26)

‘It just shows,’ said Charles, ‘that you never know.’
(Chapter 25)

Freelance detectives

Indeed, you never do know about people’s private lives and secret motivations… except that, in Agatha Christie novels and others of her ilk, in fact you do know. You very much do find out whodunnit, who was jealous of who, who fancied who, as well as a hundred and one other loose ends which by the story’s conclusion are all tied up neatly with a bow.

After a pleasurable day or two of being teased about the mystery, and trying to work it out from the plethora of clues packed into the narrative whodunnit – in the last chapter all is revealed, all is explained, there is closure for everyone, including the reader.

From one point of view, the main thing which distinguishes Christie’s books is who does the revealing and explaining. She is, of course, famous for the series of novels featuring Hercule Poirot as investigator, and the separate series featuring Miss Jane Marple in the same role. But alongside these she published 20 or so novels throughout her career without one of her two star sleuths – detective and crime novels which instead featured freelancers, amateurs, people caught up in a murder situation who find they have a gift for investigation, for interviewing people, for putting evidence together, and developing their own theories.

The Sittaford Mystery is one such ‘freelance’ detective story and the spirited amateur who emerges as its heroine is the wife of the initial suspect, a clever and very determined young woman named Emily Trefusis.

The background

The village of Sittaford is situated on the edge of Dartmoor. It is mid-winter and the moor and village are both deep in snow. The village is dominated by Sittaford House which was built ten years ago by Captain Joseph Trevelyan after he retired from the Royal Navy. He is wealthy and built his big house right on the shoulder of the moor under the shadow of Sittaford Beacon. He had purchased a large tract of land on which he first built the big house with all modern conveniences, then he had built six small bungalows, each in a quarter acre of ground, along the lane leading from the house down to the small village. The cottages are inhabited thus:

  • Number 1 – Major Burnaby, Trevelyan’s oldest friend and sporting partner
  • Number 2 – Captain Wyatt ‘a tall thin man with a very brown complexion, bloodshot eyes and grey hair. He was propped up with a crutch on one side’
    • Wyatt’s miserable-looking native servant, Abdul, ‘a tall Indian in a turban’
  • Number 3 – Mr Rycroft, a dapper little gentleman whose cottage is stuffed with books about ornithology and criminology
  • Number 4 – stern, strict Miss Caroline Percehouse, ‘a spinster of uncertain years and temper who had come down here to die… six years ago’ but has revived in the clear moorland air
    • currently being visited by her empty-headed young nephew, Ronnie Garfield
  • Number 5 – Curtis, retired gardener at Sittaford House, with his garrulous wife Mrs Curtis, who lets rooms to outsiders
  • Number 6 – Mr Duke, a shy retiring man with a military manner that nobody knows anything about

The village itself consists of three picturesque but dilapidated cottages, a forge, and a combined post office and sweet shop. The nearest town is Exhampton, six miles away. The nearest city is Exeter, a train ride away.

The setup

A few months before the story commences Captain Trevelyan was contacted by an estate agent acting on behalf of a colonial widow, one Mrs Willett from South Africa, who was looking for an isolated country house and had always had an interest in mysterious Dartmoor. Through the estate agent she made a very generous offer to Captain Trevelyan, a rather greedy man, and so the deal was done whereby Mrs Willett and her grown-up daughter Violet, leased Sittaford Hall for the winter while the Captain moved into a bungalow into Exhampton, six miles away.

The village is a small place and pretty much everyone gossiped and speculated about Mrs Willett’s real reasons for moving to such an isolated spot.

The séance

Meanwhile Mrs W and her daughter set about trying to make herself popular with the locals, hosting dinners and teas. On the Friday night in question they invite four local middle class characters to tea, being Captain Trevelyan’s long-standing friend, Major Burnaby, Mr Rycroft, Mr Ronnie Garfield and Mr Duke. Afterwards they go to play bridge but six is too many so someone playfully suggests they hold a séance.

So they select a small round table, turn the lights off, sit round it holding hands, amid much joking and irony and scoffing until – as always happens in fictions like this – the table really does begin to move and really indicates that a spirit from the other side wishes to speak to them.

The murder

Long story short, the message that comes through is that Captain Trevelyan is dead, murdered! Someone looks at their watch and sees that the time is precisely 5.25pm.

This breaks up the séance but also upsets his old friend Major Burnaby who, after some fretting, announces that he is setting off the six miles to Exhampton. He insists he will walk there because a) he is fit as a fiddle and despises cars etc b) it’s coming on to snow again and the road is already impassable to vehicles.

A few hours later, about 8pm, in the middle of the blizzard which has arrived as forecast, Major Burnaby arrives at Captain Trevelyan’s rented house, Hazelmoor. When nobody answers the door, he fetches the local police and the local doctor, Dr Warren a doctor and they enter the house through the open study window at the back. Here they find Captain Trevelyan’s dead body on the floor. Dr Warren estimates the time of death at between 5 and 6 pm. the cause of death is a fracture of the base of the skull and the implement is one of the long sand-filled draught excluders used around the house, which is full of sand.

Who murdered Captain Trevelyan, and why, and what on earth has a séance got to do with it? It takes 200 pages for the reader to find out but along the way two notable things happen: 1) the reader is introduced to an extraordinary number of characters who each have complicated backstories, often with secrets and lies of their own; 2) as already stated, although a detective inspector, Inspector Narracott is put on the case, and proceeds with admirable efficiency, his work is paralleled by the rise of the novel’s heroine, tough, committed and clever young Emily Trefusis.

Who she? Well the police quickly find out that on the day of his murder Captain Trevelyan had been visited by the eldest son of his hard-up sister Jennifer, one James Pearson. Soon after the estimated time of the murder this young man packed his bags at the local hotel and hurriedly caught a train out of town. It doesn’t take long to realise that he had a motive (he had come to see his uncle to beg him to help support his mother; plus he [James] was a beneficiary of Trevelyan’s will; plus a few enquiries reveal that he had been embezzling his employer’s money to fund speculations and had recently lost money) and the opportunity (he had gone to see Trevelyan at or very close to the time of the murder).

So the police arrest, charge and imprison James. But they hadn’t counted on James’s fiancée, Emily, who immediately devotes herself to proving her beloved’s innocence. When she arrives in Sittaford she quickly discovers a journalist from a national newspaper is in the town to hand over the prize for winning a national quiz competition to Major Burnaby. This young man, Charles Enderby, is overjoyed to be on the spot of a true-life murder mystery and sets about boosting his profile by cabling his editor back in London that he will get all kinds of exclusives.

This enthusiasm, plus the fact that she is very attractive, allows Emily to quickly size him up and realise that the can manipulate and use Charles for her own ends, something he half-consciously collaborates in as he starts to fall in love with her – or so he thinks. Here she is buttering him up something rotten.

‘One can’t do anything without a man. Men know so much, and are able to get information in so many ways that are simply impossible to women.’
‘Well – I – yes, I suppose that is true,’ said Mr Enderby complacently. (Chapter 11)

Cast

Here’s the vast cast list. Following the twists and turns of the backstories of a dozen or more of them become a full-time and quite demanding activity.

  • Captain Joseph Trevelyan – confirmed old bachelor, owner of Sittaford House which he has rented to Mrs Willett and her daughter, while he moves into a cottage (named Hazelmoor) in the nearest town, Exhampton, ‘known as a woman hater’, doesn’t like his habits upset
  • Hazelmoor’s owner Miss Larpent. Middle-aged woman, she’s gone to a boarding house at Cheltenham for the winter
  • Evans – long-term cook and handyman for Captain Trevelyan, ‘retired naval chap. Ugly customer in a scrap’, ‘a short thick-set man. He had very long arms and a habit of standing with his hands half clenched. He was clean shaven with small, rather pig-like eyes, yet he had a look of cheerfulness and efficiency that redeemed his bulldog appearance’. Evans has recently married…
  • Rebecca Belling, now Mrs Evans, daughter of the local pub landlady
  • Major Burnaby – Captain Trevelyan’s old friend and sports partner, nowadays more into crosswords and acrostics, lives at Number 1 the cottages, gruff, bluff, ‘naturally a silent man’, sceptical about the séance which he thinks is stuff and nonsense
  • Mrs Willett – ‘a tall woman with a rather silly manner – but her physiognomy was shrewd rather than foolish. She was inclined to overdress, had a distinct Colonial accent…’ ‘a fashionable sort of woman. Dressed up to the nines’
  • Miss Violet – her daughter, very nervous. In Burnaby’s view ‘Pretty girl – scraggy, of course – they all were nowadays. What was the good of a woman if she didn’t look like a woman? Papers said curves were coming back. About time too’
  • Mr Ryecroft – ‘a little, elderly, dried-up man’, ‘an enthusiast on birds’. Member of the Psychical Research Society, lives in Number 3 the Cottages – ‘You must forgive me, Miss Trefusis, I am deeply interested in the study of crime. A fascinating study. Ornithology and criminology are my two subjects’
  • Mr Ronald Garfield – ‘a fresh-coloured, boyish young man’, according to his bed-ridden Aunt, Mrs Percehouse, ‘a good lad in his way, but pitifully weak’
  • Mr Duke – a recent arrival, just bought the last of the six bungalows, Number 6, in September. He is ‘a big man, very quiet and devoted to gardening’
  • Elmer – ‘the proprietor of the sole car in the place, an aged Ford, hired at a handsome price by those who wished to go into Exhampton’
  • Constable Graves – local policeman
  • Dr Warren – lives almost next door to the police station, first to examine the body and declare time of death
  • Inspector Narracott – ‘a very efficient officer. He had a quiet persistence, a logical mind and a keen attention to detail which brought him success where many another man might have failed’
  • Sergeant Pollock of the Exhampton police
  • Superintendent Maxwell – Narracott’s superior
  • Mrs Belling – proprietor of the Three Crowns. ‘Mrs Belling was fat and excitable, and so voluble that there was nothing to be done but to listen patiently until such time as the stream of conversation should dry up’ (note Christie’s mockery of several gabby old women in this novel, as in its predecessor, The Murder at the Vicarage)
  • James Pearson – down from London on a flying visit, soon to be questioned and arrested
  • Young male estate agent at Messrs. Williamson, ‘You learn never to be surprised at anything in the house business’
  • Mr Kirkwood – partner in Messrs. Walters & Kirkwood, Trevelyan’s solicitors, co-executor of his will, ‘an elderly man with a benign expression’
  • Charles Enderby – reporter for the Daily Wire come down to Exhampton to award Major Burnaby a cheque for £5,000
  • Mrs Jennifer Gardner – Captain Trevelyan’s sister, lives in Exeter at The Laurels – ‘A tall, rather commanding woman came into the room. She had an unusual looking face, broad about the brows, and black hair with a touch of grey at the temples, which she wore combed straight back from her forehead.’.. ‘Character – that was what it was. Aunt Jennifer had about enough character for two and three quarter people instead of one’
  • Captain Robert Gardner – Aunt Jennifer’s husband, was invalided out of the army after the war with shell shock which has paralysed all his limbs (allegedly)
    • Beatrice – her ‘slipshod’ maid
    • Nurse Davis – nurse for bed-ridden Captain Gardner
  • Mary Pearson, Trevelyan’s other sister, mother of three adult children i.e. Trevelyan’s nephews and niece
  • James, 28 – ‘good-looking, indeed handsome, if you took no account of the rather weak mouth and the irresolute slant of the eyes. He had a haggard, worried look and an air of not having had much sleep of late.’ In the opinion of Emily his fiancée: ‘Dear Jim, dear, sweet, boyish, helpless, impractical Jim. So utterly to be depended on to do the wrong thing at the wrong moment.’
  • Emily Trefusis – ‘a very exceptional kind of young woman. She was not strikingly beautiful, but she had a face which was arresting and unusual, a face that having once seen you could not forget. There was about her an atmosphere of common sense, savoir-faire, invincible determination and a most tantalizing fascination’… ‘This business-like and attractive girl.’
  • Sylvia, 25 – ‘small and fair and anaemic looking, with a worried and harassed expression. Her voice had that faintly complaining note in it which is about the most annoying sound a human voice can contain.’ Sylvia is married to:
  • Martin Dering – ‘You may have read his books. He’s a moderately successful author’
  • Brian – out in Australia, in Inspector Narracott’s view ‘a hot-tempered, high-handed young man’
  • Mrs Curtis – occupies Number 5 the Cottages; rents out rooms. ‘A small, thin, grey haired woman, energetic and shrewish in disposition.’
  • Curtis – former gardener at Sittaford House, ‘a rather gruff looking grey-haired old man’
  • Miss Caroline Percehouse – lives at Number 4 The Cottages, ‘a spinster of uncertain years and temper who had come down here to die, according to Mrs Curtis, six years ago’. ‘An elderly lady with a thin wrinkled face and with one of the sharpest and most interrogative noses that Emily had ever seen.’ Despite or because of this, Emily comes to respect her insight and judgement.
    • Ronald Garfield is her useless nincompoop nephew; she is his Aunt Caroline
  • Captain Wyatt – occupant of Number 2 the Cottages with an Indian servant – ‘The Captain’s habit of letting off a revolver at real or imaginary cats was a sore trial to his neighbours.’ ‘The young men of the present day make me sick,’ said Captain Wyatt. ‘What’s the good of them?’ [sounding remarkably like D.H. Lawrence]
  • Amos Parker – greengrocer at Exhampton, supplies Sittaford
  • Mrs Hibbert at the post office
  • Mr Pound, the blacksmith
  • Mr Dacres – Emily’s solicitor, who is undertaking Jim’s defence

Long list isn’t it, and there’s barely a person in it who doesn’t turn out to have their own secrets and backstories which, when either Inspector Narracott or Charles Enderby or Emily Trefusis stumble upon, deduce or discover them doesn’t, for a portion of the narrative, make them seem like a possible suspect.

It’s like a child’s kaleidoscope where the steady arrival of new facts and discoveries continually changes the investigators’ hypotheses, and overturn or modify any the reader might have been devising. In this sense the stories are very dynamic, presenting a constantly shifting landscape of theories and interpretations.

Emily Trefusis

In the Chief Constable’s opinion, ‘a managing young woman’, and ‘a young woman who prided herself on being sharper than other people’, Emily quite quickly emerges as the heroine of the book. She is absolutely determined to clear her fiancé’s name and so throws her impressive intellect and redoubtable willpower into solving the mystery of the murder.

‘We shall find something,’ said Emily. ‘I always find something.’
Mr Enderby could well believe that. Emily had the kind of personality that soars triumphantly over all obstacles. (Chapter 11)

‘We’ll assume that it is true,’ said Emily firmly. ‘I am sure that in detection of crime you mustn’t be afraid to assume things.’ (Chapter 15)

Bonding with Miss Percehouse.

‘Here is someone,’ thought Emily, ‘who goes straight to the point and means to have her own way and bosses everybody she can. Just like me only I happen to be rather good-looking and she has to do it all by force of character.’ (Chapter 17)

Mrs Curtis’s view:

‘A deep one – and one that can twist all the men round her little finger.’ (Chapter 21)

And, as I’ve mentioned, Emily does twist poor Charles Enderby entirely round her little finger in order to get him onto her team and working to free her fiancé.

Emily’s theory of ‘angle of attack’

I didn’t entirely understand this but the phrase is repeated and Emily herself uses it to describe her approach.

She wished with all her heart that she had met the dead man even if only once. It was so hard to get an idea of people you had never seen. You had to rely on other people’s judgment, and Emily had never yet acknowledged that any other person’s judgment was superior to her own. Other people’s impressions were no good to you. They might be just as true as yours but you couldn’t act on them. You couldn’t, as it were, use another person’s angle of attack. (Chapter 16)

She had no intention of allowing any angle of attack to remain unexplored. (Chapter 16)

As she investigates more i.e. sets out to meet and interview everyone in the village, everyone who knew the captain, and his extended family, Emily develops a ‘system’ not a million miles from Hercule Poirot’s similar systematicness (except Poirot keeps everything in his head):

At the moment she felt disinclined for anything but solitude. She wanted to sort out and arrange her own ideas. She went up to her own room, and taking pencil and notepaper she set to work on a system of her own. (Chapter 17)

And:

And then deliberately she set herself to think out things from the beginning, going over every detail that she knew herself or had learned by hearsay from other people. She considered every actor in the drama and outside the drama. (Chapter 26)

Elsewhere she justifies her freelance approach to Charles.

‘All public things are much better done by the police. It’s private and personal things like listening to Mrs Curtis and picking up a hint from Miss Percehouse and watching the Willetts – that’s where we score.’ (Chapter 25)

The ‘relying on’ stunt

‘Stunt’ occurs a lot in the 1920s, indicating a scam or schtick or technique or method. A little way into the novel Emily stumbles on a clever way to manipulate the men around her. This is to tell them that she is only a helpless lickle ickle girly and she is so grateful that she’s found a big strong man like them to rely on – at which point no self-respecting man can fail to ruffle up his chest feathers, feeling flattered that he is coming to the rescue of this damsel in distress. Works every time. And gets funnier with every repetition.

To Charles Enderby:

‘That’s just what I mean to do,’ said Emily with a complete lack of truth, ‘It’s so wonderful to have someone you can really rely on.’ (Chapter 11)

To Mr Ryecroft:

‘It’s so wonderful,’ she said, using the phrase that in the course of her short life she had found so effectual, ‘to feel that there’s someone on whom one can really rely.’ (Chapter 16)

To Inspector Narracott:

‘How men do stick together,’ went on Emily looking over the telegrams. ‘Poor Sylvia. In some ways I really think that men are beasts. That’s why,’ she added, ‘it’s so nice when one finds a man on whom one can really rely.’ (Chapter 27)

And not just on men. here she is buttering up bed-ridden Captain Gardner’s nurse:

‘How splendid,’ said Emily. ‘It must be wonderful for Aunt Jennifer to feel she has somebody upon whom she can rely.’
‘Oh, really,’ said the Nurse simpering, ‘you are too kind.’
(Chapter 20)

Ronnie Garfield’s theory

Ronnie is an impecunious Bertie Wooster type of upper-class twit. At one point he is given his own dim-witted ‘theory’, regarding the third cousin, Brian Pearson, who everyone thinks disappeared off to Australia years earlier.

‘Fellows that go off to the Colonies are usually bad hats. Their relations don’t like them and push them out there for that reason. Very well then – there you are. The bad hat comes back, short of money, visits wealthy uncle in the neighbourhood of Christmas time, wealthy relative won’t cough up to impecunious nephew – and impecunious nephew bats him one. That’s what I call a theory. (Chapter 23)

Bookish

Here, as in all her novels, I’m getting used to Christie regularly having her characters describe how they feel as if they’re living in a detective novel, or how things resemble (or don’t) similar scenes you read about in books.

‘What a scoop it would be,’ said Mr Enderby, ‘if you and I discovered the real murderer. The crime expert of the Daily Wire – that’s the way I should be described. But it’s too good to be true,’ he added despondently. ‘That sort of thing only happens in books.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Emily, ‘it happens with me.’
(Chapter 11)

‘Just like a sixpenny [crime novel] I got at Woolworth’s the other day, ‘The Syringa Murders’ it was called. And do you know what led them to find the real murderer, Miss? Just a bit of common sealing wax.’
(The chambermaid at the Three Crowns, Chapter 12)

‘I know what you’re thinking. Like in books there ought to be some little incident that I should remember that would be a clue. Well, I’m sorry, but there isn’t any such thing.’
(Chapter 15)

They went up the small path and entered the cottage. The interior was charming. Bookcases lined the walls. Emily went from one to the other glancing curiously at the titles of the books. One section dealt with occult phenomena, another with modern detective fiction, but by far the greater part of the bookcases was given up to criminology and to the world’s famous trials.
(Chapter 16)

‘Yes, Miss Trefusis, I see exactly what you mean. You’ll understand that contrary to the popular belief in novels it is extremely difficult to fix the time of death accurately.’
(Dr Warren, Chapter 18)

‘But then you know what the police are – always butting in on the wrong tack. At least that’s what it says in detective novels.’
(Ronnie again, Chapter 21)

‘Of course,’ said Emily, ‘the person it ought to be is Abdul. It would be in a book. He’d be a Lascar really, and Captain Trevelyan would have thrown his favourite brother overboard in a mutiny – something like that.’
(Chapter 25)

‘It’s generally understood in books, he said, ‘that the police are intent on having a victim and don’t in the least care if that victim is innocent or not as long as they have enough evidence to convict him. That’s not the truth, Miss Trefusis, it’s only the guilty man we want.’
(Inspector Narracott, Chapter 26)

She took each drawer out and felt behind it. In detective stories there was always an obliging scrap of paper. But evidently in real life one could not expect such fortunate accidents…
(Chapter 28)

Plus what I’ve come to realise is the obligatory reference to Sherlock Holmes which crops up in pretty much every Agatha Christie novel.

‘I say, are you doing any sleuthing? If so, can I help? Be the Watson to your Sherlock, or anything of that kind?’
(Upper-class twit Ronnie Garfield, Chapter 21)

Stereotypes

As discussed in earlier reviews, there’s not a lot of point picking out stereotypical and (nowadays insulting) generalisations about gender and ethnicity because detective stories like these are made out of stereotypes. Every character is a type as broad and recognisable as the types in Pilgrim’s Progress or Restoration comedy or Sheridan – the crusty old Royal Navy bachelor, the keen-as-mustard newspaper reporter, the worried mother and nervous daughter, the solid dependable doctor, and so on and so on.

It’s the familiarity of these types which is such a large part of the enjoyment. It’s like the types you meet in pantomime or sitcoms, utterly predictable and therefore reassuring and amusing. It’s so relaxing not having to cope with the complexities and unreadability of real life, and instead slip into a smooth and totally understandable world of reassuringly familiar caricatures. Obviously lots of them harbour secrets and one of them is a murderer but it really doesn’t matter, because everything will be revealed and explained and competently put to rest.

Gabby old women

The book before this, ‘The Murder at the Vicarage’ and in this one, Christie makes a big deal out of several older female characters who can’t stop talking, namely Mrs Curtis:

Left to his own devices Charles Enderby did not relax his efforts. To familiarize himself with life as lived in Sittaford village he had only to turn on Mrs Curtis much as you would turn on the tap of a hydrant. Listening slightly dazed to a stream of anecdote, reminiscence, rumours, surmise and meticulous detail he endeavoured valiantly to sift the grain from the chaff. He then mentioned another name and immediately the force of the water was directed in that direction. (Chapter 21)

‘It’s almost a disease the way that woman talks,’ said [Mrs Willett]. (Chapter 21)

‘That chattering magpie of a woman, Mrs Curtis. She’s clean and she’s honest, but her tongue never stops, and she pays no attention to whether you listen or whether you don’t.’ (Chapter 28)

All complemented by Mrs Curtis’s pantomime lack of self awareness:

‘Curtis will be wanting his tea and that’s a fact,’ said Mrs Curtis without moving. ‘I was never one to stand about gossiping.’ (Chapter 21)

Pushing back

But sometimes Christie enjoys pushing back against expectations. Thus in ‘The Murder at the Vicarage’ Miss Marple is a rebuttal of all the tired clichés the pompous male policemen spout against a) women and b) old women, in particular.

And so Emily Trefusis feels similarly unexpected. To me she feels like she’s kicking back against clichés about ‘young women today’ etc. In this she is linked to and Lady Eileen ‘Bundle’ Brent in the wonderfully entertaining The Secret of Chimneys and its sequel, The Seven Dials Mystery. This is why Mrs Percehouse’s opinion seems more than usually important:

‘I hate a slobbering female,’ said Miss Percehouse. ‘I like one who gets up and does things.’ (Chapter 17)

In their different ways, Bundle, Marple and Emily are just such women.

He-man

Crops up in various texts from the period. Was obviously a newish slogan or catchphrase in the 1920s.

‘I think path digging will be your only sport.’
‘I’ve been at it all the morning.’
‘Oh! you he-man!’
‘Don’t laugh at me. I’ve got blisters all over my hands.’
(Miss Violet teasing Ronnie Garfield, Chapter 1)

Woman hater

Trevelyan is described by several characters as a ‘woman hater’. Mrs Willett has no time for this description.

‘I’ve known dozens of men like it. They are called women haters and all sorts of silly things, and really all the time it’s only shyness. If I could have got at him,’ said Mrs Willett with determination, ‘I’d soon have got over all that nonsense. That sort of man only wants bringing out.’ (Chapter 14)

I’d like to see her have a go at Andrew Tate.

The press

In a deceptively comic way Christie shows how mendacious and distorting the English press are. All the complexity of human life has to be cramped and chopped up to fit newspaper stereotypes. Thus young Charles Enderby is comically open with Emily about how he’s rewritten their conversations to suit the medium’s requirements.

‘Er – I hope you don’t mind, I have just posted off an interview with you?’
‘Oh! that’s all right,’ said Emily mechanically. ‘What have you made me say?’
‘Oh, the usual sort of things people like to hear,’ said Mr Enderby. ‘Our special representative records his interview with Miss Emily Trefusis, the fiancée of Mr James Pearson who has been arrested by the police and charged with the murder of Captain Trevelyan – Then my impression of you as a high-spirited, beautiful girl.’
‘Thank you,’ said Emily.
‘Shingled,’ went on Charles.
‘What do you mean by shingled?’
‘You are,’ said Charles.
‘Well, of course I am,’ said Emily. ‘But why mention it?’
‘Women readers always like to know,’ said Charles Enderby. ‘It was a splendid interview. You’ve no idea what fine womanly touching things you said about standing by your man, no matter if the whole world was against him… I put in a very good bit about Captain Trevelyan’s sea career and just a hint at foreign idols looted and a possibility of a strange priest’s revenge – only a hint you know.’
(Chapter 17)

Christie had had personal experience of the Press’s commitment to lying and distorting people’s actions and words in order to produce copy that sells newspapers during the famous incident of her disappearance in 1928. All things considered, it’s striking how mild her satire on the Press is. Later she has her cops give a more considered view:

‘What was he doing there? Enderby, I mean?’
‘You know what journalists are,’ said Narracott, ‘always nosing round. They’re uncanny.’
‘They are a darned nuisance very often,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘Though they have their uses too.’ (Chapter 24)

Height

Christie doesn’t like gabbing women but she has a penchant for tall characters. Tall is good.

Mrs Willett covertly, that she did not look a fool. She was a tall woman with a rather silly manner – but her physiognomy was shrewd rather than foolish… (Chapter 1)

Inspector Narracott was a very efficient officer. He had a quiet persistence, a logical mind and a keen attention to detail which brought him success where many another man might have failed.
He was a tall man with a quiet manner, rather far away grey eyes, and a slow soft Devonshire voice. (Chapter 4)

‘Violet.’ He had hardly noticed the girl who had followed her in, and yet, she was a very pretty girl, tall and fair with big blue eyes. (Chapter 14)

This was a young man not more than twenty-four or five years of age. Tall, good-looking and determined, with none of the hunted criminal about him. (Chapter 22)

Premise

I’ll sign off with another version of that cliché quoted at the top.

‘But one never knows. He’s no fool, that fellow, whatever else he is.’
‘No, he’s an intelligent sort of chap.’
‘His story seems straightforward enough,’ went on the Inspector.
‘Perfectly clear and above board. Still, as I say, one never knows…’ (Chapter 5)

You never know, you never know… until the final chapters of the novel where all is revealed and then… we all know, light is shed in all the dark corners, the culprit is arrested, all the other anomalies and mysteries are cleared up, and we all achieve complete closure, all in time for bed.


Credit

‘The Sittaford Mystery’ by Agatha Christie was published by the Collins Crime Club in 1931.

Related links

Related reviews

‘Always dropping in – dropping in – too much dropping in. If I don’t choose to see anyone for a week, or a month, or a year, that’s my business.’ (Captain Wyatt)

Tonight at 8.30 by Noel Coward (1936) – 3

‘Tonight at 8.30’ is a cycle of ten one-act plays by Noël Coward. It was first staged in London in 1936 with Coward himself and Gertrude Lawrence in the leading roles.

The plays are mostly comedies but three – ‘The Astonished Heart’, ‘Shadow Play’ and ‘Still Life’ – are serious. Four of the comedies include songs, with words and music by Coward.

One play, ‘Star Chamber’, was dropped after a single performance. The other nine plays were presented in three programmes of three plays each. There have been numerous revivals of many of the individual plays, but revivals of the complete cycle have been much less frequent. Several of the plays have been adapted for the cinema and television.

Background

In the late 1920s and early 1930s, Coward wrote a succession of hits, ranging from the intimate comedies ‘Private Lives’ (in which Coward also starred alongside Gertrude Lawrence) and ‘Design for Living’, to the operetta ‘Bitter Sweet’ (1929) and the historical extravaganza ‘Cavalcade’ (1931).

After performing in ‘Private Lives’, Coward felt that the public enjoyed seeing him and Lawrence together on stage, and so he wrote the play cycle ‘Tonight at 8.30’ expressly as ‘acting, singing, and dancing vehicles for Gertrude Lawrence and myself’. But he also had the conscious motive of reviving the moribund form of the one-act play. As he wrote in the Preface to the printed plays:

A short play, having a great advantage over a long one in that it can sustain a mood without technical creaking or over padding, deserves a better fate, and if, by careful writing, acting and producing I can do a little towards reinstating it in its rightful pride, I shall have achieved one of my more sentimental ambitions.

Ten plays

The cycle consists of ten plays. In order of first production they are:

  1. We Were Dancing: A comedy in two scenes
  2. The Astonished Heart: A play in six scenes
  3. Red Peppers: An interlude with music
  4. Hands Across the Sea: A light comedy in one scene
  5. Fumed Oak: An unpleasant comedy in two scenes
  6. Shadow Play: A play with music
  7. Family Album: A Victorian comedy with music
  8. Star Chamber: A light comedy in one act
  9. Ways and Means: A comedy in three scenes
  10. Still Life: A play in five scenes

This blog post summarises and comments on numbers 7, 8, 9 and 10.

7. Family Album: A Victorian comedy with music

It is the evening of an autumn day in 1860. The entire 20-page play takes place in the same setting, the drawing room of a house in Kent belonging to the Featherways family. The play depicts this prosperous middle-class Victorian family, all wearing mourning and gathered after the funeral of their father. The group comprises his five children (in bold) and their spouses, if they have them:

  • Jasper Featherways, the facile flippant one, played by Coward
  • Jane, married to Jasper
  • Harriet Featherways now married to…
  • Charles Winter
  • Emily Featherways, now married to…
  • Edward Valance
  • Richard Featherways, unmarried
  • Lavinia Featherways, unmarried

They reminisce and call for madeira wine to drink a toast in. This is brought in by the ancient butler, Burrow, who is very hard of hearing which leads to utterly predictable and very enjoyable misunderstandings.

Jasper takes the lead in proposing toasts and is given a stream of comic and flippant remarks throughout. Lavinia is the most stern and Victorian of them all, strongly objecting to drinking after a funeral, and to many of the jokes and flippant remarks – ‘This is so wrong, so dreadfully wrong.’ As he proposes the toasts, Jasper breaks into song, the first of four songs in the piece:

At which point Jasper suggests it’s time to get the big old family trunk down from the attic. Jasper asks Burrows to fetch the box, to which Burrows comically replies that, yes, he’s wound them all up, to which Jasper says significantly louder, The box not the clocks.

So Jasper and Richard go up into the attic and fetch down a bog old dusty box. But when he goes to unlock it, discovers it’s already open and then realises it’s an old box full of their toys and dressing-up costumes. The Featherways offspring get these all out and start playing an old favourite game of theirs, Princes and Princesses which, again, triggers a song, ‘Princes and Princesses’, which I can’t find on the internet.

Incidentally, they have all continued drinking the madeira very liberally and have now finished the first bottle so ring for Burrows to bring another one which they pour out with gusto. This strikes me as not very 1860s behaviour, much more the drunken behaviour of Leo and Otto in ‘Design for Living’ or Elyot and Amanda in ‘Private Lives’.

They drink a toast to Burrows, who was so sweet and kind to them when they were all children. Any the next thing they find in the old trunk is a musical box which they wind up and which, of course, provides music for more songs, which they sing, amid more drinking. Here’s a medley of two of the songs, ‘Hearts and Flowers’ and ‘Music Box’.

The others are continuing uttering pious sentiments about their dead father when Lavinia amazes them and the audience by declaring she hated him.

LAVINIA: I hated Papa, so did you … He was cruel to Mama, he was unkind to us, he was profligate and pompous and worse still, he was mean.

Worst of all, he kept her at home as if imprisoned in the dark old Victorian home, counting his bills and sorting his linen and putting up with his silence or his insults. She hated him and she’s glad he’s dead.

(All this resonated with me much more since I read Virginia Woolf’s searing feminist polemic Three Guineas which, among other things, gives a horrible sense of how the Victorian home was a prison and a tomb for countless million unmarried middle class women, a plight dramatised by the case of Eleanor Pargiter in her novel, The Years.)

She then astonishes the others by telling them that the will read out to them that morning, the one which distributed family fortune equally among the five children, was not the old man’s final will. Just a week before he died he had made a new one, leaving the children nothing but dividing his fortune among his three mistresses and the rest to pay for a new church containing a grandiose memorial to himself in black marble.

This will was witnessed by Lavinia and Burrows, but now, she tells the flabbergasted family, precisely seven minutes after the old man expired, they burned it! Flabbergasted Jasper calls Burrows in to ask if all this is true but the deaf old retainer wisely and diplomatically states that his deafness is getting worse so that he will never be able to hear questions about the will.

They all realise what an excellent chap he is and invite him to join them for a (yet another) glass of madeira although it is Burrows himself who has the last toast, drinking to the whole family as, to the tune of the musical box, they dance round him hand in hand.

Comment

Immensely enjoyable because it’s one of the few Coward plays where the characters don’t spend a lot of the time shouting at each other or feeling miserable. It is wonderfully warm and happy and the plot, too, is simple but charming.

8. Star Chamber: A light comedy in one act

This is the one play in the set which was quickly dropped only being performed once. Maybe this was because it had by far the largest cast, with ten named parts.

It’s set on a West End stage around noon i.e. no question of a performance taking place. Instead one by one the ten or so characters arrive and we learn that they are all members of a ‘committee’ including its secretary. It takes a while to learn it’s the committee of the ‘Garrick Haven Fund’. The characters are:

  • Jimmie Horlick, stage manager
  • J. M. Farmer, secretary of the Garrick Haven Fund, amiable looking man between 30 and 40 carrying a briefcase stuffed with papers
  • Hester More, a vague, absent-minded and fanciful actress, ‘vague to the point of lunacy’
  • Johnny Bolton, a star comedian, middle aged, of working class origin, outlandishly dressed in ‘plus fours, a camel-hair coat, a check cap and a very bright scarf’
  • Julian Breed, the leading young actor in London
  • Violet Vibart, an elderly actress of considerable reputation
  • Maurice Searle, an exceedingly handsome virile young actor, mortally embarrassed because he’s had to grow long hair for a film role
  • Dame Rose Maitland, a grande dame of the theatre, majestic and autocratic, a vice president of the committee
  • Elise Brodie, an actress, pretty and respectable, another vice president of the committee
  • Xenia James, an actress, president of the Fund

I loved all these caricatures, very enjoyable. I loved Hester’s wild flights of fantasy (flights which I’ve noted running like a thread through so many of his plays), I loved the way the Johnnie character sticks out a mile because of his Cockney accent and the way he keeps trying to tell people long boring scenarios which everyone drifts off and ignores and so which are never finished.

I love the lofty way the grande dame ignores everyone and fails to hear anything she doesn’t want to. It takes a while for all these thespians to arrive and settle down and it’s funny how they’ve just agreed that, in the absence of the chair, Xenia James, Dame Rose will chair the meeting when the very same Xenia James makes a grand entrance dragged along by a vast great Dane, who she’s named after a fellow actor who passed away, Atherton.

Synopsis

Anyway, on the bare stage of a West End theatre the stage manager, Jimmie Horlick, is arranging chairs round a large table in preparation for a meeting of the committee of the Garrick Haven Fund. The committee members arrive in dribs and drabs.

First, Mr Farmer, Secretary of the Fund, briefcase packed with papers, methodical and harassed. Next Hester More, a dizzy young actress; Johnny Bolton, ‘a star comedian of middle age but perennial youthfulness’; Violet Vibart, an elderly actress of great distinction; Julian Breed, a popular juvenile lead; Maurice Searle, a character actor who has grown his hair to shoulder length for an historical role and feels self-conscious about it; the majestic Dame Rose Maitland; the preoccupied Elise Brodie; and finally, and very late, Xenia James, chairman of the committee, with her dog, Atherton.

The whole thing from start to finish is characterised by all the characters’ complete inability to concentrate, focus or obey rules. Instead the continually gossip, talk over each other, interrupt whoever else is speaking, undermine the chair and ignore Farmer’s long boring presentation.

In a nutshell, this is a meeting of the Garrick Haven fund, established in 1902 to provide a home for destitute actresses. The fund is well off, with a balance of £58,000, largely generated by the annual fun fair. Mention of this characteristically triggers all present to wander off into memories of the fair and complaints about all aspects of its management.

With difficulty, Farmer tries to quieten them down and get their attention back onto the issue the meeting’s been called for which is to give formal consent for much-needed structural alterations to the retirement house (notably an extra bathroom and inside toilet).

At this point Atherton starts farting and Xenia gets nice Mr Horlick to take him (very gingerly) off to the props room. Farmer reads a letter from the residents politely asking for the extra loo and bathroom and then proceeds to read out, at very great length, the precise and exact quote for the building works which he’s received from the builders (Messrs Joyce and Spence) and the committee has to sign off on, amounting to £3,082, 17 shillings and fourpence.

The comedy derives from the way it’s like herding cats: the actors are completely incapable of concentrating on anything without wandering off into digressions and lots of private conversations, in one instance a suggestion that the new buildings be decorated with framed posters from old play productions.

Xenia sneaks off to check on Atherton and finds her darling fast asleep and twitching as though chasing rabbits in a dream.

Farmer attempts to read out a further quote for the plumbing work but by now the actors have had it. A press photographer arrives and they are all instantly distracted by this, As Farmer drones valiantly on all the others arrange themselves with much fussing for a group photo.

The actors start to leave in ones and twos as they arrived, Julian and Maurice leaving with the photographer. Xenia makes a speech appealing for donations and promises to give £100 to set the ball rolling not having really grasped that donations are not at all needed, what was needed was attention and responsibility. Then, without formally closing the meeting, she too dashes off, forgetting her dog.

Johnny gets to his feet to second Xenia’s fine sentiments and is droning on about what a worthy cause it is, and how we may all suffer poverty one day etc but he is drowned out by the sound of the remaining thespians all saying goodbye to each other, giving air kisses, promising to meet again soon etc until he becomes utterly demoralised and gives up.

Only valiant Mr Farmer is left to Johnny, with no-one else to snare, invites him to lunch at his club and Farmer is incautious enough to accept. As they walk off he tells Jimmie to turn off the lights, thus providing a mirror of the opening of the play (lights on, enter Jimmie, then Johnny, then Farmer).

And, in a last gag, after everyone has exited the bare stage and the lights have gone off, we hear the mournful howling of the dog Atherton, locked up and abandoned in the props room.

Maybe I’m in a relaxed mood today, but I found this as entertaining and funny as Victorian Album.

9. Ways and Means: A Light Comedy in Three Scenes

We are in the South of France, on the fashionable Cote d’Azur. We are in the house of the very well-off Mrs Lloyd-Ransome. The curtain opens to reveal a bedroom and in the bed, having breakfast off a tray, are the unhappy married couple Toby and Stella Cartwright.

Briefly: he has gambled away all their money. They’re in debt to their banks and everyone they know including their hostess in this house. The dialogue mostly consists of despair at being so broke, alternately flippant / humorous and genuinely despairing.

Toby tells their Nanny (‘a capable looking, middle-aged woman’) to pawn Stella’s jewellery and the gold buttons off his waistcoat. They then go back to the casino to gamble with the cash but in the second scene we find them a few hours later, back in the bed, and utterly despairing, since they have lost everything they got from the pawnbrokers in four minutes flat. Toby had got a place at the big table and was feeling lucky when he was asked to give up his place by an American lady, Mrs Irving Brandt. Ever the gentleman, he gave up his place when a lady requested it and Mrs Irving Brandt went on to ‘run the bank’ 17 times and win 175,000 francs. When she had utterly cleaned up she graciously let Toby have the seat and he promptly lost everything.

Angry, he goes into the bathroom where he manages to bang his head on the mirror and cut himself. There’s a big song and dance while Stella tells him not to be such a baby and gets some iodine to dress the wound.

After much more fuss and flippancy and lamenting, they go to bed and put the lights out. This sets the scene for the third and final scene in which they’re awakened by a burglar. When they call out and put the lights on he pulls a gun on them. However, he’s not a very good burglar and they first demoralise him by telling him they have no money and then manage to disarm him, seize the gun and turn the tables.

When they take his mask off they discover it’s the chauffeur of posh people in their circle, a man named Stevens. Now we understand why there’d been some chat in the first scene, among their posh friends, about some scandal involving this chauffeur. He had been dismissed for having a fling with his employer (Mrs Bainbridge)’s daughter, May. Now he explains that, thus thrown out of work, he decided to try his hand at crime.

So, as in these posh comedies, as for example in P.G. Wodehouse, the posh protagonists turn out to be on good terms with their would-be burglar, and have a civilised chat and a drink. Suddenly a plan occurs to Toby. Remember the 175,000 francs won by Mrs Irving Brandt? Toby suggests Stevens sneaks down the hall and into her room and steals that 175,000 francs.

Despite Stevens’ and Stella’s initial objections, this is what he ends up doing, returning five minutes later not only with all the cash but with some diamonds he pinched as well. They secrete the money in their clothes to look like it’s theirs, then get Stevens to tie them up.

The plan is to look like he broke into their room, tied them up, burgled them, then onto Mrs Brandt, before returning to their room and escaping. So this is what he does, ties them to their chairs and finally ties gags over their mouths. Up to that point they’d been conducting a comic Wodehouse-style conversation in which they promised to help him out with his choice of a new career and he answered all their requests with yes sir, yes ma’am.

He bows politely and leaves them tied to their chairs, gagged, and laughing hysterically.

The way the whole thing is a kind of conspiracy or scam which leaves the actors hooting with laughter is identical with the end of ‘Design for Living’ where the more the outraged husband preaches old-fashioned morality, the more Leo, Otto and Gilda fall about laughing.

In one sense his plays are a kind of conspiracy by imaginative tricksters against the conventional values and morality of the older generation and the poor saps among the current generation who still believe them.

Thoughts

His fans and blurb writers endlessly praise Coward for the wit and stylishness of his writing and dialogue. The plays certainly are almost entirely about posh upper-middle-class people, and they contain much 1) posing and prancing and characters drawing attention to their own poshness with their drawling flippancy and ‘wit’. But this summary or cliché ignores two other major elements of his approach or style or schtick, which are 2) arguments and abuse and 3) flights of fantasy.

1. Wit

STELLA: You seem to forget that one a certain bleak day in 1928 I gave my life into your keeping.
TOBY: Marriage is a sacrament, a mystic rite, and you persist in regarding it as a sort of plumber’s estimate.

TOBY: You play bridge too merrily, Stella.
STELLA: My merriment is entirely a social gesture. I loathe bridge.
TOBY: That is no excuse for playing it as if it were lacrosse.

TOBY: From now onwards I intend to live in the past – the present is too unbearable. I intend to go back to the happy scenes of my boyhood.
STELLA: I’m sorry I’m not a rocking horse.
TOBY: You underrate yourself, darling.

2. Abuse

It had previously been axiomatic that a gentleman never lost his temper and was chivalrous and respectful to woman. The Coward male is neither of these things. The Coward male loses his temper all the time, every few minutes flies into a frothing spitting rage, see ‘Private Lives’ or ‘Design for Living’ or Toby, here.

The furious Coward male also doesn’t mince his words, hurling the most astonishing abuse, insults and threats at his woman. The level of hatred, cursing and threats in ‘Private Lives’ staggered me.

The couple at various moments say:

STELLA: Be quiet… Oh shut up!.. Don’t be so idiotic… Don’t be so silly… Don’t be so childish… Shut up… Toby, don’t be such a fool…

TOBY: Shut up!.. Be quiet, Stella… Don’t be an idiot Stella…

A bit more elaborately:

STELLA: You have the moral values of a warthog… You have a disgusting mind, Toby…

3. Fantasy

The really characteristic thing about Coward, I think, is when his lead characters go off on wild imaginative flights of fancy. Mad frivolous fantasies were Elyot’s distinguishing feature in ‘Private Lives’ and all three protagonists in ‘Design for Living’ cook up fantastical scenarios, and it crops up again here, as Toby in particular expresses his unhappiness in terms of far-fetched similes and scenarios.

TOBY: It is possible, in my present state of splendid detachment, that I might go off into a yogi trance and stay upside down for several days.

Or ridiculous plans:

TOBY: Let’s go quietly but firmly along the passage and murder Pearl Brandt.

Stella’s suggestion that maybe she could do a little light prostitution to earn the money they need. Or her absurd exaggeration:

STELLA: We’ll deliver ourselves over to Olive bound and gagged in the morning.

Coward’s imaginative characters are always overflowing with absurd and fantastical scenarios. It’s this, I think, the vein of fantasy which pops up, a smaller or larger ingredient of each play, much more than the alleged ‘wit’, which makes his plays so entertaining. (Cf ‘Shadow Play’ which is one big fantasy.)

10. Still Life: A play in five scenes

Executive summary

The play portrays the chance meeting at a suburban railway station, the subsequent love affair and eventual parting of a married woman, Laura Jesson, and a doctor, Alec Harvey. The sadness of their secretive affair is contrasted throughout the play with the boisterous life of the tea shop and station staff. ‘Still Life’ differs from most of the plays in the ‘Tonight at 8.30’ cycle by having an unhappy ending. It was also, of course, the basis of the 1945 film, ‘Brief Encounter’, directed by David Lean and starring Trevor Howard and Celia Johnson, which is regularly cited as one of the top ten British films of all time.

Synopsis

The five scenes are set in the same location, namely the tea room at Milford Junction railway station, which is dominated by the elaborate refreshments counter / station buffet, overseen by the strict Myrtle Bagot who bosses around her downtrodden assistant Beryl Waters, and flirts in an imperious dismissive way with Albert the ticket inspector. The action takes place in five scenes across the span of a single year, from April to March.

Scene 1 5.30 on an April afternoon. Myrtle’s character is established as she bosses around her assistant Beryl and rebuffs the attempts of Albert, the ticket-inspector, to flirt with her. Laura is waiting for her train home after shopping. She goes out onto the platform as an express races by with an enormous noise and re-enters moments later complaining of having a smut of grit in her eye. Myrtle gets some water and Albert offers advice but it’s the handsome young Alec introduces himself as a doctor and uses his hankie to remove it for her. She thanks him and goes to catch her train, he goes back to his cup of tea.

Scene 2 Three months later, in July. The ‘rude mechanicals’ i.e. the working class characters provide a foil or backdrop for the main love story. (The phrase ‘rude mechanical’ comes from Shakespeare’s ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ where it refers to the working class artisans who have their own farcical love story which parallels the love story of the main protagonists who are lords and ladies. Three hundred and forty years later Coward is still using much the same device.)

And so the scene opens with Myrtle telling Beryl about a fortune teller who told her love life accurately before Albert breezes in wanting tea and cakes for some travellers on the platform. Against this bright and breezy background, enter Alec and Lara together. He buys two teas and two bath buns.

It becomes clear that after their first meeting they encountered each other a second time by chance and like each other’s company and have had lunch and gone to the pictures together. He took an afternoon off work. Now he’s praising her as ‘awfully nice’, but she feels guilty. When she was a girl living in Cornwall, she and her sister used to sneak out the house at night to go swim in the sea but always felt guilty. Now she feels the same. She’s ‘a respectable married woman with a husband and a home and three children.’

They ask each other to describe their spouses, as people having affairs often do, out of guilt and also to make it seem more homely, more real. She gets him to talk about his work and he explains his passionate interest in preventive medicine, and then goes into more detail about his interest in lung diseases. She sits entranced until it’s time for his train. Suddenly he wants more than to bump into each other by accident but begs that she’ll meet him the following Thursday, in a week’s time, and after initial reluctance, as he takes his hand and prepares to run for his train, she agrees.

Scene 3 Another three months have passed so it’s October. As usual the scene opens with the proles, Albert and Myrtle, flirting. They seem to have reached a new level of intimacy, as he asks her for a kiss over the counter and, on entering, slaps her behind as she’s bent over. She scolds him but permits it. In his tussle to get a kiss they know some cakes on the floor and are picking them up when Alec and Laura come in.

As usual, Alec buys two teas and takes them to their usual table. From their conversation it becomes clear that they have seen a good deal more of each other and have fallen in love. He accepts it and wants her to but Laura is fighting against it, says it’s wrong, ‘dreadfully wrong’. He wants to arrange an afternoon at a friend, Stephen’s, house, presumably to have sex. She, of course, thinks it’s horrible and squalid and will be spoiled by the fear hanging over them. He tells her they’ve both been in love before but neither of them have known this ‘something lovely and strange and desperately difficult’ and, as usual, when she listens to him she is entranced.

As with so many of these Coward plays it’s a question of hermeneutics, of clashing and competing interpretations. They both feel a tremendous attraction to each other but whereas Alec argues strongly for giving into it, Laura bridles and argues against it. She vividly describes going home after their Thursday meetings, and feeling adrift and alien in her house, weirdly detached from all the humdrum objects of her normal domestic life. He becomes more ardent and passionate, holding her hand, saying how he counts the hours till Thursday comes round again.

This intense conversation is completely overshadowed by two loud soldiers entering the room and asking Myrtle for some alcohol. She can’t serve it because it’s out of hours and this develops into an extended argument with them making all kinds of reasons why they need a nice drop, why can’t she put it in the tea etc, while she absolutely refuses to break the law. Eventually she tells Beryl to fetch Norman who takes charge of the situation and tells the two squaddies to ‘op it, before saying he has to return to his gate. Myrtle asks Beryl to get her a glass of brandy for her nerves and tells Beryl that Norman Godby may be on the short side ‘but ‘e’s a gentleman.’

After this extended interruption we return to Alec and Laura at their table. He delivers a speech about how they have to be strong enough to live up to their love, ‘clean and untouched’ by other people’s knowledge, ‘something of our own forever’.

He scribbles the address of his colleague’s flat on a piece of paper for her, says he’s going to miss his train and go to the flat and he’ll be waiting for her and leaves. Laura stares at the paper, then we hear a train steaming in and Myrtle comments on the time, making it quite clear that it’s Laura’s train. Laura gets up, goes to the platform door, pauses, the whistle blows and the train starts to puff out, while she slowly exits the tea room.

I.e. she is going to keep her rendezvous with Alec at his friend’s flat. Presumably to have sex and thereby break her fidelity to her husband, and also the law.

Scene 4 It’s December. As usual the scene opens with comic business among the working classes. If tea room boss Myrtle is carrying on with Norman the ticket collector, Beryl is continuing to be wooed by the man who carries a tray of refreshments round the platforms, Stanley. He asks if he can walk Beryl home, asks her to lock up early, so they can have an extra five minutes, presumably for snogging. Thus the mating game, played at every level of society. In all three relationships, it’s the men who are constantly pushing for more, and the women who, in their various ways, are reluctant or refuse. Is that true of ‘real life’? Or just the convention of the time, and of many times, but not of our modern liberated age?

Laura comes in looking pale and anxious, asks for a brandy, and a pen and paper, which Beryl reluctantly gives her, then sits down to write – presumably an important message to Alec – but breaks down in tears and then Alec comes in anyway. We quickly learn that they were together (presumably for the umpteenth time) at this friend of Alec’s flat, when he came home unexpectedly early and caught them. At least, Alec darted out to chat to the fellow while Laura had to get dressed in a hurry and nip out the back, feeling like a prostitute. She bets they chatted and had a good laugh about her, like men of the world.

He apologises then we get to the heart of the matter, the clash of worldviews or values. Because Alec claims that nothing else matters except their love, except their knowledge that they love each other. But Laura says that other things matter too, such as self respect and decency. So he is the voice of unbridled passion, she, as so often, embodies the weight of social convention, conventional morality etc.

Alec walks over and faces a picture on the wall because he can’t face her as he agrees that this thing will have to end: not their love, he will go on loving her to the end of his life; but their being together. He returns to the table and tells her he is going away. He’s been offered a post at a hospital in Johannesburg, South Africa. It’s a golden opportunity. He’s been agonising for weeks but now he can see this thing is ending and so… Should he go or should he turn it down? This, of course, is cruel of him, handing the whole responsibility of ending the affair to her, specially as she’s shown how vulnerable and conflicted she is. Of course she tells him to go.

He asks her to meet him one last time. Not at the flat, that’s now out of bounds, but at a café in town and they’ll go for a drive in the country. His train chuffs in and he has to go. He apologises for ever meeting her, falling in love with her, for causing her so much misery and she apologises back.

Even this scene, obviously designed to be heart-wringing, is interwoven with comedy from the proles because, before the moments, Alec has to bribe stroppy surly Beryl not to close the café at 10pm as she ought to do, but leave it open for just a few minutes more, so that he can have these final words with Laura.

In other words, this device, of paralleling the main love affair with the shenanigans of the rude mechanicals does a number of things: it provides comic relief for the high emotion of the central couple; but it also sets off and heightens their emotional moments; and it creates a vivid sense of the pressure and constraints under which an affair is carried out. The mechanicals are emblematic not only of society’s moral constraints but of the busyness of life, all the timetables of work and spouses and children and responsibilities and duties which any affair has to find time amid, stolen moments, always limited, which eventually come to seem sordid and sneaky, and make the protagonists, like Laura, feel cheap and miserable.

Scene 5 The fifth and final scene is set in March. Albert is more cocky and confident with Myrtle and sends Beryl into the back room ready to steal a kiss, when Alec and Laura enter. It’s a lovely touch that the station staff have, of course, noticed their romantic trysts, and have taken to calling them Romeo and Juliet. To ourselves, in our own minds, we live intense and tragic lives. To other people, we barely register or only as comic figures of fun.

Obviously this is the last scene between Alec and Laura and meant to be intensely moving but it is typical of the play that almost half of it is taken up with a great palaver among the proles. Mildred, who keeps the newspaper and bookstall comes running in to bring the message that Beryl’s mum’s been taken ill again and they’ve rushed her off to hospital. This leads to a cascade of consequences as Beryl is told, gets in a fret, Myrtle says she’d better go to the hospital straightaway, Mildred better go with her for moral support, she (Myrtle) will stay till locking up time (10pm). Which irritates Albert because he’d bought them tickets to see a show, Broadway Melody of 1936, and he slams his teacup down in exasperation.

Only after this extended palaver do we get to Alec and Laura. This is the last time they’ll meet before he leaves for South Africa and she has come to see him off. He asks if he may write but she says no, better not.

He tells her he loves her with all his heart and she quietly whispers that she wants to die. God. Tortured illicit love.

It is their last few minutes together and they are utterly ruined by the entrance of a friend of Laura’s, the fussy and talkative Dolly, who is overjoyed to bump into her old friend, joins them at their table, and sets about telling her all about her day’s doings, while Laura and Alec can only stare into each other’s eyes.

With the result that their last few minutes together before his train arrives are completely swamped and their goodbye is cruelly limited to a formal handshake. And so Alec goes out while Laura remains, trapped listening to prattling Dolly, who now whitters on about a couple they know who are getting divorced because he had a mistress up in town, the wife spotted it then it all came out etc.

You can imagine how this is daggers to the heart of Laura who has always been more conscious of how society sees these things i.e. crudely, dismissively, heartlessly.

They all hear the express through train approaching and Dolly goes to the counter to buy some chocolate for her son, when Laura suddenly snaps and rushes out onto the platform. Dolly turns and notices her missing and Myrtle says she didn’t see her go.

For a moment there is the strong implication that Laura has run out onto the platform to kill herself by throwing herself in front of the train. For a minute. But then the café door opens and she comes back in, looking ‘very white and shaky’.

Solid practical Dolly asks if she’s alright and when Laura says she feels a bit sick, persuades Myrtle to pour some brandy for Laura (tenpence). They hear the sound of their train, the stopping suburban train coming, Dolly gathers up her parcels and accompanies Laura out as the curtain falls. Masterpiece.

Brief Encounter

Various of the plays were adapted for TV or cinema. Coward himself adapted ‘Still Life’ for the screen as ‘Brief Encounter’, one of the most famous British films of all time.


Related links

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The New Machiavelli by H.G. Wells (1911)

I want to show a contemporary man in relation to the state and social usage, and the social organism in relation to that man.
(The New Machiavelli, page 287)

All I have had to tell is the story of one man’s convictions and aims and how they reacted upon his life; and I find it too subtle and involved and intricate for the doing…
(page 210)

Executive summary

‘The New Machiavelli’ is a first-person narrative told by its protagonist, Richard Remington MP (sleek, tall and neat, p.216). He starts his story in exile in Italy, his promising political career in ruins and his marriage destroyed after he has eloped with pretty young Isabel River. The long rambling narrative that follows aims to explain how he came to this state of affairs.

Remington was a middle-class public schoolboy with a lifelong passion for ‘statecraft’ and dreams of reforming the social and political practices of England. He was a brilliant student at Cambridge, then came down to London where he won a reputation for his books and articles on political themes. He was matched off with an eligible heiress and entered parliament as a Liberal MP in the Liberal landslide of 1906. He was influenced by the gradualist socialism of Altiora and Oscar Bailey, a couple clearly based on Sidney and Beatrice Webb of the Fabian Society.

Once in Parliament, Remington mixes widely with members of the ruling class and of all political parties and slowly his political ideas shift away from the Liberals, as he develops a cult proposal for a kind of ideal aristocracy, one which will promote science and research and art and beauty, a cockamamie idea which eventually leads him to ‘cross the floor’ of the House and join the Conservatives.

He sets up and edits a new magazine, the ‘Blue Weekly’ (‘a little intellectual oasis of good art criticism and good writing’, p.282). In the 1910 general election triggered by the political crisis surrounding David Lloyd George’s Budget, Remington is returned to parliament. He has by now developed an entirely new idea, a version of eugenics suggesting state support for women to marry and raise children, his Endowment for Motherhood scheme, and his career is on the up.

But everything is wrecked when he begins a love affair with a brilliant, playful Oxford graduate, Isabel Rivers. When rumours of their affair begin to circulate, Remington tries to break the affair off but, after much soul searching, resolves to abandon wife, career, party and country to go and live with Isabel in Italy. And it is here that, as the opening chapter makes clear, he sits down to write this extended (380-page) autobiography and justification for his life and actions.

Why it’s titled The New Machiavelli

The narrator clearly states his aim in the opening chapter. After a (relatively short) intellectual life spent worrying about politics, he came to the conclusion that the main aim should be, not fussing about this or that piece of legislation, but the education of a new technocratic elite to properly plan and organise a modern 20th century society – and, on a deeper level, the problem of how to the politician or theorist can reconcile their theories and policies with their personal life.

To be honest, I found the details of this a little hard to nail down, but it’s clear that the overall shape of this long narrative is Remington’s attempt to reconcile his wish to improve society with his wish to be true to himself (i.e. his adulterous affair with a young woman).

Half way through the book, he ties this to the idea that we are just puppets floating on the tide of history, individual cells in the great global brain and that, somehow, by removing the public mask and acknowledging ourselves for what we are, we also connect ourselves to the deeper movements of history. I think.

Anyway, all this led him to reread Machiavelli’s complete works and what he found was a man after his own heart, a man who recorded in his writings his true, deeper self, warts and all. This is strikingly unlike other famous authors in the canon of political writing such as Plato or Confucius, who wrote profoundly about statecraft but left not a trace of their personal lives behind. They are fine statues on plinths but not real people. Hence Remington’s devotion to warts-and-all Machiavelli, and his conscious attempt to integrate the personal into his own policies.

Also, like Machiavelli, the narrator has been driven into exile.

Also, he tells us that, after the Florentine Republic which he supported had fallen, Machiavelli set about writing his famous guide to rulers, ‘The Prince’, but also wondering who in contemporary Italy (in the 1510s) he should be advising. In just the same way, Wells’s narrator tells us that he, to begin with, set out to write a modern-day version of The Prince and also pondered who to dedicate it to, who to set out to teach and instruct (as both Plato and Confucius are recorded as seeking rulers to instruct).

This opening chapter goes on to explain that Remington, in the end, abandoned the idea of writing a new ‘Prince’, and decided to go whole hog and integrate the lessons he had learned from politics into a total portrait of himself i.e. into his autobiography.

So: those are the three or four reasons why the name Machiavelli is in the title: because the author wants to copy the aim of writing a treatise on statecraft, but also to integrate it with an account of his own life, which ended up being so long and detailed that it swamped the theory and turned into an autobiography.

[This lengthy and rather convoluted introduction to the text is very reminiscent of Wells’s long, tortuous introduction to his 1905 novel, The Modern Utopia. In both Wells spends quite a long time sharing with the reader the struggle he had to order and structure his text. If you have a lot of time to disentangle his motives and the convolutions of narrative structure which they result in, it may be worth it. But I think it’s no accident that both books, with their long tortuous rationales leading to very long texts, are not much read, compared to Wells’s earlier, shorter, more focused and exciting works.]

Longer critique

Critics have criticised ‘The New Machiavelli’ for being a poor novel for at least five reasons: 1) It is hugely rambling and digressive, lacking the discipline to cut extraneous matter and concentrate on the plot, instead overflowing with Wells’s hobby horses including great digressions on his pet subjects (the shambolic state of education, urban planning, economic policy), far in excess of anything needed for either plot or characterisation.

2) Despite its promise to be about Edwardian politics (as indicated by the title and the opening chapter, and as Wells promised his publisher) it turns out, like all Wells’s social novels, to be about ‘love’, in this case with the element of sex more prominent than ever before. In fact it was the candid descriptions – not of sex itself, which is nowhere actually described – but of the dominating role the sex urge plays in a young man’s mental life and development, which led his usual publisher (Macmillans) to turn it down, and to widespread accusations of ‘immorality’ by the critics.

3) The third reason is that Wells had recently ‘scandalised’ society by, in the glare of his role as public figure, commentator, novelist etc, having an affair with a much younger woman, Amber Reeves and abandoning his wife to run away with her. Well, the narrator of this long book is also a man prominent in public life who has an affair with a much younger woman and abandons his wife to run away with her. So it was easy to accuse ‘The New Machiavelli’ of being not a novel at all but (yet another) lightly fictionalised autobiography.

4) And not only that but this great long narrative (380 pages in the Everyman paperback edition) is tendentious, has an aim on us. It is cast in the form of a first-person apologia, an ‘apologia pro vita sua’, as Remington recounts in great detail his entire life story with a strong emphasis on sex. From the start he carefully seeds references to his sex urge, describes his first sexual experiences etc, all the while arguing that society needs to be more open and acknowledge the role the sex instinct plays in human life, so that by the time the narrative gets to the affair and elopement (the last quarter of the book) it’s difficult not to read the book as an extended justification of Well’s own behaviour.

5) Finally, Wells had recently ended his 5-year involvement with the Fabian Society (1903 to 1908), quitting the organisation in high dudgeon after a failed attempt to take it over for his own purposes, and the book contains extended and pretty negative portraits of the founders of the Fabians, Sidney and Beatrice Webb, lightly fictionalised as Oscar and Altiora Bailey. For those who knew the Webbs (and the other political figures Wells satirises) the book seemed like a cheap act of revenge. More broadly, this inclusion of public figures he had a grudge against reinforced the sense that Wells didn’t write ‘novels’ but fictionalised autobiographies stuffed with his hobby horse ideas.

For all these reasons it’s easy to dismiss ‘The New Machiavelli’ as less a novel than the latest fictionalising of the main events in Wells’s life which he had already used extensively in the plots of the preceding social novels – Love and Mr Lewisham, Kipps, Mr Polly, Tono-Bungay and Ann Veronica – to which he was now adding his latest scandalous sexual adventure and the Fabian fiasco.

But having said all that, there’s still a lot to redeem ‘The New Machiavelli’ and make it worth reading. Wells is always an interesting writer. I enjoy his prose style, I look forward to the occasional surprising simile, and – to turn the standard criticism on its head – it’s precisely because it’s not a carefully crafted, focused and honed work of art (cf The Good Soldier, The Great Gatsby) but instead a great rambling grab-bag of ideas and issues and memories and vividly imagined scenes and conversations – that it’s an enjoyable read. In some respects it’s like reading a series of articles about late-Victorian and Edwardian social history and I found it very readable on that level.

Muddle versus planning

Also it contains the most extensive statements of the key elements of Wells’s philosophy or politics (if either of them really deserve the name). This is that Wells, like the protagonist of the book, Richard Remington, grew up in a late-Victorian Britain characterised by laissez-faire economic policy and a minimal state devoted to interfering as little as possible in business or society, which had resulted, by the turn of the 20th century, in extraordinary and highly visible shambles in just about every sphere of English society. Six which Wells singles out for special criticism are:

  • the brutally exploitative nature of unregulated industrial capitalism, 7 day weeks, 12 hour days etc
  • the patchy, limited and regressive nature of the British educational ‘system’, which taught the ruling class nothing but Classics and cricket and taught the lower classes hardly anything at all
  • the absolute shambles of urban development without any planning or supervision, which had created great sprawling slums
  • the repressive and retarding influence of the Church on every aspect of society but especially through its network or Church schools
  • the ruinous state of the British Army, badly trained soldiers led by bumbling officers, as revealed by the national humiliation of the Boer War
  • the shameful, furtive, fumbling British attitude to sex which caused so much suffering and harm (disease, abortion, death)

The chaos in all these aspects and more of English society Wells sums up in the key word muddle, which recurs again and again, throughout the novel:

No, the Victorian epoch was not the dawn of a new era; it was a hasty, trial experiment, a gigantic experiment of the most slovenly and wasteful kind. I suppose it was necessary; I suppose all things are necessary. I suppose that before men will discipline themselves to learn and plan, they must first see in a hundred convincing forms the folly and muddle that come from headlong, aimless and haphazard methods…

Muddle,’ said I, ‘is the enemy.’ That remains my belief to this day. Clearness and order, light and foresight, these things I know for Good. It was muddle had just given us all the still freshly painful disasters and humiliations of the war, muddle that gives us the visibly sprawling disorder of our cities and industrial country-side, muddle that gives us the waste of life, the limitations, wretchedness and unemployment of the poor. Muddle!

Against this muddle and shambles Wells sets the concepts of Planning and Order. And he associates these virtues with Science – which establishes the latest information about all aspects of the world – and Education – which disseminates this latest knowledge as widely as possible to the entire population.

[My father] gave me two very broad ideas in that talk and the talks I have mingled with it; he gave them to me very clearly and they have remained fundamental in my mind; one a sense of the extraordinary confusion and waste and planlessness of the human life that went on all about us; and the other of a great ideal of order and economy which he called variously Science and Civilisation… he led me to infer rather than actually told me that this Science was coming, a spirit of light and order, to the rescue of a world groaning and travailing in muddle for the want of it…

So the dichotomy in Wells’s mind isn’t between industrial capitalism and socialism or between the bourgeoisie and the proletariat or between the exploiting class and the exploited or between imperial colonists and colonised natives. It is between Muddle and Planning.

This fundamental dichotomy, or binary opposition, sheds light on Wells’s own personal version of ‘socialism’. By ‘socialism’ he doesn’t mean the political system whereby (to quote a dictionary) ‘the means of production, distribution and exchange should be owned or regulated by the community as a whole’ – he simply means where there should be a carefully thought through and orchestrated plan. ‘Socialism’ is more a codeword for the new world of Order, Reason and Planning which he wished to see.

We were socialists because Individualism for us meant muddle, meant a crowd of separated, undisciplined little people all obstinately and ignorantly doing things jarringly, each one in his own way… Order and devotion were the very essence of our socialism, and a splendid collective vigour and happiness its end. We projected an ideal state, an organised state as confident and powerful as modern science, as balanced and beautiful as a body, as beneficent as sunshine, the organised state that should end muddle for ever; it ruled all our ideals and gave form to all our ambitions.

So, on the one hand you had the actual condition of Britain in the 1880s and ’90s, dominated by a reactionary church and two political parties led by idiotic aristocrats who could quote Latin and Greek tags till the cows came home but knew little else, parties which both believed in keeping state intervention to the absolute minimum, in not making any overarching social plans but responding to events in a chaotic manner…

…And on the other hand, Wells’s belief in total state intervention, in drawing up an all-encompassing, long-term plan to abolish waste and muddle, with religious obscurantism replaced by the latest scientific knowledge, and squabbling petty party politics replaced by a unified ruling elite of technocrats, engineers and scientists acting in the best interests of the whole country, promoting:

educational reorganisation, scientific research, literature, criticism, and intellectual development. (p.273)

What appealed to Wells about ‘socialism’ wasn’t the overthrow of the grotesquely rich ruling class and landed aristocracy in the name of the urban proletariat, but the replacement of the laissez-faire approach which dominated the entire Victorian era with massive, indeed total state control, but a state run by modern scientifically minded elite.

‘Monstrous muddle of things we have got,’ I said, ‘jumbled streets, ugly population, ugly factories —’
‘And you’d do a sight better if you had to do with it?’ said my uncle, regarding me askance.
‘Not me. But a world that had a collective plan and knew where it meant to be going would do a sight better, anyhow. We’re all swimming in a flood of ill-calculated chances —’

Grasp this fundamental dichotomy and you’ve more or less grasped everything Wells had to say and wrote about continuously for over 40 years (from the early 1900s to 1945). ‘The New Machiavelli’ is a realistic novel and so the protagonist – politician Richard Remington – sets out on his crusade to end muddle and impose order, within a relatively realistic setting. Whereas in the numerous science fiction and utopian novels he wrote, Wells looked forward to Order not being imposed by this or that local government but by a World Government made up of a technocratic elite of scientists, engineers and the like, devising 5-, 10-, 50-year plans to reform and rationalise all aspects of human life. Planning. Order. Science. Education. All aspects of the same fundamental vision.

That’s why he dwells at such length, in an early section, on the destruction of the small, self-contained and harmonious community of Bromstead when it was overrun by developers and hack builders and property speculators and the rest of the crooks involved in housing who turned the place into a polluted slum. It’s both an evocative and sad description in itself, but also a microcosm of the national problem: laissez-faire speculation run rampant, unsupervised, uncontrolled, with no guiding plan, leads to slums, dirt, pollution, poverty, bad houses which fall down or rot. It’s a powerful symbol of everything wrong with the British state.

The real villain in the piece – in the whole human drama – is the muddle-headedness, and it matters very little if it’s virtuous-minded or wicked. I want to get at muddle-headedness.

And all this explains why the real battleground for Wells was and remained education. That’s why he gives such a long account of Remington’s education at a public school (strikingly unlike the wretched educational experiences of Arthur Kipps and Alfred Polly). Because even here, at a top public school, the education is shockingly bad, with Wells dwelling on the utter fatuousness of making teenage boys waste thousands of hours learning Latin and ancient Greek, instead of modern science and engineering. Not only does it explain why Britain was, by the 1890s, falling behind America and Germany on every economic measure, but why it produced such strikingly dim and obtuse leaders.

The real scandal, as his long digression about education makes clear, is that it’s yet another aspect of English life which is the result of centuries of muddle and bodging and compromise and a complete lack of a centrally co-ordinated, rational plan.

Modern scientific central planning run by technocrats versus chaotically fragmented muddling through, managed by Latin-quoting buffoons – that is the dichotomy which underpins Wells’s writing, both fiction and non-fiction, articles, encyclopedias, novels, pamphlets, the lot.

Free Love

That and Free Love. During the Edwardian decade Wells became notorious for the many affairs he had while still married to long-suffering Amy Catherine Robbins (always referred to as ‘Jane’). This novel was scandalous in its day because the plotline of the married male protagonist, Richard Remington, having a passionate affair with a much younger woman before running off abroad, was so obviously an only lightly fictionalised autobiographical account of Wells’s own recent affair with the young Amber Reeves who he eloped with.

It wasn’t just that Wells cast the book in the form of a first-person narrative by Remington and so takes us directly into the passions and saucy descriptions of the affair. But that the entire huge narrative is a massive apologia, exemplifying the dictionary definition of ‘a formal written defence of the narrator’s opinions or conduct’.

But it wasn’t just that the entire novel was widely seen as a thinly disguised piece of special pleading by Wells trying to explain and justify what, by the standards of the day, was seen as utterly reprehensible behaviour. More than this, Wells went on to turn his immoral behaviour into a kind of social and political crusade, insisting that society needed to be more tolerant of lovers who breached narrow social rules. And – what alienated many – was that he went further and associated the reform of sexual morality with all the other social reforms he postulated. He in effect insisted that if you wanted to see this better future of Order and planned government by an oligarchy of technocrats, you also had to buy into his crusade for sex reform. In fact at various points the narrator insists that a reformed sexual morality is central to any attempt to reform this muddle-headed nation.

A people that will not valiantly face and understand and admit love and passion can understand nothing whatever.

It was this yoking of his personal (scandalous and ‘immoral’) behaviour to his notions of social, economic and educational reform, his insistence that if you were to follow his political ideals you also had to accept his shameless philandering – which set people against Wells, and which certainly put the prissy Fabians off him.

The social comedies

‘The New Machiavelli’ was in one sense the climax of the series of ‘social comedies’ which started with ‘Love and Mr Lewisham’, ‘Kipps’, ‘Mr Polly’, ‘Tono-Bungay’ and ‘Ann Veronica’. But at the same time it can be seen as the first of his ‘discussion novels’ (although that title probably belongs to ‘Ann Veronica’. It was the most ambitious of them in several respects. 1) It’s by far the longest. 2) It tries to not only define the social and political challenges facing Edwardian England but to show how an intelligent man developed his understanding of them, became aware of them, felt his way into them, and came to develop possible solutions. 3) The hero, Richard Remington, is a distinct class above all the previous protagonists (Lewisham, Kipps, Polly) and enjoys a vastly better education (at public school and Cambridge) than figures like Kipps (dim, left school at 14) or Polly, and so the account of his boyhood, teenage years and schooling is that more thoughtful and considered.

This and the fact that Wells is almost always a very vivid writer. If the book contains numerous digressions or passages about his hobby horses which are too long for ‘artistic’ effect (as his friend and critic Henry James was always pointing out) they are often interesting – especially for someone like me interested in social history as much as the ‘artistic’ effects. In fact you could accurately describe it as a series of magazine articles and features on various subjects gathered together and put into the voice of the narrator to create the appearance of a novel. I liked lots of bits of it.

Interesting passages

On his boyhood

As with the other social novels, arguably the best part is the first part, about his childhood and boyhood, school days and early student years (the first 100 or so pages of this 378-page-long Everyman edition). As with the comparable sections of Kipps, Mr Polly and Tono-Bungay, he writes vividly about childhood and boyhood, with a freshness that mostly disappears when his protagonist becomes a boring grown-up.

On his parents

I enjoyed the characterisation of Remington’s parents. His persuasive portrait of a mother who is a dogmatic low Christian, stern, humourless, anxious and dogmatic leads into passages lamenting the repressive impact of the Church of England on all aspects of English life.

And the portrait of his father, Arthur, as an amiably incompetent science teacher and frustrated gardener. The couple of pages about his father’s persistent failures in every aspect of trying to grow vegetables both struck a chord with me and made me laugh out loud.

At last with the failure of the lettuces came the breaking point. I was in the little arbour learning Latin irregular verbs when it happened. I can see him still, his peculiar tenor voice still echoes in my brain, shouting his opinion of intensive culture for all the world to hear, and slashing away at that abominable mockery of a crop with a hoe. We had tied them up with bast only a week or so before, and now half were rotten and half had shot up into tall slender growths. He had the hoe in both hands and slogged. Great wipes he made, and at each stroke he said, ‘Take that!’ The air was thick with flying fragments of abortive salad. It was a fantastic massacre. It was the French Revolution of that cold tyranny, the vindictive overthrow of the pampered vegetable aristocrats. After he had assuaged his passion upon them, he turned for other prey; he kicked holes in two of our noblest marrows, flicked off the heads of half a row of artichokes, and shied the hoe with a splendid smash into the cucumber frame…

On boyhood memories of Bromley as a village overcome by development

There’s a long digression on the history of Bromstead, the name Wells rather pointlessly gives to what is transparently the real London suburb of Bromley where he grew up. In his entertaining book about Wells, ‘The Culminating Ape’, Peter Kemp uses this passage about Bromstead as an example of Wells’s obsession with muddle, bad planning and environmental degradation. But first and foremost it is a vivid and very enjoyable description of the delights of boyhood, nearly as good as the boyhood sections of ‘Kipps’.

On monkey parades

It was in that phase of an urban youth’s development, the phase of the cheap cigarette, that this thing happened. One evening I came by chance on a number of young people promenading by the light of a row of shops towards Beckington, and, with all the glory of a glowing cigarette between my lips, I joined their strolling number. These twilight parades of young people, youngsters chiefly of the lower middle-class, are one of the odd social developments of the great suburban growths—unkindly critics, blind to the inner meanings of things, call them, I believe, Monkeys’ Parades—the shop apprentices, the young work girls, the boy clerks and so forth, stirred by mysterious intimations, spend their first-earned money upon collars and ties, chiffon hats, smart lace collars, walking-sticks, sunshades or cigarettes, and come valiantly into the vague transfiguring mingling of gaslight and evening, to walk up and down, to eye meaningly, even to accost and make friends. It is a queer instinctive revolt from the narrow limited friendless homes in which so many find themselves, a going out towards something, romance if you will, beauty, that has suddenly become a need — a need that hitherto has lain dormant and unsuspected. They promenade.

This is set in the 1880s but it reminded me of the Mods of the 1960s or the nattily dressed followers of ska at the end of the 1970s, similarly style-conscious, nattily dressed working class boys.

On public school

He gives an interesting portrait of the public school his hero goes to, the City Merchants which, in the absence of any notes in this Everyman edition, I presume refers to the Merchant Tailors School. He gives a satirical account of his hero faking an interest in cricket, the number one focus of a public school education, as well as withering criticism of the obsessive study of Classics, a subject completely and utterly useless for life in the modern world.

On Cambridge

The conversations between his student friends are staggeringly banal and dim, unformed, lacking any depth or data, they refute each other by simply saying ‘What rot old chap’ and so on.

On Kipling

The prevailing force in my undergraduate days was not Socialism but Kiplingism. Our set was quite exceptional in its socialistic professions. And we were all, you must understand, very distinctly Imperialists also, and professed a vivid sense of the ‘White Man’s Burden’.

It is a little difficult now to get back to the feelings of that period; Kipling has since been so mercilessly and exhaustively mocked, criticised and torn to shreds;—never was a man so violently exalted and then, himself assisting, so relentlessly called down. But in the middle nineties this spectacled and moustached little figure with its heavy chin and its general effect of vehement gesticulation, its wild shouts of boyish enthusiasm for effective force, its lyric delight in the sounds and colours, in the very odours of empire, its wonderful discovery of machinery and cotton waste and the under officer and the engineer, and ‘shop’ as a poetic dialect, became almost a national symbol. He got hold of us wonderfully, he filled us with tinkling and haunting quotations, he stirred Britten and myself to futile imitations, he coloured the very idiom of our conversation. He rose to his climax with his ‘Recessional’ while I was still an undergraduate.

What did he give me exactly? He helped to broaden my geographical sense immensely, and he provided phrases for just that desire for discipline and devotion and organised effort the Socialism of our time failed to express, that the current socialist movement still fails, I think, to express. The sort of thing that follows, for example, tore something out of my inmost nature and gave it a shape, and I took it back from him shaped and let much of the rest of him, the tumult and the bullying, the hysteria and the impatience, the incoherence and inconsistency, go uncriticised for the sake of it:

Keep ye the Law—be swift in all obedience—
Clear the land of evil, drive the road and bridge the ford,
Make ye sure to each his own That he reap where he hath sown
By the peace among Our peoples let men know we serve the Lord!

On the Boer War

South Africa seems always painted on the back cloth of my Cambridge memories. How immense those disasters seemed at the time, disasters our facile English world has long since contrived in any edifying or profitable sense to forget! How we thrilled to the shouting newspaper sellers as the first false flush of victory gave place to the realisation of defeat. Far away there our army showed itself human, mortal and human in the sight of all the world, the pleasant officers we had imagined would change to wonderful heroes at the first crackling of rifles, remained the pleasant, rather incompetent men they had always been, failing to imagine, failing to plan and co-operate, failing to grip. And the common soldiers, too, they were just what our streets and country-side had made them, no sudden magic came out of the war bugles for them. Neither splendid nor disgraceful were they — just ill-trained and fairly plucky and wonderfully good-tempered men — paying for it. And how it lowered our vitality all that first winter to hear of Nicholson’s Nek, and then presently close upon one another, to realise the bloody waste of Magersfontein, the shattering retreat from Stormberg, Colenso — Colenso, that blundering battle, with White, as it seemed, in Ladysmith near the point of surrender! and so through the long unfolding catalogue of bleak disillusionments, of aching, unconcealed anxiety lest worse should follow. To advance upon your enemy singing about his lack of cleanliness and method went out of fashion altogether! The dirty retrogressive Boer vanished from our scheme of illusion.

All through my middle Cambridge period, the guns boomed and the rifles crackled away there on the veldt, and the horsemen rode and the tale of accidents and blundering went on. Men, mules, horses, stores and money poured into South Africa, and the convalescent wounded streamed home. I see it in my memory as if I had looked at it through a window instead of through the pages of the illustrated papers; I recall as if I had been there the wide open spaces, the ragged hillsides, the open order attacks of helmeted men in khaki, the scarce visible smoke of the guns, the wrecked trains in great lonely places, the burnt isolated farms, and at last the blockhouses and the fences of barbed wire uncoiling and spreading for endless miles across the desert, netting the elusive enemy until at last, though he broke the meshes again and again, we had him in the toils. If one’s attention strayed in the lecture-room it wandered to those battle-fields.

And that imagined panorama of war unfolds to an accompaniment of yelling newsboys in the narrow old Cambridge streets, of the flicker of papers hastily bought and torn open in the twilight, of the doubtful reception of doubtful victories, and the insensate rejoicings at last that seemed to some of us more shameful than defeats….

The British Empire

I think of St. Stephen’s tower streaming upwards into the misty London night and the great wet quadrangle of New Palace Yard, from which the hansom cabs of my first experiences were ousted more and more by taxicabs as the second Parliament of King Edward the Seventh aged; I think of the Admiralty and War office with their tall Marconi masts sending out invisible threads of direction to the armies in the camps, to great fleets about the world. The crowded, darkly shining river goes flooding through my memory once again, on to those narrow seas that part us from our rival nations; I see quadrangles and corridors of spacious grey-toned offices in which undistinguished little men and little files of papers link us to islands in the tropics, to frozen wildernesses gashed for gold, to vast temple-studded plains, to forest worlds and mountain worlds, to ports and fortresses and lighthouses and watch-towers and grazing lands and corn lands all about the globe. Once more I traverse Victoria Street, grimy and dark, where the Agents of the Empire jostle one another, pass the big embassies in the West End with their flags and scutcheons, follow the broad avenue that leads to Buckingham Palace, witness the coming and going of troops and officials and guests along it from every land on earth… Interwoven in the texture of it all, mocking, perplexing, stimulating beyond measure, is the gleaming consciousness, the challenging knowledge: ‘You and your kind might still, if you could but grasp it here, mould all the destiny of Man!’ (p.220)

On his Staffordshire uncle

Remington has an uncle who runs a successful business in the Potteries. When his father dies, this uncle appears, sells off the properties his dad tried and failed to maintain and rent out, and collates the capital into a pension for Remington and his mother and him. When his mother dies, this uncle appears again and becomes Remington’s guardian. By the time he’s a student, Remington has begun to see his limitations and Wells gives a funny caricature of him:

Essentially he was simple. Generally speaking, he hated and despised in equal measure whatever seemed to suggest that he personally was not the most perfect human being conceivable. He hated all education after fifteen because he had had no education after fifteen, he hated all people who did not have high tea until he himself under duress gave up high tea, he hated every game except football, which he had played and could judge, he hated all people who spoke foreign languages because he knew no language but Staffordshire, he hated all foreigners because he was English, and all foreign ways because they were not his ways. Also he hated particularly, and in this order, Londoner’s, Yorkshiremen, Scotch, Welch and Irish, because they were not ‘reet Staffordshire,’ and he hated all other Staffordshire men as insufficiently ‘reet.’ He wanted to have all his own women inviolate, and to fancy he had a call upon every other woman in the world. He wanted to have the best cigars and the best brandy in the world to consume or give away magnificently, and every one else to have inferior ones. (His billiard table was an extra large size, specially made and very inconvenient.) And he hated Trade Unions because they interfered with his autocratic direction of his works, and his workpeople because they were not obedient and untiring mechanisms to do his bidding.

On his first marriage to an unsuitable woman

The text is divided into four ‘books’ and the second one (pages 117 to 205) is devoted to his wooing and marriage to the lovely Margaret Seddon. Exactly as in ‘Lewisham’, ‘Polly’ etc, this is closely based on Wells’s own life in which he married young and naively to his cousin, projecting onto her all the qualities he wanted in a woman (namely intelligence and sensuality) which, unfortunately, she turned out to completely lack, being a very mundane unintellectual person and sexually unresponsive. Hence Wells’s affairs, hence the eventual running off with a younger, more sensual woman. In various permutations the same basic plot is recycled in all the social novels, and here again.

‘The New Machiavelli’ is a longer, deeper book than the previous ones, and consciously set in a higher social class than previously – so the wooing of Margaret Seddon is not pitched in the comic mode of Kipps or Polly and, as a result, feels all the more sad. Both figures are pathetic, the narrator not concealing the fact that he desperately wanted this beautiful ‘dropping’ woman to have all the qualities he projected onto her, hiding from himself what he already knew, namely that she has no ideas and nothing to say for herself,

Her mind had a curious want of vigour, “flatness” is the only word…a beautiful, fragile, rather ineffective girl…I wanted her so badly, so very badly, to be what I needed. I wanted a woman to save me. I forced myself to see her as I wished to see her. Her tepidities became infinite delicacies, her mental vagueness an atmospheric realism…

But then they go on honeymoon to Venice and Richard realises, for the first time, her lack of sensual passion and her dim, conforming mediocrity.

It was entirely in my conception of things that I should be very watchful not to shock or distress Margaret or press the sensuous note. Our love-making had much of the tepid smoothness of the lagoons. We talked in delicate innuendo of what should be glorious freedoms. (p.176)

I haven’t got round to mentioning yet that Margaret was an heiress. Remington meets her on one of his periodic visits to his uncle, the successful businessman in the Potteries, where Margaret is a friend of the uncle’s daughters i.e. his cousins. A few years later he bumps into her at a little dinner given by the ‘Baileys’ and quickly realises that Altiora Bailey is pushing her on him. Margaret is young and attractive, wealthy and looking for a cause. Remington is a clever young man on the way up. Hence Altiora’s match-making.

Sex

This has brought us to what the book is ultimately about, which is sex – and on this subject, possibly the one closest to Wells’s heart and groin, he has much to say. Just to repeat, there is nowhere any description of actual sex, no nudity even. What we’re talking about is the character’s descriptions of sexual relationships.

The subject is broached when Remington is still a schoolboy. There’s nothing about the perils of puberty, about his first orgasm, about masturbation and so on, there’s no graphic detail. The subject is approached in a much more roundabout, euphemistic way. But nonetheless, it is mentioned as becoming an issue at school.

In his entertaining book about Wells, ‘The Culminating Ape’, Peter Kemp sheds light on an unusual aspect of Wells’s sexual education, which is that he had some of his first erotic feelings standing before the huge statues of bare-breasted female figures displayed at the Crystal Palace (representing Greek gods or the continents of the world etc) and the same again with the naked statues in the Victoria and Albert Museum. And some of the main source passages Kemp uses are from this book.

Then, at Cambridge, sex is one among many topics these bright but vague and inexpressive undergraduates discuss.

It’s only when he goes on a walking holiday in Italy with a friend, that Remington, to his amazement, finds himself having a fling with an older, married woman in their hotel. She and he hit it off, come to a quick understanding, and then he’s pulling her into his room, kissing her and… the rest is glossed over, but you get the idea. Four afternoons of ‘passion’ introduce him to sex. Not only are there no descriptions of any kind, but nothing about the actual problems and mechanics of sex – female arousal and lubrication, the problem of contraception and so on. It is his introduction to a kind of sex which goes undescribed and assumed.

After he leaves university, five years pass while he makes his way in London and, he tells us, becomes an expert in sordid affairs. I think he’s saying that he has several affairs, with married women (it was more feasible to have affairs with married women because single women were more tightly chaperoned and/or tightly protected their virginity). But he also, apparently, goes with prostitutes.

It’s not really the relationships, it’s Wells’s polemical way with the subject that’s eye-catching. He insists that sex is the great taboo subject, that it isn’t discussed or written about – and yet every adult knows it is a major part of adult life and is also a major part of the urban scene, especially in London whose streets all eye witnesses describe as being packed with prostitutes. His insistence that we give the subject its proper weight and importance, both in any account of the development of a character, and also in any description of London, both of these are surely laudable aims.

(All this candour echoes the prominence of sex as a theme in Ann Veronica, particularly the memorable passage of Ann innocently arriving in London only to be followed and propositioned by men on the street or wandering by accident into an obvious prostitute neighbourhood near Covent Garden; and the scenes of her being harassed and eventually almost raped by Ramage.)

Sex and Margaret

Anyway, the narrator is very aware that he has ‘descended’ into sordid affairs and sleeping with hookers, a world he characteristically doesn’t describe in terms of boobs and willies, but in moralising psychological terms:

I would feel again with a fresh stab of remorse, that this was not a flash of adventure, this was not seeing life in any permissible sense, but a dip into tragedy, dishonour, hideous degradation, and the pitiless cruelty of a world as yet uncontrolled by any ordered will.

He has an affair with a married woman, a Mrs Larrimer, and feels immensely guilty about it, assailed by a sense that it is not so much morally ‘wrong’ (as all the moralists of his age insisted) so much as the purely utilitarian sense that it is a waste of his time, mind and intellect.

She was at once unfaithful and jealous and full of whims about our meetings; she was careless of our secret, and vulgarised our relationship by intolerable interpretations; except for some glowing moments of gratification, except for the recurrent and essentially vicious desire that drew us back to each other again, we both fretted at a vexatious and unexpectedly binding intimacy. The interim was full of the quality of work delayed, of time and energy wasted, of insecure precautions against scandal and exposure. Disappointment is almost inherent in illicit love. I had, and perhaps it was part of her recurrent irritation also, a feeling as though one had followed something fine and beautiful into a net – into bird lime! These furtive scuffles, this sneaking into shabby houses of assignation, was what we had made out of the suggestion of pagan beauty; this was the reality of our vision of nymphs and satyrs dancing for the joy of life amidst incessant sunshine. We had laid hands upon the wonder and glory of bodily love and wasted them….

I like Wells’s way of writing about human nature. The overall shape of the novels is rambling, entire subjects are dragged in yes yes, but I like the way he writes about human relationships and feelings, it’s with a subtlety and insight I enjoy. And this oppressed sense of failing in life is connected with Wells’s central idea of muddle and confusion:

I felt that these great organic forces were still to be wrought into a harmony with my constructive passion. I felt too that I was not doing it. I had not understood the forces in this struggle nor its nature, and as I learnt I failed. I had been started wrong, I had gone on wrong, in a world that was muddled and confused, full of false counsel and erratic shames and twisted temptations.

Anyway, part of the naivety and mistakenness which leads him to woo and marry Margaret, is the misconceived idea that she will save him from the dark and sordid world which his (pretty basic, male) desires have led him into, will save him from himself.

Margaret shone at times in my imagination like a radiant angel in a world of mire and disorder, in a world of cravings… (p.169)

He projects onto her an entire narrative of salvation from squalor by a shining angel which she, of course, is both unaware of and completely unqualified to perform.

I suppose it was because I had so great a need of such help as her whiteness proffered, that I could ascribe impossible perfections to her, a power of intellect, a moral power and patience to which she, poor fellow mortal, had indeed no claim. (p.169)

Politics

Some reviewers criticised it for the incoherence of its politics. What they meant was that on the few occasions when Wells makes any attempt to state Remington’s political ideas or policies, they appear an incoherent mish-mash of Tory Liberal ideas. I think I can explain that.

The real-life Tories and Liberals were divided by very real political philosophies, which came into sharper contrast as the radical Liberals (David Lloyd George and Winston Churchill) took forward their policies to sanction trade union rights, to set up a welfare state and so on. The Edwardian political class was riven by divisions over Ireland, protectionism i.e. imperial tariffs, legislation around the nascent trade union movement and much more. None of this appears in Wells’s account. I don’t think Wells is interested in actual politics at all because he is fixated on his utopian vision of a world run by a technocratic elite. So that when he gets involved in political discussions as a young MP, he or his supporters repeat the same (boring, limited, impractical) Wellsian mantra:

‘Mr Remington has published a programme… Mr Remington stands for constructing a civilised state out of this muddle.’

Politics is a) speeches and manifestos setting out principles and plans, and b) the art of cobbling together acts and whipping enough support to get them passed through Commons and Lords. Wells’s novel deals with neither of those. There are descriptions of political conversations over dinner party tables which are heroic in their vagueness and uselessness.

The chapter titled ‘The Riddle For The Statesman’ ostensibly summarises the evolution of Remington’s political sympathies. This largely consists of him explaining why he grew disillusioned with the Liberal party, partly for its ‘essential littleness’, and came to realise that what he was seeking was a king of aristocracy, but not one ruled by the descendants of William the Conqueror’s lieutenants or other lackeys of monarchs, but the brightest and best, technocrats and engineers etc. In other words, a restatement of his fundamental idea that society needs to be guided by a technocratic elite in order to become the New Republic (a concept already treated in in his books ‘Anticipations’, 1902, ‘Mankind in the Making’, 1903 and ‘A Modern Utopia’, 1905).

[I was disconcerted when he identified this idea with the best of contemporary imperialism, a benevolent imperialism, and astonished when he writes enthusiastically about the Boy Scout movement as a model for what he intends (p.243)]

In this chapter he explains how his idea is to educate everyone up to appreciate the finest things in life and how this led him to admire the breadth and confidence of the actual aristocrats he now met with at grand London mansions and country houses.

I have given now the broad lines of my political development, and how I passed from my initial liberal-socialism to the conception of a constructive aristocracy.

His conversion to Conservative aristocracy is not in the slightest bit believable. Maybe it was a fundamental structural part of the plot, that the man abandons not only his wife but his party and the two are intimately linked because she believed in (and funded) his work for the Liberal Party with complete trust. So it’s a twofold breach of faith, a double betrayal. I can see the structural neatness. I just don’t believe the reasons Wells gives his protagonist.

Why so much political discourse is abuse

Remington hangs out at the Liberal Club and is amazed at its extraordinary diversity of beliefs and opinions (including the black and brown members who hale from distant parts of the empire). Anyway, he wonders at how you manage to keep so many disparate groups together and concludes you do so by attacking the enemy:

What but a common antagonism would ever keep these multitudes together? I understood why modern electioneering is more than half of it denunciation. Let us condemn, if possible, let us obstruct and deprive, but not let us do. There is no real appeal to the commonplace mind in ‘Let us do.’ That calls for the creative imagination, and few have been accustomed to respond to that call. [Denunciation] merely needs jealousy and hate, of which there are great and easily accessible reservoirs in every human heart… (p.224)

Wells’s way with conversations

Wells is very good at describing the ebb and flow of conversations, and their sub-texts and hidden meanings and implications, as well as the simple common experience of running out of things to say, or someone saying something too earnest and serious to be processed in dinner party chitchat, or a casual flirtation between a young couple taking an unexpectedly deep and serious turn.

I’ll never forget the scene in ‘Mr Polly’ where the hero is visiting his friends the Larkins sisters and suddenly, in the course of a page, finds himself coming to the verge of proposing to one of them, purely as a result of bravado and daring, suddenly realising the brink to which his playful banter has taken him. I think he’s very good at capturing all the unintended overtones and implications of conversations, as well as capturing very common problems and experiences. So, in no particular order:

There came that kind of pause that happens when a subject is broached too big and difficult for the gathering. Margaret’s blue eyes regarded the speaker with quiet disapproval for a moment, and then came to me in the not too confident hope that I would snub him out of existence with some prompt rhetorical stroke… (p.194)

Good Lord! what bores the Cramptons were! I wonder I endured them as I did. They had all of them the trick of lying in wait conversationally; they had no sense of the self-exposures, the gallant experiments in statement that are necessary for good conversation. They would watch one talking with an expression exactly like peeping through bushes. Then they would, as it were, dash out, dissent succinctly, contradict some secondary fact, and back to cover… (p.212)

I had the experience that I suppose comes to every one at times of discovering oneself together with two different sets of people with whom one has maintained two different sets of attitudes.

Similes

I mentioned the way Wells’s prose is always alive, there are unexpected phrases on every page, and sometimes he leaps out in vivid similes.

I see old Dayton sitting back and cocking his eye to the ceiling in a way he had while he threw warmth into the ancient platitudes of Liberalism, and Minns leaning forward, and a little like a cockatoo with a taste for confidences, telling us in a hushed voice of his faith in the Destiny of Mankind.

One might think at times there was no more of him than a clever man happily circumstanced, and finding an interest and occupation in politics. And then came a glimpse of thought, of imagination, like the sight of a soaring eagle through a staircase skylight.

Thin to non-existent philosophy

I enjoyed reading about Remington’s boyhood, about his mismatched parents, his father’s comic mishaps at market gardening, his mother’s addiction to vengeful Christian booklets; about running free in the countryside around Bromstead, his vivid description of its destruction by the cancer of London; the extended passages about the hero’s boyish attachment to toy soldiers and playing ‘war’; and the interesting descriptions of the private school he attends, right in the heart of London, the importance attached to Classics and cricket and very little else.

But apart from the conviction that education needs to be given a complete overhaul and the country run by a planful elite, the protagonist (and, you feel, Wells himself) doesn’t have an idea in his head. For example, as Remington hits his later teens he tells us he always had an interest in theology and talked the big issues through with his best friend at school, Britten. What does this mean? That he has deeply considered the doctrine of the atonement, pondered the nature of the trinity, considered the heresies surrounding the incarnation of God in man, has wondered about the justice of the doctrine of original sin, has weighed whether the linear descent of Catholic Christianity from St Peter outweighs its dismal track record and frequent absurdities, or whether Martin Luther’s grim doctrine of predestination is outweighed by the social benefits of the Reformation (namely mass literacy)? No, it means this:

I came at last into a phase that endures to this day, of absolute tranquillity, of absolute confidence in whatever that Incomprehensible Comprehensive which must needs be the substratum of all things, may be. Feeling OF IT, feeling BY IT, I cannot feel afraid of it. I think I had got quite clearly and finally to that adjustment long before my Cambridge days were done. I am sure that the evil in life is transitory and finite like an accident or distress in the nursery; that God is my Father and that I may trust Him, even though life hurts so that one must needs cry out at it, even though it shows no consequence but failure, no promise but pain… (p.68)

This is, to be frank, pitiful, and he claims to have reached this Great Conclusion at Cambridge. No. This isn’t theology, it’s just his personal psychology. This is much the same level as those soul music classics which assure us ‘it’s gonna be alright’. Most of Wells’s thinking is like this, whether it be this ridiculously simple-minded ‘theology’ or his thinking about ‘socialism’ which just amounts to better social planning. For a man with such a reputation as a ‘thinker’ it’s remarkable how most of  his ‘ideas’ lackiany definition or precision or value, are little more than wordy feel-good mottos.

Thoughts

Wells rails against ‘muddle’ and makes ‘muddle’ the central enemy of his critique. And yet he himself is hopelessly confused and muddled about the solution. The very fact that his hero crosses from Fabian socialism, through Liberalism and onto the Conservative Party indicates how confused and shambling his thought is. Wells tries to dignify it by having his hero explain how hard it is to come up with a coherent philosophical and political position:

It is perplexingly difficult to keep in your mind, fixed and firm, a scheme essentially complex, to keep balancing a swaying possibility while at the same time under jealous, hostile, and stupid observation you tread your part in the platitudinous, quarrelsome, ill-presented march of affairs… I have thrown together in the crudest way the elements of the problem I struggled with, but I can give no record of the subtle details; I can tell nothing of the long vacillations between Protean values, the talks and re-talks, the meditations, the bleak lucidities of sleepless nights…

But this fools no-one. His protagonist preaches against muddle but, in the end, is the most muddle-headed and confused person in the story. There’s no way Remington could have written anything as clever and consistent as The Prince. He’s too confused and incoherent.

Then again, this is a novel not a treatise, and so it is possible that Wells intended us to find Remington a well-meaning but long-winded rambling fool. Was that his aim?

Conclusion

‘The New Machiavelli’ was Wells’s sixth and final attempt to write a Proper Novel (following ‘Love and Mr Lewisham’, ‘Kipps’, ‘Mr Polly’, ‘Tono-Bungay’ and ‘Ann Veronica’) and, having worked my way through it, I can see what a huge effort he made to give it far more intellectual and psychological depth than its predecessors, to create a kind of Summa of all his life experiences and profoundest beliefs to date.

So that when it was so widely criticised and when, eventually, Wells himself came to see it as flawed in its basic conception, as more an encyclopedia rather than a novel – stung and mortified, he gave up trying to write serious literary fiction and gave himself more and more to thinly-fictionalised screeds and manifestos, increasingly based on repetitive plots and situations. Most critics and readers regard everything that followed as a long 30-year decline in quality.


Credit

The New Machiavelli by H.G. Wells was published by Bodley Head in 1911. References are to the 1994 Everyman paperback edition edited by Norman Mackenzie.

Related links

H.G. Wells reviews

The Edwardians by Roy Hattersley (2004)

Executive summary

Half-way through this hefty 600-page popular history, author Roy Hattersley gives a handy little summary of the era under discussion. Most historians agree that:

  • ‘the Edwardian period’ stretches from the death of Queen Victoria in 1901 to the outbreak of the First World War in 1914
  • it was named and typified by its obese jolly king, a sociable hunting, shooting and cigar-smoking man known for his numerous affairs and mistresses, ‘Edward the Caresser’ as Henry James nicknamed him
  • its dominant political figures were:
    • Arthur Balfour (Conservative Prime Minister 1902 to 1905)
    • Herbert Asquith (Liberal Prime Minister 1908 to 1916)
    • young radical firebrand David Lloyd George (driving force behind the People’s Budget, the Parliament Act and the National Insurance Act which laid the foundations for the welfare state)
    • Winston Churchill was on his way up
    • while Joe Chamberlain, associated with jingoism, the Boer War and protectionism (‘imperial preference’), was on the way out
  • it was a decade troubled by explosive social issues such as women’s suffrage, Irish independence, trade union rights and the arrival of the Labour Party as a political force, destined to supersede the Liberals after the war
  • society was transformed by scientific and technological inventions, on the theoretical level the discover of atomic and subatomic particles and Einstein’s theory of relativity, on the technology level, the rise of the motor car, the telephone and wireless, and the first manned airplane flights

There you have it, in a snapshot.

Dating the Edwardian era

Strictly speaking the Edwardian period refers to the reign of King Edward VII, king from the day his mother, Queen Victoria, died (22 January 1901) to the day he passed away (6 May 1910) to be replaced by his son, King George V (reigned 6 May 1910 to 20 January 1936).

However, like pretty much all historians of the period Hattersley stretches the definition of ‘Edwardian’ forwards to include the four years leading up to the Great War (commenced August 1914). And also, because he feels obliged to explain the origins and course of the Boer War (11 October 1899 to 31 May 1902), which was still ongoing when Edward came to the throne and which requires a description of the Jameson Raid (December 1895), Hattersley at various points goes back before his theoretical starting date to explain the deeper origins of this or that issue.

In other words, the dating is quite fluid, not only when it comes to politics but to social history as well, Hattersley reaching, in his chapter on poverty, back to the many reports on the subject published during the 1890s (for example, Charles Booth’s Life and Labour of the People of London 1889 to 1903); or going back to early roots of the suffragette movement which can said to have started in the 1880s; or of the Labour movement, which can be dated all the way back to Henry Hyndman founding Britain’s first left-wing political party, the Democratic Federation, in 1881; or, regarding the Irish Question, having to dig back into the 1880s to describe the secession of the Liberal Unionists who disagreed with Gladstone’s ill-fated policy of Home Rule for Ireland. And so on.

Subverting a straw man

On the cover, on the back, in the blurb and repeatedly within the text, Hattersley and his publishers say this book tackles and refutes the notion that Edwardian England was one long summer of boaters, bathers and village pubs, attacking the notion that the period ‘is often seen as a golden sunlit afternoon, personified by its genial and self-indulgent king’, before the Armageddon of the First World War.

The trouble is that this is what absolutely every book about the Edwardian era claims to do, using the same straw man to assert its novelty and originality. In fact not just histories but anyone who’s read the introduction to novels by H.G. Wells or Arnold Bennett or E.M. Foster reads the same ‘golden summer’ straw man being knocked down in the same way as the author sets out to correct our misconceptions to tell us that the period 1901 to 1914 was in fact crammed with scientific, technological and consumer product innovations and packed with fraught social and political issues, some of which I’ve listed above. It’s the standard trope invoked by all historians of the period.

The book announces its tone of superior gossip with a gorgeous description of Queen Victoria’s funeral (Saturday, 2 February 1901) and then a gossipy portrait of King Edward, his biography, personality and the courtiers and advisers who surrounded him. Initially, I thought maybe the whole thing was going to be a gossipy survey of Edwardian people. It was only on reading further that I realised that each of the 20 chapters, despite their vague and sometimes misleading titles (I’ve added clearer indications of their subject matter in brackets), is devoted to a specific social and political issue and examines each one in some detail.

It’s a romp, it’s a guilty pleasure, it’s good popular history packed to the gills with fascinating factoids – but still, coming to this book from the works of professional historians like Richard Shannon or Eric Hobsbawm is like falling off a cliff in terms of intellectual substance, historical authority and serious analysis.

1. A Cloud Across The Sun (Victoria’s funeral)

Detailed description of the immense and impressive procession of the body of Queen Victoria through London en route to her final resting place in Windsor. The total number of soldiers involved in taking part in or policing the procession was larger than the British Expeditionary Force sent to France at the start of the Great War. Most people were stunned for nobody knew any other monarch than Victoria who had reigned for 63 years. Generations had been brought up to associate the very word ‘Victorian’ with Britain’s world leading position. Her death triggered much soul searching. Educated commentators were uneasily aware that Britain was slipping. America and Germany were overtaking her in terms of industrial output (p.67, 467) and Germany’s Navy Law of 1898 set it on a course to match or exceed the Royal Navy’s firepower (p.15). Imperial anxiety as the old era ended.

2. The Spirit of the Age (Edward’s character)

Edward was 60 when he came to the throne and was (surprisingly) badly prepared for the job. Successive prime ministers (Gladstone, Disraeli) tried to suggest useful jobs and opinions where he could get a feel for the nation he was set to rule but either Victoria or the Prince himself vetoed them.

He had a state income of £100,000. The whole country knew about Edward’s louche reputation. He had been named in a number of scandalous court cases and was well known to enjoy gambling, the horses, yachting and the high life. He was addicted to baccarat. The serious and high-minded (the kind of people who leave written texts such as sermons, newspaper articles, writers’ diaries etc) deplored his character and worried about the moral falling off which his rule would bring. The Marlborough House set.

But the thing about the written records is they tend to preserve the opinions of the worthy, high-minded, literate and concerned and ignore or neglect the opinions of the vast mass of the population who left few if any records. And in this respect, I think a key thing to grasp about the English is that they welcomed Charles II with open arms, and that well-known womaniser, gambler, horse and yacht-racing addict has gone down as arguably the most popular British king ever. So, away from the hand-wringing editorials, there might have been a great portion of the fun-loving proletariat who admired a merry monarch. (Compare and contrast the ongoing popularity of Boris Johnson – inexplicable to liberals and worthy Tories – an adulterer, drinker and shambling liar, but still admired by many for being a bloke you could go down the pub and have a laugh with).

And indeed Hattersley goes on to say that Edward’s much higher profile than his reclusive mother – photos in the press and reports of him opening Parliament or at racing meetings or holidaying in the South of France – associated him with the new taste for leisure and relaxation. Edward epitomised a new age of leisure.

Edward was very fat due to overeating. His chest and waist measured 48 inches. Hattersley gives mind boggling details of a typical royal meal, which usually had at least 14 courses. His coronation had to be postponed to a sudden flaring up of appendicitis and the consequent operation and was eventually held on 9 August 1902.

Edward hated to be alone and was an insatiable socialiser. He was liable to descend on the grand country houses of the aristocracy with little warning, an event which entailed huge disruption. After a string of extra-marital liaisons in 1892 he met Alice Keppel, the daughter of an admiral, and she became his official mistress for the rest of his life.

He was a menace in foreign affairs, acting tactlessly with the touchy Kaiser, but was personally involved in the great diplomatic triumph of his reign, the Entente Cordiale with France, which he did a lot to cement by a personal visit to Paris during which he undertook a lot of engagements with great enthusiasm and was eventually cheered by the French crowds.

Edward revived the state opening of Parliament in all its meretricious pomp and hollow ceremonial, which had been allowed to lapse by his reclusive mother, and which continues to this day, televised to the simpering tones of royal commentators.

3. The Powers Behind the Throne (Edward’s advisers)

When Edward came to the throne Britain was an imperial oligarchy, ruled by groups of aristocratic or mercantile families. Hattersley gives an entertaining tour of the political class, starting with the lingering influence of the Liberal ‘Grand Old Man’ Gladstone who had died in 1898, and the Conservative Lord Salisbury, Prime Minister when Edward acceded, who resigned a year later in July 1902, to be succeeded by his nephew, Arthur Balfour.

The Edwardian Prime Ministers

  • Lord Salisbury (Conservative) 1895 to 1902
  • Arthur James Balfour (Conservative) 1902 to 1905
  • Henry Campbell-Bannerman (Liberal) 1905 to 1908
  • Herbert Henry Asquith (Liberal) 1908 to 1916

(See section on ‘Politicians’, below.) This fusty world of faineant plutocrats was to be shaken up by the two firebrands, Winston Churchill and David Lloyd George.

The chapter morphs into a consideration of Edward’s closest personal advisers, being: Arthur Hardinge, Francis Knollys, Reginald Brett, military adviser Admiral Fisher.

4. The Condition of England

Named after the bestselling analysis of British society published in 1909 by Liberal politician and cabinet minister Charles Masterman.

Masterman copied the method of Matthew Arnold’s Victorian tract, ‘Culture and Anarchy’, by assigning the classes and groups of people in Edwardian England new generic names:

  • the Conquerors (the old aristocracy)
  • the Suburbans (the middle middle-class)
  • the Multitude (the masses)

In the event Hattersley doesn’t dwell on Masterman’s analysis but uses it as a jumping off point for statistics about Britain’s economic decline, her stalling industrial growth, the shrinking of productive agriculture, the reliance on the informal economics of empire. He then goes on to summarise a bevy of reports and surveys which came out during the decade giving hard evidence of the dire poverty of about half the population, especially agricultural workers (‘Social surveys proliferated in Edwardian Britain’, p.74).

Lots of detail about the pay and wages of workers in different sectors, in different parts of the country with special attention to women.

5. Unfinished Business (the Boer War)

Hattersley’s account of the Boer War, with as much or more about its impact on domestic politics i.e. its fractious impact on an already split Liberal Party (because some Liberals were imperialists and some were anti-imperial Radicals). Milner’s miscalculation in thinking the Boers could be intimidated into submitting to Britain. The reasonableness of Paul Kruger’s position in not wanting his small culturally homogeneous country swamped by outsiders who, if given the vote, would support Britain’s policies. The chaotic conduct of the war. The concentration camp policy: in the 13 months between January 1901 and February 1902, to Britain’s eternal shame, 20,000 internees died, mostly women and children. Lloyd George was a rare voice fiercely denouncing the war, while the imperialist Liberals set up something called the Liberal Imperial Council.

6. A Preference for Empire (the tariff campaign)

‘Victory’ in the Boer War cost the British Exchequer some £222 million. This money had to be recouped. Of all UK politicians Joseph Chamberlain was most associated with the war, ‘Joe’s War’. Massively popular after the victory, he now launched a campaign for imperial protectionism i.e. to create a free trade zone between Britain and the white dominions (Canada, Australia, New Zealand, post-Boer War South Africa) and impose tariffs on imports from all other countries.

Hattersley gives his interpretation of the wild enthusiasm which greeted Joe’s campaign: it was widely seen as a cure for what an increasing number of people were realising was Britain’s industrial eclipse.

Manufacture was in decline. The Industrial Revolution had, in reality, ended more than half a century earlier. The consequences of failure to innovate and invest were just working their way through into the economy. Declining industries longed to be protected by a tariff. (p.109)

In 1903 Chamberlain made a big speech for ‘imperial preference’ which was seen as a proclamation that ‘the British Empire must stand together against the world’ (p.109). The government of the day was Conservative, led by Prime Minister Arthur Balfour, but it only had a majority because of its coalition with the Liberal Unionist defectors from the Liberal party. Now the core principle of old school liberalism was the free trade which had made Britain great in the mid-Victorian period.

In fact Hattersley neglects the detail and implications of protectionism to focus on giving an intricate and quite confusing account of the problems Balfour faced keeping his cabinet and his government together, which boiled down to the timing and way of announcing the resignation of various dissidents. Chamberlain resigned because protectionism wasn’t being implemented fast enough but Tory free traders also resigned in opposition to the policy and detestation of the former Liberal Chamberlain’s influence. Balfour dealt with the ongoing crisis with silky subtlety from 1902 to 1905 and then resigned government at the end of 1905. A general election was held in January 1906 and the Liberals stormed home in a landslide. The Liberals were, in fact, deeply divided over various issues, centrally the question of Irish Home Rule, but managed to unite around their anti-protectionism and ran a campaign highlighting the fact that tariffs would raise the cost of food.

Hattersley skimps on this, a key fact brought out in other accounts I’ve read. Instead he is obsessed with the minutiae of what Balfour promised the Duke of Devonshire who upset a trio of colleagues by not resigning alongside them, with details of meetings and dinners and promises and pledges among the Tory elite. No doubt that’s how politics actually works, but this aspect of Hattersley’s account is for politics addicts.

7. Uniting the Nation (social reforms)

Having painted in the background, this is the chapter in which Hattersley gets round to explaining the changes which he’s been claiming were so central to the Edwardian decade. At their core is one thing, a revolution in the political culture of the nation. Victoria’s entire reign was dominated by a laisser-faire philosophy of free trade and unfettered competition and the devil take the hindmost. Classical liberalism thought the state ought to be small and had just two duties, to uphold the law at home and protect from foreign enemies. When it came to the vast majority of the British population which were either poor or very poor or utterly destitute, the almost universal assumption was that their poverty was their own responsibility. Victorian moralists blamed the plight of the poor on their own indigence, immorality, laziness and so on. The only recourse for the poor and unemployed was the workhouse which, since the Poor Law of 1832, was purposely designed to be as inhumane as possible in order to act as a deterrent, and a spur to the indigent poor to try harder.

During the Edwardian decade this political philosophy underwent a swift and amazing revolution. A series of reports by charities and investigators during the 1890s revealed depths of poverty and squalor in all Britain’s cities but also in the countryside that had never been appreciated before. These findings were incorporated into a series of royal commissions which in turn led to a flurry of acts which fundamentally altered the attitude of the state to the poor from judgemental vengeance to support and responsibility.

  • 1902 registration of midwives
  • 1906 Education Act stipulating the supply of school meals
  • a system of medical inspection of schools
  • 1907 borstals were established for young offenders
  • 1908 act made neglect a criminal offence for the first time

Why? The pop history answer is that the Boer War revealed the shocking health of the stunted wretches conscripted from Britain’s slums. Also, the influence of the growing number of Labour MPs, in the 1906 election Labour won 53 seats.

But what really comes over in this chapter is that we were copying Germany which was already decades ahead of us. This was especially true in the area of supporting the unemployed, creating a national insurance tax to pay the unemployed a minimum dole, and creating labour exchanges to help people back into work. Conservatives were persuaded of these lefty measures because they improved the efficiency of the economy as a whole. And far from being radical experiments, Britain copied the tried and tested methods which were already propelling Germany’s economy ahead of ours on every measure. To compete against its rivals, Britain needed a better educated, better fed workforce that wasn’t allowed to rot and lose its skills when laid off by capitalism’s regular slumps. Hence the unemployed workmen’s act and powers to set up labour exchanges (p.130).

It’s startling to learn that a young William Beveridge went to study Germany’s welfare provision in 1905 and was so impressed by what he saw that he brought back to Britain a version of the Bismarckian system which was to form the basis of the hugely influential report published during the war and which, famously, formed the basis of the Welfare State created by the Labour government under Clement Attlee (p.465).

Some of the child and family laws were passed under the Conservatives before 1905, but the working men’s legislation was driven forward by Winston Churchill during his so-called New Liberal phase. Churchill drove forward prison reform, a bill improving conditions in coal mines, a bill limiting the number of hours people could work in shops,

8. Who Shall Rule?

The clash between the old ruling class and the new liberals came to a head in the great constitutional crisis triggered by Lloyd George’s 1909 budget which imposed new taxes on the rich in order to fund old age pensions and welfare policies and which the House of Lords, dominated by rich landowners, promptly rejected. The Liberal government led by Prime Minister Herbert Asquith, First Earl of Oxford, threatened to flood with Lords with Liberal peers while radical firebrand David Lloyd George toured the country giving rabble rousing speeches, backed up by Winston Churchill, still in his fierce new Liberal phase.

Hattersley gives a fairly detailed account of the political machinations, in the middle of which King Edward died (6 May 1910) and was replaced by his son, George V. The Liberals proceeded to win two general elections (in January and December 1910) (admittedly with Labour and Irish Nationalist support) which persuaded the new sovereign, very reluctantly, to accede to Asquith’s threat, which in turn led the Lords to back down and pass Lloyd George’s Budget and the National Insurance Bill.

Hattersley delivers one of those pithy summaries which I remember my history teachers at school used to extract and turn into an essay question, namely: Victoria handed over to her successor the poisoned chalice of the Boer War, and Edward VII handed over to his successor the Peers-versus-the-People crisis.

9. Ourselves Alone (Irish Home Rule)

After decades of frustration among Irish nationalists, the question of Irish Home Rule returned to the agenda in Westminster because, in the 1910 general election called by the Liberal Party to prove their mandate for Lloyd George’s inflammatory budget of 1909, Conservatives and Liberals both won about 270 seats and so the balance of power was held by the Irish Nationalists with their 82 MPs.

It took the sclerotic process of Whitehall to get it together, but the 1912 Home Rule Bill was the price the British Liberals paid the Irish Nationalists for their support in getting the Budget and the act to reform the House of Lords through (p.187).

Hattersley goes back to recap the background. After the fall of its charismatic leader Charles Stewart Parnell 1890, named in a divorce case as an adulterer, the struggle for Irish independence went into abeyance.

‘The era of constitutional possibilities for Irish nationality ended on the day that Charles Stewart Parnell died.’ (Arthur Griffith, quoted on page 182)

Hattersley namechecks the key players and the numerous organisations set up to campaign for home rule, including Michael Davitt and Arthur Griffith (founder of Sinn Fein and editor of The United Irishman), John MacBride and James Connolly, Roger Casement (revealer of the horrors of Belgium’s colony in the Congo and later gun-runner for the IRA), James Larkin (leader of the Irish Transport and General Workers Union), John Redmond (leader of the Nationalist Party in Parliament), Michael Collins, along with the upper class women, Maud Gonne and Constance Gore-Booth, memorialised by the great poet W.B. Yeats.

Ireland was wretchedly badly run by the British, with rural and urban poverty even worse than on the mainland. The nationalist cause was boosted by Britain’s appalling handling of the Boer War, in which another small people was bullied and butchered by an overweening empire.

I read a lot of this stuff as an undergraduate as background to Yeats’s poetry, and periodically over the following years. Rereading it all in detail, I was struck not by the Irish fight for independence which, in a sense, that is simple and logical, like any other colonial struggle against imperial masters. What always impresses me is the strength of the opposing force, the rise of Unionism in Ulster, led by the brilliant and charismatic lawyer, Sir Edward Carson, the hundreds of thousands of northern Protestants who signed petitions, the 100,000 men who joined the proto Ulster army, the mass smuggling in of guns and ammunition, and the acquiescence of senior officers in the British Army in what Churchill bluntly called treason i.e. actions against the express wish of the elected British government and the King (p.188 ff.).

Hattersley shows how the partition of Ireland between an Irish nationalist south and west and a different entity in the Protestant north was originally one of many solutions proposed in the 1910s but slowly became the most favoured, how it was defined in different ways by different factions among the Unionists but within a few years had gained traction as the least bad option.

10. Votes for Women!

Female England awoke during the Edwardian era. (p.81)

Like the Ireland chapter this one goes back a few decades to background events, for example when Millicent Fawcett founded the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies in 1887. But the story comes to life when Hattersley gives us biographies of the leading campaigner Emmeline Pankhurst and her daughter Christabel (nicknamed by some papers ‘the Queen of the Mob’).

I knew the suffragettes were violent hooligans who used terrorist techniques (for example, sending letter bombs to leading politicians, p.220) but Hattersley’s account brings out how wilfully violent and destructive they were. Not only throwing bricks and tiles at the Prime Minister and other cabinet members, smashing their windows, vandalising their cars or trying to burn their houses down, slashing paintings in galleries, setting fire to postboxes, rampaging along Oxford Street and Regent Street smashing every shop window with hammers (p.219), spitting at and slapping policemen (p.207), but, when it was discovered some were practicing shooting, it was feared there would be active assassination attempts a la JFK (p.216). They also damaged quite a few works of art.

It was interesting to learn how many of them were lesbians or lived in unorthodox relationships (p.217). It is typical of Hattersley’s enjoyably gossipy approach to learn that the redoubtable Edwardian composer, Ethel Smyth (1858 to 1944), not only went to prison (2 months in Holloway) for smashing the Colonial Secretary’s windows, not only wrote the stirring suffragette anthem, ‘The March of the Women’, but fell passionately in love with (the married) Emmeline P, writing: ‘I knew that before long I would be her slave’ (p.217).

Did you know it was the Daily Mail which coined the word ‘suffragette’ as a term of mockery and abuse but which the activists then adopted with pride and we have used ever since? (p.209)

But the biggest thing that struck me was the reason many Liberal and Labour politicians opposed women’s suffrage wasn’t the principle of the thing, which most approved of – it was fear of its practical consequences.

It had taken decades of fraught negotiation for the existing male electorate to come into being and it still excluded some 5 million men from the vote (always forgotten in this context). Some Labour and Liberals were against women’s suffrage because they knew that the vote would probably, at least at first, only be extended to better-off women who would promptly vote Conservative.

In other words, giving middle-class women the vote (the most feasible strategy) risked destroying radical and progressive politics in Britain for a generation (p.218). It was a cogent and powerful argument, even if making it earned you a slap in the face from Christabel Pankhurst.

In 1912 and ’13 and ’14 bills were drafted to extend the franchise, to which greater or lesser measures of female suffrage were added, and which variously passed or failed in the Commons or in Committee stage but everyone accepted that suffrage was going to happen sooner or later. And then the Great War broke out, putting any further development on the women question – as with Irish independence – on hold but making some sort of solution inevitable once the fighting had finished.

In fact it was before the war ended (in November 1918) that, in January 1918, the Representation of the People Act was passed, giving the vote to men aged over 21, whether or not they owned property, and to women aged over 30 who occupied land or premises with a rateable value above £5, or whose husbands did, thus extending the local government franchise to include women aged over 21 on the same terms as men. As a result of the Act, the male electorate was extended by 5.2 million to 12.9 million and the female electorate went from 0 to 8.5 million, or 2 in 5 adult women.

(It was not until the Representation of the People (Equal Franchise) Act 1928 that women gained full electoral equality with men, the act giving the vote to all women aged over 21, regardless of any property qualification, adding another five million women to the electorate.)

Since 1928 there have been 24 general elections, of which Labour have won 10. From the little research I’ve done, until recently women voters on the whole voted Conservative although that has changed recently (see article on gender divide in general election voting).

11. United We Stand (the trade unions)

The complicated history of trade unions in the Edwardian era. The Taff Vale train dispute case of 1901 recognised trade unions as legal entities but this was the opposite of a Good Thing for it meant that employers could now take trade unions to court if it could be proved that strikes or picketing had adversely affected their business. And not just claim compensation from union funds but sue individual union officials into the bargain (pp.222 to 224).

Hattersley explains that the Trade Union Congress and most unions had regarded politics as peripheral to their core activities of protecting members and campaigning for better pay and conditions, But the potentially crippling implications of the Taff Vale case made them all realise they needed representation in Parliament to defend their interests.

So this chapter traces the earliest history of the Independent Labour Party (founded 1893), the Labour Representation Committee (founded 1900) and its early luminaries, particularly the two key figures of Keir Hardie and Ramsay MacDonald. This leads up to the foundation of the Labour Party proper in 1906, which broke through in that year’s January general election to win 29 seats on 4.8% of the vote (p.234).

Of course Hattersley’s lifelong involvement with the Labour Party, most notably as deputy leader under Neil Kinnock from 1983 to 1992, gives him unprecedented insight into Labour’s traditions and contemporary working. As such it is more than ordinarily interesting when he writes that the party – ‘then, as now, despised theory’, ‘more interested in practice than theory’ – has always been a very soft-left party with little or no theoretical underpinning (p.237).

In fact, the book is sprinkled with asides which sound like the wisdom of practical experience in the field, wry familiarity with the quirks and foibles of Parliamentary politics:

  • [Balfour] took refuge in the expedient employed by uncertain prime ministers down the ages… (p.131)
  • The TUC, always happy to accept half a loaf, was delighted… (p.152)
  • It was a tactic the Tory party was to employ time and time again in an attempt to obstruct the work of elected governments. (p.158)
  • General elections are rarely fought on issues of the parties’ choice… (p.167)
  • Speakers’ judgements on such matters are rarely challenged with success… (p.220)
  • Like so many private members bills it was then buried at the Committee stage and forgotten. (p.231)
  • The new Labour members, euphoric as new members always are… (p.234)
  • The Select Committee Inquiry endorsed the status quo as Select Committee Inquiries often do. (p.282)
  • Select Committees of the House of Commons usually contain one or two Members whose enthusiasm outruns their discretion. (p.457)

Back to the Labour party, it was somehow symbolic that the party’s first leader and Moses, the illegitimate, poorly educated Scotsman, Keir Hardie, made powerful speeches about injustice but knew nothing about economics and had very few practical policies for bringing about the ideal world he depicted in his rousing speeches. Plus ça change…

The detailed series of legal cases which hampered then liberated the Edwardian trade unions, with the explanation of Liberal party support, the advent of the new Labour Party MPs, and the trend for the sometimes very small unions to amalgamate into huge mega-unions based on a specific trade (mining, railwaymen etc) all give a strong sense of a social movement emerging from legal, political and financial weakness, to staking its claim to become a major component of British domestic history for the rest of the century.

12. Useful Members of the Community (education)

It was quite an eye-opener to learn that the central issue in trying to improve education in this country, from 1870s till the 1900s, was religion. To be precise, the majority of schools were run by the Church of England so when any government tried to set up a state-run, nationwide system of primary schools, it had to address two massive problems: 1) the Church of England’s powerful concerns that reforms would mean it losing its influence over the nation’s youth; and 2) the vehement opposition of non-conformists, who strongly objected to Anglican schools being subsidised by their local taxes.

Some non-conformists refused to pay their local taxes under the new system introduced in 1902 and were prepared to go to prison to defend the principle. In fact, the provisions for local authority funding of schools antagonised the large non-conformist community so much that this issue alone goes a long way to explaining why the Tories, who’d brought the Act in, were slaughtered in the 1906 election.

Everyone knew that Britain needed to bring its education system up to the standards of Germany (many British educationists had toured Germany and had realised the German system was way better than ours – just like their industries, businesses, health and welfare systems were streets ahead of ours, p.465). This chapter is a good example of the yawning gulf between political theory and practice; of the way a really simple aim and intention which most of the political class agreed on, could end up requiring endless, torturous negotiations, drafts and redrafts, defeats in the House of Commons and Lords, and so on, before a half-workable compromise finally gets passed.

Just working through the battle of vested interests and the hangover of historic structures and organisations in this one area, education, helps you understand why so many aspects of Britain’s social and economic structure are so compromised, messy, half-cocked and inefficient.

It was also the era when the Workers Education Association was founded (1908), the northern universities received their charters (Birmingham 1900, Manchester and Liverpool 1903, Leeds 1904, Sheffield 1905).

In a parallel stream, the wildly successful Boy Scout movement was founded by General Robert Baden-Powell, hero of the siege of Mafeking, the first camp being on Brownsea Island in 1907. One of the small group of men who founded a movement which they lived to see sweep the world.

13. Ideas Enter the Drawing Room (theatre)

Drawing room drama replaced by theatre of ideas, copying abroad (as usual), in this case Ibsen, and our own provocateur George Bernard Shaw (‘the most famous iconoclast and atheist of his age’, p.370). But first Hattersley conscientiously gives us the owners of London theatres, the price of tickets in London and the provinces, the lives of the great actor managers (Irving) and leading ladies (Ellen Terry, Mrs Patrick Campbell), the quality of middle-brown ‘respectable’ drawing room drama, the advent of musical comedy epitomised by the success of The Merry Widow.

And then the fight against the state censor of plays, the Lord Chamberlain, led by John Galsworthy who, according to Wikipedia:

became known for plays with a social message, reflecting, among other themes, the struggle of workers against exploitation, the use of solitary confinement in prisons, the repression of women, jingoism and the politics and morality of war.

With mention of the plays of Harley Granville-Barker, The Voysey Inheritance and Waste. Throw in the works of George Bernard Shaw and that’s quite a lot of plays about contemporary issues.

But the decade contained the seeds of change. The 1900s saw the first displays of moving pictures and by 1910 buildings had opened devoted to the showing of moving pictures, much more immediate and much cheaper than even the cheapest musical comedy and variety.

14. Literature Comes Home (Edwardian literature)

With the death of Aubrey Beardsley and the imprisonment of Oscar Wilde the Aesthetic Movement petered out. Hattersley quotes Yeats, pre-eminent poet of the Celtic Twilight and then Irish nationalist movement, remarking that around 1900 ‘Everyone got down off their stilts’. The trouble with overviews of the literature by historians or politicians is that they are not professional literary experts, and so they tend to make the obvious points in the obvious ways, writing the same opinions as a thousand other ‘histories of literature’. So: with the end of the Boer War Kipling moved to Britain, settled in Sussex and radically changed his subject matter from tales of the dry and dusty hills of India to stories about England, Puck of Pook’s Hill and the like. The Poet Laureate Alfred Austin and Sir Henry Newbolt supplied a continuation of Kiplingesque patriotic poems but without the subtlety.

If you’re looking for a common thread among the poets it is probably different flavours of patriotism, from Newbolt at the jingo end, through Robert Bridges, GK Chesterton, young Rupert Brooke, and then a flotilla of minor figures, each with one or two anthology poems – Walter de la Mare, John Masefield, poets who would be gathered together in the Georgian anthologies of 1912 and subsequent years.

Hattersley makes the dubiously journalistic claim that one ‘great’ novel was published each year:

1900 – The Way of All Flesh by Butler, Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad

1901 – Kim by Rudyard Kipling

1902 – The Wings of the Dove by Henry James

1903 – The Ambassadors by Henry James

1904 – The Golden Bowl by Henry James, Nostromo by Joseph Conrad

1905 – Where Angels Fear to Tread by EM Foster, Kipps by H.G. Wells

1906 – The Man of Property by John Galsworthy

1907 – The Secret Agent by Joseph Conrad

1908 – The Old Wives Tale by Arnold Bennett, A Room with a View by E.M. Foster

1909 – Tono-Bungay and Ann Veronica by H.G. Wells

1910 – Howard’s End by EM Foster, The History of Mr Polly by H.G. Wells, Clayhanger by Arnold Bennett

The New Woman was a recurring theme in fiction and a flurry of woman writers, admittedly popular writers, such as Maria Corelli, Baroness Orczy, Ethel M Dell, Elinor Glyn, children’s writers Frances Hodgson Burnett, E. Nesbit and Beatrix Potter.

What emerges from Hattersley’s brisk review is a sense of an emerging, educated, intelligent middle class, of the rise and rise of the New Woman, of the lives of working people described with a new seriousness, in Wells and Bennett up to a point, but with sensitivity and insight of genius in the novels of DH Lawrence who emerged just at the end of the period (Sons and Lovers, 1913).

15. The End of Innocence (sport)

With increased leisure time, caused in part by government legislation limiting working hours, went the growth of sport: football, cricket, tennis, athletics, rugby league and union, were all put on a more professional basis, paid, and new stadiums and halls built to accommodate growing crowds. Sport became business. London hosted the 1908 Olympic games. The conflict between gentlemen and players, based on snobbery and a wish to keep the classes distinct i.e. gentlemen unsullied by commerce. The first celebrity sportsmen such as Bob Crompton of Blackburn Rovers and W.G. Grace. The aim of gentlemen, in sport as in every other aspect of life, was to demonstrate ‘effortless superiority’. Contemporary commentary is littered with words like ‘chivalry’ and ‘honour’, words associated with the medieval ruling class. The MCC and other sporting bodies, like the House of Lords, could be relied on to resist the encroachment of commercialisation i.e. working class players being paid, for as long as possible.

Meanwhile in other nations, such as America, sportsmen specialised in one game and practiced intensively, sometimes with the support of a ‘coach’ (p.323). Or the advent of American jockeys who used a new posture, ‘the forward seat’, to win (p.331). In sport, as in industry and commerce Britain’s addiction to amateurism, hobbled by class war, condemned it to long-term mediocrity.

Horse racing has always relied on gambling. In 1906 the government tried to regulate it. In 1908 the sport established a new definition of ‘thoroughbred’, mainly with a view to excluding the threat from American-bred winners.

Surprisingly, given the general chauvinism, women progressed in two sports, gold and tennis, although these remained robustly middle class (as they are to this day). Popular men’s sports, on the other hand, steadily became more working class, football and rugby union being two examples, and boxing, the longest establishment popular sport.

Hunting, of course, remained the preserve of the aristocratic elite, surrounded by all manner of preposterous traditions, like chivalry ultimately dating back to the Norman conquest and subjugation of Saxon serfs. As a Saxon serf I have all my life cordially despised the aristocrats who subtly or not so subtly have asserted their superiority over me, John Buchan’s Lord Leithen, Siegfried Sassoon in his memoirs. No surprise that the resistance to Asquith and Lloyd George’s People’s Budget in the House of Lords was led by fox-hunting aristocrats like Willoughby de Broke (with his floridly Norman name). They were, and are, the class enemy.

So many of these social aspects remind me of what H.G. Wells in Tono-Bungay calls the Bladesover system, the way English society was structured around the grand houses of the landed aristocracy in the 17th and 18th centuries, with a constellation of professions (lawyers, doctors, bankers and brokers) servicing them, and had provided the social, cultural, mental and even geographic structure of Britain up till his own time, the only change being the stepping of new businessmen or financiers into various places as the actual aristocracy became defunct, but everyone working to keeping these archaic structures of thought and ceremonial in place. ‘The new middle class hunters wanted to conform…’ (p.337)

I was forced to play lots of sports at school: I disliked cricket because of the boredom and snobbery, really disliked rugby because of the sadistic pleasure big boys took in stomping everyone else, quite liked hockey because there was little physical contact and some skill, really liked rowing especially sculling because you could disappear down the river on your own; and in breaks played football on the tarmac playground, often with small tennis-sized balls.

16. Gerontius Awakes (art, architecture, music)

Another portmanteau chapter, which is interesting enough but feels like a dutiful ticking of obvious boxes. In 1901 commenced the redesign of the Mall from the statue of Victoria (1901) to Admiralty Arch (1911).

John Singer Sargent was friends with Monet but eschewed foreign experimentalism and made himself the Reynolds (i.e. the highly paid portrait painter of the rich) of his day. Hattersley quotes the avant-garde art critic Roger Fry describing Sargent as: ‘as gentle as a man as he was striking and undistinguished as an illustrator and non-existent as an artist’ (p.358), one of the few moments which ruffles the stolid flow of Hattersley’s dutiful nods to all the obvious greats.

The great composer of the day was Edward Elgar, condemned for ever to be remembered for his Pomp and Circumstance marches, written 1901 to 1907. ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ took music from one of the marches and incorporated words by A. C. Benson in 1902. Notes on Delius, Holst (lots of folk songs, St Paul’s suite 1912), Percy Grainger and the young Vaughan Williams (The Lark Ascending 1914). A little later, in 1916, Hubert Parry would set Jerusalem to music. Celebrations of Englishness comparable to the very English settings of Foster, Wells, Saki, Kipling in Pook’s Hill mode and all those Georgian poets.

Architecture characterised by the Edwardian Baroque. Edwin Lutyens, Giles Gilbert Scott and, in Scotland, Charles Rennie Mackintosh. The influence of Alfred Waterhouse on commissions of large public buildings. The Ritz Hotel. The RAC club in Pall Mall. Royal London House, Finsbury Square. Westminster Cathedral (John F. Bentley).

The garden suburb movement, Ebenezer Howard. Letchworth. Hampstead. the prophets thought it would appeal to all classes but like all high-minded movements it attracted the professional middle classes.

The Camden Town school of art, correlative of Zola’s naturalism. Yuk.

In 1910 Grafton art gallery hosted an exhibition of recent French painting (Gauguin, Matisse) which caused a scandal. The critic Roger Fry could only think to label them all post-impressionists, an unsatisfactory label which has stuck (p.356). It highlighted the philistinism of the ruling class and the sensationalising vulgar sensationalising of the press, led by the Times.

The first Futurist manifesto 1909, the second one 1910. Committed to replicating the machine energy of the age.

17. Would You Believe It? (philosophy and religion)

Summary of G.E. Moore’s Principia Ethica which had such a dynamite impact on the Bloomsbury Group. Hattersley summarises it as claiming that morality is relative, changes according to time and place. This was perceived by the Bloomsburies as a huge liberation from Christian morality which insists that moral values are universal and (incidentally), strict and repressive. Moore gave them a theory which underpinned their already existing practice of passionate friendships and cliques. And non-traditional sexual relations i.e. gays and lesbians and other genders in between. Hattersley tags on a brisk explanation of Bertrand Russell’s work on sets and categories, explaining that both Moore and Russell were anti-Christian. From the heights of academia came an attack on the ideology Oxbridge was invented to guard. Backtracking a bit to The Golden Bough, the pioneering work of anthropology which theorised that all human societies progress from pagan polytheism through monotheism and finally achieve the objective rational thought of science.

The life and extraordinary discoveries of New Zealander Ernest Rutherford i.e. discovering that the atom is not the smallest unit of matter but is itself made up of component parts.

Second half of the chapter is about the Christian churches: the part erection of the Catholic Westminster Cathedral; the divisions in the Church of England between High Church at one end and Modernists seeking to reconcile the creed with all the discoveries of science, at the other; the Methodists and other nonconformists. No mention of Jews, Muslims etc…

18. Hardihood, Endurance and Courage

There were four Polar expeditions during the Edwardian decade. Hattersley describes in detail all four of them: Scott’s first 1902-3, Shackleton’s in 1907-8, Scott’s second in 1910-12, Shackleton’s second 1914.

Scott’s diary and the example of Oates are routinely trotted out as examples of British pluck, but reading any account impresses you more with the bad decisions, bad planning, lack of resources and shambolic amateurishness of the attempt. When you read that some of Scott’s companions questioned the quality of the horses and provisions before they even set sail but decided to defer to their captain and social superiority’s judgement (p.406), you hear the genuine voice of deference to idiots which led Britain to near disaster in the Boer War and to catastrophe in the First World War.

Plus the amazing adventures in Central Asia of Marc Aurel Stein, archaeologist of Buddhism (pages 396 to 397), and Colonel Sir Francis Younghusband’s expedition up from British India to Tibet (394 and 5).

19. Halfpenny Dreadful (newspapers)

Riveting chapter about the explosion of newspapers, magazines and journals at the end of the nineteenth century, and the creation of a particular type of populist paper at the turn of the century, focusing on the career of Alfred Harmsworth, later made 1st Viscount Northcliffe (1865 to 1922), creator of the Daily Mail (in 1896) and the Daily Mirror. His career is set against George Newnes’s creation of Tit-Bits magazine in 1881. Newnes mentored and trained a generation of journalists in what came to be called The New Journalism. Harmsworth was one, another was Cyril Arthur Pearson, who founded the Daily Express in 1900.

Hattersley says there were two types of New Journalism, one which aimed to report politics and the news but in a much more accessible format than the solid wall of prose of The Times; and the other sort which didn’t care about serious news at all and was packed with trivia and celebrities.

How with the outbreak of the Boer War, Harmsworth deliberately made the Daily Mail the newspaper of empire, the jingo paper, taking an attitude of unremitting criticism of the (Conservative) government for its comprehensive mismanagement of the war, thus letting our boys down.

Between 1866 when the Companies Act eased the rules of limited liability and 1914 4,000 newspaper companies were formed in London and the provinces. Between 1900 and 1914 ten evening newspapers tried their luck in London.

I didn’t know the Daily Mirror was set up in 1903 to target women readers, had an all-women staff and a woman editor. It only lasted a year. In the end the chapter is all about Harmsworth and ends with his mounting campaign to warn the government about the dire military and naval threat from Germany. Interestingly, he became obsessed with German interest in the very new technology of flying, which he thought the British Army was ignoring.

20. The Shape of Things To Come (new technologies)

Britain pioneered the canal and the steam railway but was badly behind by the time the two next transport innovations came long, electric trams and motor cars. The Americans and Germans pioneered electric tram cars in the 1850s. It took 50 years for them to appear on British streets. And the Germans, French and Italians were all ahead of us in car design. Where had all the engineers gone? And the investors willing to take a punt?

The 1900 Century Road Race to publicise cars (whose diminished legacy is the annual London to Brighton race). Henry Royce the engineer and Charles Rolls the salesman, a partnership made in heaven. the company went from strength to strength, but Rolls used his share of the profits to invest in airplanes. Lord Northcliffe took up the cause of air flight in The Daily Mail and offered prizes for manned flights across the Channel and from London to Manchester. He was taken for a flight by Orville Wright.

Senior politicians became interested. Louis Bleriot won the prize for crossing the Channel in 1909. Northcliffe arranged a reception at the Savoy and Bleriot’s plane was exhibited at Selfridge’s.

The great race from London to Manchester between plucky Brit Claude Graham-White who, of course, lost to his French rival Louis Paulhan. More competitions followed. Charles Rolls was killed in one (12 July 1910).

Ships: a thorough look at Royal Navy shipbuilding, first the companies and yards around Britain, then the revolutionary introduction of turbine-driven ships in the early 1900s. Commercial liners and the construction of the two huge ships the Mauretania and Lusitania. The Blue Riband competition for crossing the Atlantic fastest. The White Star Line commissions two huge superliners to be named the Olympic and the Titanic. On 14 April 1912 on her maiden voyage the Titanic hit an iceberg in mid-Atlantic and sank, drowning 1,515 people.

The chapter begins to free associate because as it sank, the Titanic sent desperate SOSs out by the newish technology of radio, being picked up by the Carpathia which steamed to the rescue, arriving 80 minutes after Titanic sank and rescuing 700 souls. Impressive technology.

And it leads Hattersley into an account of the scandal of government officials trading in shares on Marconi’s Wireless company as other members of the government were awarding the company the contract to build the Imperial Wireless Chain agreed by the 1911 Imperial Conference. Muck-raking scandal. Accusations of libel. Court cases. Commission of inquiry etc.

Epilogue: The Summer Ends in August

A recap of the very bad personal relationship between Edward VII and his sister’s son (i.e. nephew) Kaiser Wilhelm II, starting with the latter gatecrashing the elaborate ceremonial surrounding the funeral of Victoria. Wilhelm comes over as a tactless idiot, for example the interview insulting Britain he gave to the ‘New York World’ while he was a guest in Britain.

It broadens out to become quite a detailed account of the political, diplomatic and military build up to the outbreak of the Great War, seen exclusively through the prism of British-German relations, and more narrowly still, the erratic, angry, aggrieved behaviour of Wilhelm. It’s a sequence of events, featuring the Entente Cordiale, the naval arms race, the building of the Dreadnoughts, the Agadir and Fashoda crises, and the two Balkan wars, which was drummed into me at school for my history GCSE.

As to one of the most over-determined events in global history, Hattersley’s take is that Germany was determined on war by 1913 i.e. none of it was accidental. Germany had collected almost all her foreign debts while leaving her creditors waiting so that the Bundesbank held record gold reserves. Woodrow Wilson’s emissary to Europe, Colonel House, toured the capitals and reported back that the German Army was determined to attack and conquer France according to the Schlieffen Plan before turning on Russia. According to Hattersley Germany was just waiting for a pretext and the Serbian terrorists supplied it.


Politicians

Tory Prime Minister Arthur Balfour, ‘the most influential Tory in Edwardian England’, was languid and ineffectual, ‘personified the dedicated dilettante’ (p.84).

Joseph Chamberlain was a Unitarian by birth and a troublemaker by nature. (p.255)

Radical Joe Chamberlain banged the drum for a more imperialist foreign policy. He was one of the loudest supporters for the catastrophically mismanaged Boer War (1899 to 1902) in which some 20,000 women and children died in Britain’s concentration camps (p.99; described at length in chapter 5; incompetence p.90).

Chamberlain went on to aggressively support the idea of an imperial customs union, more to bind the empire together than for the economics. The widely reported fact that such a union would almost certainly increase the cost of foodstuffs helped the Conservatives lose the 1906 general election by a landslide (chapter 6: ‘A preference for Empire’).

Two new young stars lead the Liberal government, pro-Boer, anti-imperial, anti-establishment David Lloyd George, and temporary radical Liberal, Winston Churchill.

I was surprised at just how radical Lloyd George was: he told suffragettes that if women had the vote there’d be none of these stupid wars; he declared India would never be properly governed till it was given its independence (p.102).

Issues

Edwardian society was riven by disputes about: the Boer War; imperial tariff reform; the controversial 1902 Education Act; votes for women; Irish Home Rule. The 1906 Liberal government went on, in 1909, to propose a Budget designed to raise taxes on the rich and landowners in order to fund radical social reform, namely the provision of old age pensions, national insurance and unemployment benefit. When the bastion of privilege, the House of Lords, rejected the bill, it led to a constitutional crisis in which the Liberals called and won two elections in 1910, and persuaded King Edward to threaten the Lords with creating hundreds of Liberal peers who would flood the Lords and ensure the budget went through (570, to be precise, p.168) . In order to avoid this outcome the Lords voted reluctantly to pass the budget.

Poverty

If you like social history and poverty porn, chapter 4: ‘The Condition of England’ is entirely devoted to the appalling poverty revealed by the many reports, studies and surveys published during the 1890s and 1900s, which lay behind Lloyd George’s righteous anger and his and Churchill’s radical proposals to improve the lives of the poor. Millions of Britons lived in squalid one-room shacks or tenements, slept in the same beds, didn’t have enough money to feed or clothe themselves. A 1904 report concluded that about a third of all British children went hungry every day.

The theme is renewed in chapter 7: ‘Uniting the nation’, a thorough description of the 1906 Liberal government’s attempts to develop social policies, and includes the fascinating factoid that William Beveridge, the young Oxford social scientist, was sent to Germany to learn what he could about their system of national insurance, unemployment benefit, labour exchanges and so on. Here, as in so many other things, we copied the more advanced Europeans (p.465).

International rivalry

One of the leading anxieties of the age was fear of international competition, economic and military. As anyone with a passing interest in history knows, the Edwardian period was obviously one of increasing rivalry and tension between the great powers of Europe, who developed a network of alliances and pacts which, when triggered by the assassination of the Archduke Ferdinand in Sarajevo on 28 June 1914, fell like dominoes to trigger the First World War.

Whether this sequence of events was ‘inevitable’, whether the war was the inevitable result of commercial and imperial rivalries, or of the alliance system, or of the creation of a large ambitious German state in the centre of Europe, or, on the contrary, was the result of a handful of miscalculations and misunderstandings, the kind of spats which had been defused and managed in the past and could easily have been defused and resolved in this instance, are issues which have kept, and will keep, historians happily occupied till the end of civilisation.

As to the commercial rivalries, it is probably a little less known among the general population than the First World War but, again, anyone with an interest in modern history knows that by around 1900 Britain had been definitively overtaken in terms of production and gross domestic product by its main rivals, Germany and America (pages 67, 109, 465). Only Britain’s ‘invisible’ exports of financial and banking services, largely to the colonies, kept Britain’s balance of payments from being in the red, based on the fact that the pound sterling was the global currency of choice (p.68). That and the large amount of goods we were able to sell to protected colonial markets, the most important of which was India.

It was this commercial anxiety which explains the appeal to many businessmen, politicians and commentators of Joseph Chamberlain’s impassioned campaign for an imperial customs union from 1903 (described at inordinate length in chapter 6: ‘A preference for Empire’). Joe wanted:

to make the empire a worldwide customs union which was held together by bonds of trade as well as the ties of history. (p.111)

Hattersley gives us an eventually mind-numblingly detailed account, not of the policy itself, but of the extraordinarily complicated political manoeuvring it triggered within the Conservative cabinet, 1902 to 1905. All of which proved pretty pointless because tariff reform, like everything else the Tories stood for, was swept away in the Liberal landslide election of January 1906, and soon afterwards Chamberlain himself suffered a crippling stroke (July 1906) and was forced to withdraw from public life.

Speed of change

Like so many historians of this era, Hattersley lists the dramatic advances made in practical technology (electric lights, the early telephone, bicycles, the swift spread of the motor car), in science (X-rays, radioactivity) and theoretical physics (no history of the period is complete without perfunctory reference to the world-shaking theories of Einstein and Freud) without really conveying their social impact. They are listed but not really assessed…

The endurance of deep structural issues

As regular readers of this blog know, one of the things which strikes me most about reading history or old novels is the continual reminder that problems, issues or ideas which we like to think of as new and exciting but have in fact been around for over a century. And the fact that they’ve been around for so long strongly suggests they are somehow hard-wired into the human condition or into the societies we inhabit.

Thus when you read about politicians’ and businessmen’s and commentators’ anxiety about Britain’s technological and industrial failings, and about the poor shape of British education compared to leading rivals on the continent (Germany, the Scandinavian countries) being expressed in 1901, and realise exactly the same sentiments are common now, one hundred and twenty years later, it can’t help but make you wonder whether these kind of issues are too deeply engrained in British society ever to be changed.

This came over when reading the chapter about the challenge facing Edwardian politicians of trying to solve the very widespread and horrifying poverty, ill health and pitiful life expectancy of the poor of their time. The debate about the ‘deserving’ and ‘undeserving’ poor, about whether the poor bear any responsibility for their poverty or are victims of a system which chews them up and spits them out as it requires, about how much financial help the state should give the unemployed, destitute and long-term, sick, what kind of support the unemployed need to get into work, debates about trying to improve basic wages – all these are debates we are still having today. And that, in my opinion, is because we still live under the kind of laissez fair (nowadays called neo-liberal) capitalist economic system that the Edwardians lived under.

This really came into focus when I searched the internet to find out more about ‘The Condition of England’, a searing indictment of Edwardian Britain published in 1909, by Charles Masterman, radical Liberal Party politician and intellectual (discussed by Hattersley on pages 65 and 66).

On the internet I came across an article about it written in 2009 by David Selbourne, ‘political philosopher, social commentator and historian of ideas’, in the New Statesman. Selbourne highlights the issues raised in Masterman’s book solely to reflect on how little has changed in the subsequent 100 years, these issues being:

  • the Edwardian period was one of astonishing technological change (telegraphs, telephones, electricity, bombs and aeroplanes)
  • yet ‘moral progress’ had not kept up with material growth, and the ever-growing wealth of some, their ‘vulgarised plutocracy’, ‘extravagance’ and ‘ostentation’ went hand in hand with gross poverty and ‘monstrous inequality’
  • between the super-rich and the immiserated poor lie what Masterman termed the ‘suburbans’, members of the commercial and business classes, respectable but ‘lacking in ideas’, comfortable in villas with ‘well-trimmed gardens’, perpetually complaining about being ‘over-taxed’, hostile to the Labour Party, objecting to welfare for ‘loafers’ – what Disraeli in the 1870s called ‘villa Toryism’, the basis of the Daily Mail reading class which is still so powerful today
  • Masterman complains that he lived in a society dominated by money, ‘organised on a money basis, with everything else a side-show’; ‘the people in England and America’ are ‘writhing in the grasp of a money power more and more in the hands of enormous corporations’, a complaint you read every day in 2024
  • Masterman sees religion as becoming ‘irrelevant to the business of the day’ which has, probably, been true for decades
  • Masterman sees the institution of the Family ‘breaking in pieces’ under the strain of daily existence
  • Masterman complains about the ‘vacuous vulgarity’ of the ‘cheap and sensational press’ which actively deceives and excites their mass readership, betraying its duty to the truth
  • as for ‘socialism’, Masterman claims there is little real interest in it; whereas the rich may ‘lie awake at night listening fearfully to the tramp of the rising host’, then as now, the ‘people’ has far more pressing issues on its mind: ‘how to get steady work, the iniquities of the “foreigner” and… which football eleven will attain supremacy in some particular league’
  • and the Labour Party? ‘They may perhaps stand for the working man in opinion’, says Masterman, but ‘the majority of them are certainly remote from him in characteristic’, while ‘a Labour leader, if successful, tends to become conservative’
  • Masterman even complains about the ‘strange mediocrity’, the poor quality of British leaders in ‘high positions in church and state’, something I read about in the press almost every day

In other words, Masterman’s analysis of Britain 1909 can appear, at first glance, like an astonishing anticipation of Britain 2021, except that… it isn’t, as I so often insist, an anticipation: It is an indication of how much hasn’t changed in a century and surely a demonstration of the deep economic and social structures which make up England, which are not somehow extraneous to English society, which are not additional extras which can be easily tweaked if only we elected the right politicians – but which make up the fundamental essence of English society and the English character.

Errors

A couple of errors leaped out at me. George Eliot’s novel ‘Middlemarch’ was not published in 1891-2 (p.308) but 1871-2, and General Gordon was not killed in Khartoum in 1865 (p.341) but 1885. The Russian Revolution did not take place in 1916 (p.359). The Christian states of the Balkans did not form a secret alliance in 1914 (p.475) but in 1912 on the eve of the First Balkan War.

Maybe the proofreader had become as overwhelmed with factoids as I felt.

Conclusion

Most of this is familiar – not necessarily a lot of the details, but certainly the general shape of all the issues. The book is packed with information but the reader gets to the very end and discovers that they really haven’t learned that much. The Edwardian decade was an era of rapid social, cultural and technological change and fraught with a number of political crises? Well, which decade of the twentieth century wasn’t?

Gaps

Having made it to the end of this 480-page marathon one glaring omission stood out – the British Empire. There should have been a chapter about the empire, probably divided into white and non-white i.e. a summary of political and economic developments in Canada-Australia-New Zealand; and then ditto for the non-white colonies starting with India (the partition of Bengal, the founding of the Muslim League) and then Africa (for example, the amalgamation of various colonies into Nigeria), maybe others in the Caribbean or elsewhere. The book was only published 20 years ago but already, with our greater than ever awareness of imperial sins, and the relentless multiculturalisation of Britain, this feels like a glaring absence.


Credit

The Edwardians by Roy Hattersley was published by Little Brown in 2004. All references are to the 2007 Abacus paperback edition.

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Ernest Cole: A Lens in Exile @ Autograph ABP

Autograph is a small but stylish gallery over towards Shoreditch which specialises in Black photographers. To be precise:

Established in 1988, Autograph’s mission is to champion the work of artists who use photography and film to highlight questions of race, representation, human rights and social justice.

Its exhibitions are consistently excellent and are FREE.

Ernest Cole potted biography

There are two Ernest Cole exhibitions on in London at the moment. A big show at the Photographers’ Gallery in Soho displays nearly 100 photos from his landmark book, ‘A House of Bondage‘. This recorded in unflinching photos and sometimes harrowing documentary prose life for oppressed Blacks in the apartheid South Africa which Cole grew up in.

In 1966 Cole left South Africa with a case full of his negatives. He went to New York where the contacts he’d built up in his five years as a freelance photographer paid off. He showed the work to editors from Magnum Photos who took it up and got him a book publishing deal, and ‘A House of Bondage’ was written and published the following year (1967).

In America

But then he found himself, an outsider, with some but not many contacts, in the relentlessly competitive world of New York photography, magazines, newspapers and so on. So, on the back of the critical and commercial success of ‘Bondage’ he conceived several projects. The Autograph exhibition features quotes from letters Cole wrote and interviews he gave. Several of the letters are to arts funding organisations and in one of them (to the Ford Foundation) he mentions two specific photo projects he  was seeking funding for, ‘The Negro in the Rural South’ and ‘A Study of Negro Life in the City’.

Cole travelled to the South to take photos of poor rural communities but, as far as I can make out, none of these photos have surfaced. For the second project Cole took thousands and thousands of photographs of New York street life, specifically the street life of Harlem, the part of Manhattan Island above 96th Street which was, at the time, almost entirely populated by the Black community. Most are in black and white but about a quarter are in a vibrant but beautifully dated and nostalgic colour.

Harlem, New York City, about 1970 by Ernest Cole © Ernest Cole / Magnum Photos

The rediscovered archive

The introduction to the show comes in the first (small) room. Here we learn from the wall caption that between 1967 and 1972 Cole took an estimated 40,000 photos (!). However, neither the city or rural projects was completed, no book was forthcoming, and Cole released very few of the photos during his lifetime. In the mid-’70s Cole’s life fell into disarray due to illness, he could get no work, he was sometimes reduced to homelessness and lost control of his archive. Surprisingly, despite the highly American provenance of all these images, he spent a lot of time in Sweden where he worked with a photography collective before dropping the medium altogether to take up film-making. He died of cancer back in New York City in February 1990 at the age of just 49.

What’s triggered this revival of interest in his work is that in 2017 a huge trove of his negatives was discovered in a Stockholm bank vault. As a result the Ernest Cole Family Trust was established to publicise and protect his legacy. This helps to explain the impetus behind the recent republication of ‘House of Bondage’ (2022) and the publication, now, finally, of his New York street photos, in a handsome volume titled The True America (2024).

Installation view of ‘Ernest Cole: A Lens in Exile’ at Autograph (photo by Kate Elliott)

‘Photography as a Social Weapon’

In the photo above you can see the small first room through the archway in the middle. In this space are displayed seven photos, the biographical wall label I’ve been quoting from, and a film. The film is a 5-minute clip from a long interview with Cole shot in 1969 and titled ‘Photography as a Social Weapon’. What comes over from this clip first and foremost is what a very charismatic and articulate man he was. But there are two main learnings from the interview:

1. The first is about the model for his vision. Cole tells us that the first ever photobook he got his hands on in South Africa inspired his vision and crystallised what he wanted to achieve. It was ‘People of Moscow’ by Henri Cartier-Bresson and he was inspired by the Frenchman’s way of capturing of the poetry of everyday life.

2. The second is his disillusionment. As he educated himself in South Africa (via a photography correspondence course from England and by meeting artists and musicians) he heard about the United Nations and about the existence of an African-Asian bloc. They’ll save us, he thought; they’ll intervene in South Africa to overthrow the evil apartheid system. But when he arrived in New York he slowly realised that South Africa was just one item on the agenda of its regular meetings, that the same countries stood up and made the same loud criticism of SA, and then the meeting moved onto the next item. Nobody was going to intervene. It was up to Black South Africans to liberate themselves.

And this was part of a broader disillusionment with American society. In the interview he expressed a hope of being liberated from the day-to-day experience of racism which had made life so unbearable in South Africa. But everywhere he went (and the label tells us he visited Chicago, Cleveland, Memphis, Atlanta and Los Angeles, as well as rural areas of the South) he found American Blacks to be poor and oppressed and discriminated against. Eventually he reached the devastating conclusion that Black people in America were no better off than Black people in apartheid South Africa. It was oppression everywhere.

He happened to travel American during the climax of the Civil Rights Movement, in the months either side of the assassination of Martin Luther King (4 April 1968) and in some of the photos captures the way many young Blacks had moved beyond King’s Christian faith in non-violent protest to believing that only direct, and potentially violent, action could liberate them. Hence also one of the best photos, of a proud young Black woman staring unflinchingly into the camera, wearing a lapel badge of herself carrying a submachine gun. Hence the several photos of Black Panthers looking uncompromising.

Black Panthers in the Park, Harlem, New York City 1968 by Ernest Cole © Ernest Cole / Magnum Photos

The main gallery contains 42 photos, 20 in colour and four of them blown up and printed on the wall.  All of them are shots of people in the street, street scenes, a few posed but mostly spontaneous documentary shots. He had such a gift, he had such an eye for capturing people in their variety and humanity. I can’t show them all so will give a verbal summary.

There’s a drunk passed out on the sidewalk, a street vendor selling clams, a smartly dressed Black couple in downtown Manhattan, a kids playing with a hula hoop, another child held by his Dad brandishing a toy popgun. There’s a man wearing a billboard warning against the dangers of Dope!, there’s a couple of guys in African tribal dress sitting on an open-top car obviously going very slowly through a little mob of onlookers and bearing a placard reading ‘Don’t riot. Get wise. Go to Africa.’

In the same spirit there are three or four shots of what appears to be a motorcade of cars carrying placards depicting African leaders, namely Patrice Lumumba of the Congo and Marcus Garvey, the Jamaican politician and activist. As you might expect there are also some very stylish, cool and nattily dressed people: a cool all of woman wearing what I take to be an African outfit in a north African, Muslim style. A very cool dude wearing no shirt, just a loose gold embroidered waistcoat, a loose necktie and a purple hat, smoking a cigar.

Apart from anything else there’s a very strong nostalgic feel about lots of the images. As a boy I watched a range of TV shows from the late ’60s’ and early ’70s which featured not just Black but white hipsters and dudes, everyone wearing shades and cowboy hats and tasselled suede jackets and so on. Many of these photos, putting aside the race issue, evoke nostalgia for the street fashions of half a century ago.

There are hardly any white people in the photos. Two are very negative. One shows a middle-aged businessmen looking contemptuously, maybe angrily, at a Black couple having a snog in the lee of some building work. There’s a highly symbolic shot of a middle-aged Black shoeshine guy on his knees in front of a suited white man who is nonchalantly leafing through a wad of dollar bills – an upsetting emblem of money-colour-power dominating Black poverty and humiliation.

Harlem, New York, 1969 by Ernest Cole © Ernest Cole / Magnum Photos

And nowadays…?

As you walk round, and as you read the wall labels in which Cole described his disillusionment and  growing sense that Blacks are oppressed everywhere, it’s impossible not to ponder the current situation of Black people.

It’s far too big a question for me to handle and, not being Black, my opinion is of questionable use anyway. We now have many Black people in positions of power and position. In the UK not long ago there was a Black Chancellor of the Exchequer and we currently have a Black Foreign Secretary. Black faces are increasingly prominent across public discourse, in the media of TV, film, theatre and art. But how that translates into everyday life, I have no idea. The Guardian reports almost daily of British institutions being called out for institutional racism, racism still (apparently) flourishes in the police, young Black men are five times as likely to be stopped and searched by the cops etc.

I read the news, I watch TV and movies and go to art exhibitions and see more and more Black faces, issues and discussions, but what Black life is like in the UK I haven’t a clue. And that’s just in England, my home country. I couldn’t possibly guess at the situation in the US, except for a) my awareness (like everyone else’s) of the Black Lives Matter movement which sprang up following the murder of George Floyd in May 2020, and b) the fact that all the media I read harp on constantly about ongoing racism and racial injustice in the States.

Anyway, I thought I’d end by mentioning that, in among the many street shots, there are a few more optimistic ones, which depict interracial couples arm-in-arm or hand-in-hand on the New York subway. It’s not much but, in their way, these are the opposite of the standing businessman and the kneeling shoeshine man, these are images of love and equality. If they hardly changed society at large – which, as I’ve just mentioned, appears to remain in many ways horribly unchanged – still, maybe they are images of hope that ordinary people can find their own ways to overcome prejudice and bigotry and to live the lives they want to.

Midtown Manhattan, New York, 1971 by Ernest Cole © Ernest Cole / Magnum Photos


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