Up until the Munich crisis of September 1938, this was, as a matter of fact, a tenable view. But the whole argument rested on a false premise - namely, that Hitler could be trusted to keep a promise, that he too didn’t want war and knew when to stop.
The left wing were diametrically opposed to all this. They consisted of the thinking working-class and the intellectual left - which of course included Hunt and Hiscocks and all readers of The New Statesman and Nation and the News Chronicle. On the whole, this lot were in sympathy with the Russian regime of Stalin, upon the true cruelty and horror of which they were completely misinformed. They thought Russia really was a country where there was true class equality and where working-men, through nationalization, had freedom from capitalist exploitation. They wanted us to be allied to Russia and, while we were about it to take a reformist leaf or two (as they supposed) from Russia’s book. They saw Hitler, quite correctly, as a cruel tyrant and an untrustworthy international crook, with whom sooner or later accounts would have to be settled.
So both sides were partly right and partly wrong. Chamberlain was tragically wrong in thinking that we could do a deal with Hitler, but right in thinking that the one thing the people he represented wanted to avoid at almost all costs was war. (He also knew we weren’t armed and ready.) He was also right that Soviet Russia was a potential danger.
The Left were entirely wrong about Russia but entirely right about Hitler. They were also right in thinking that their own Tory Government was ready to give Hitler a great deal too much (such as Czechoslovakia) in the hope of avoiding war. They thought that if we’d stood up to Hitler and Mussolini earlier, over the Rhineland (1934) and Abyssinia (1935), we’d have stopped later trouble. They were right.
It’s no part of the purpose of this autobiography to chronicle the politics of the time: but the point I want to stress is that from now on (about mid-1937) my generation lived in the knowledge of Hitler and the apprehension of war. It was ‘business as usual’, but always with that grim thought at the back of everything. My sister, that hard-headed realist, was under no delusions and consequently neither was I.
By autumn of 1937 I had become one of Hiscocks’s star pupils. This had really happened because we suited each other. More mature boys, who had already formed ideas about what they intended to do, didn’t really care for Hiscocks, and even ridiculed him in a quiet way: though not to his face, of course. They thought he was too imperative and ardent, and expected too much. I was as putty in his hands, but this does not mean that I didn’t try to use my own mind. ‘I’m not - er - altogether convinced of that, Adams.’ (One of the rare smiles.) ‘Convince me.’ And I would proceed to try; sometimes successfully, sometimes not. Certainly Hiscocks could be a gauleiter, and one got to know where his sympathies (what Shakespeare would call his ‘affections’) lay. When he spoke of Stein, Hardenburg and Scharnhorst and of Turnvater Jahn, a kind of light would come into his eye and his discourse would wax extra warm, which was more than it did for Mazzini or even Garibaldi.
The information that I was lined up by Hiscocks to sit for the various Oxford and Cambridge scholarship examinations, with the first lot coming up early in December, had no particular effect on me; not of excitement or apprehension or anything else. I didn’t even start thinking ‘If I get an award - If I don’t get an award -’ I didn’t think ahead at all. If this was something that Hiscocks wanted done, then I’d better get on and do it. I ought, of course, to have been able to talk it all over with my housemaster, but as for all practical purposes I hadn’t got a housemaster, I simply left everything to Hunt and Hiscocks.
As the time drew on, Hiscocks’s preparations were meticulous. We did bona fide three-hour papers for real. Since available time for these was a bit limited, we also did ‘mock-ups’, in which we were given a sample exam. paper, required to choose four questions and to precis verbally what we would say and how. We did viva voce interviews, with Hiscocks pretending to be three dons. In all this my housemaster played no part whatever, except to be awkward and disobliging about the leave I had to get from him in order to fulfil Hiscocks’s programmes.
Meanwhile, my dear father had become very ill. I have never known exactly what his illness was, but it must have been some kind of breakdown consequent upon his drinking. The opinion of my sister and brother, who took over the administration of the family’s affairs, was that as I was safely away at Bradfield and in view of the impending exams, and also of my deep attachment to my father, the more ignorance I was left in, the better. I was not told either that he was delirious or that his life was in danger. However, Mr Arnold - though inadvertently — soon dispelled most of this happy ignorance. It so happened that I now had a minor responsibility in the house - that of reporting to him nightly the names of those who had been absent from any meal that day. (They always had leave and good reason: no one would want to cut a meal. But this was the system.) Every evening at this time, when I went into his study to report, he would immediately ask ‘How’s your father?’ This at first surprised, then disconcerted and finally alarmed and upset me. Well meant, I’m sure. I used to reply ‘All right as far as I know, sir.’
That early December I set out for Oxford in fairly thick snow. The journey involved a ‘bus from Bradfield to Reading, and thence a train. As I came under Tom Tower, clutching my suitcase, and got my first sign of Tom quad., it naturally startled and excited me greatly. Oddly enough, it didn’t daunt me. Rather, it had the opposite effect. I thought, I had no idea that Oxford was like this. I know what I want now, all right: I want to come here — not necessarily to Christ Church, but somewhere. (My sister had already warned me ‘Whatever you get, I don’t think you’ll be able to go up to Christ Church; too expensive.’)
Dining that night in Christ Church hall — reached by way of the glorious staircase - reinforced my feelings. If this was what Oxford was like, then I was going to get to it. The sight of so many strangers - the other candidates - didn’t unnerve me. I don’t know why: it wasn’t in character. (Mr Punch.) Apart from natural courtesy, I maintained a certain reserve. One little incident I recall. A fellow opposite me leaned across the table and said ‘Would you moind passing the moist sugar?’ Golly, I thought, a rustic! Competition from a rustic! I’ll show him! This unworthy thought at least served to raise my morale. (I had never heard the term ‘moist sugar’ before: later I told my mother, and after that we always used to talk about ‘the moist’ in inverted commas.)
I wasn’t offered anything as a result of those exams., although I learned afterwards that I had been considered for an exhibition at Merton. (The group of colleges involved was, I think, Christ Church, Oriel, Merton and Corpus Christi.) But I enjoyed doing the papers. This was for real, and it was encouraging to find that I could do them; and if I was any judge, do them reasonably well. Some of the results were posted up before we left Oxford. I remember hearing this while I was chatting among a little group of other candidates, and was unwise enough to enquire where the list might be seen. ‘Oi wouldn’t wurry!’ said the moist sugar chap banteringly. Well, he must at any rate have had some money, that moist sugar chap, for next year he was up at Christ Church as a commoner.
I didn’t feel particularly dashed by not getting anything, and Hiscocks had nothing but praise when we went over the paper together and I told him what I’d tried to say. The next scholarship exam. was for Worcester College, on its own. The college was lucky enough to be second in line that year - to have second pick of the candidates. Hiscocks was calm and assured. ‘The - er - field will be much clearer now, Adams.’
It so happened that at this time I stumbled into another of my periodic and virtually unavoidable rows with Mr Arnold about some slip-up over leave to go to a school society meeting, or something like that. It was his way not to impose a penalty or punishment at the time of the offence and be done with it, but to go on remembering it against you and accordingly to withhold the next two or three requests you might have to make. ‘Well, in view of what you’v
e done recently, I don’t see why I should give you leave to go out on Sunday, do you?’
A little before I was due to go up again for the Worcester scholarship exam., I was suddenly summoned by the housemaster. ‘Mr Hiscocks wants you to go and see him this evening. I said I had no alternative but to refuse permission.’ Here he became a little incoherent. ‘Your recent conduct - you people - But you’ve got to go, it seems,’ he spat out, like a man thwarted beyond endurance. ‘Somebody from Worcester College, or something.’ I waited. ‘You’ll be back by quarter to eight and if you’re not back by quarter to eight you’ll be beaten. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
I got down to Hiscocks, who was openly frustrated and annoyed that I couldn’t stay as long as he wanted. I was apprehensive of the housemaster’s anger and threat, and made it ‘twenty to eight’, to be quite sure. ‘The person from Worcester’ turned out to be an old boy named Jimmy Gilman, a friend and fellow-historian who had gone up to Worcester the year before. (Did Mr Arnold know this? If not, why not? If so, why didn’t he tell me?) Hiscocks had actually got Jimmy to come and give me the low-down on the dons of Worcester, their predilections, fads and foibles. He did so, most penetratingly and helpfully, for half an hour or more, until I felt I had cut it as fine as I could and must race back to the house. Mr Arnold did not, of course, bother to enquire whether all had gone well.
I had one final briefing from Hiscocks a day or two later. He had nice rooms, down at Lord’s Farm, some way from College, but muddy of access in winter. Just as I was leaving to go out into the snow, he turned his head and looked at me over the back of the sofa. ‘Do well at Worcester, Adams. It’s a nice place: you’d like it.’
From the very start there was something propitious about the Worcester enterprise. The College, the beautiful quad., Dr George Clarke’s library building, the gardens approached down a tunnel (like Alice), the lake, the playing fields - everything delighted me. As luck would have it, they lodged me in the De Quincey rooms - the finest undergraduate rooms in College. It was still bitterly cold, but when we got into hall the next morning, to start on the first paper, I found my place was near the fire, the only source of heat in the big room.
The papers might have been made for me. It was almost uncanny. ‘Examine the Spanish connection as a factor in the reign of James I.’ ‘What restraints were placed upon the power of the monarchy at the Restoration, and how effective were they?’ ‘Estimate the contribution of Prussia to the defeat of Napoleon.’ ‘Compare and contrast Mazzini and Cavour as leaders of the Risorgimento.’ Time was the only problem, and the invigilator had to stand over me and begin ‘I’m afraid -’ before I reluctantly parted with my European history answers.
The English essay was a brute. There was only one subject and no more. ‘Character and intellect’. It wasn’t my sort of thing at all, but I had an honest stab at it. (‘Never start writing for at least an hour, Adams: longer, preferably.’)
The general paper came last, on a dark, freezing afternoon. I couldn’t believe my eyes as I read through the questions. ‘Write a short appreciation of one of the following styles of English architecture: Norman; Early English; Decorated; Perpendicular.’ ‘Must epic deteriorate as civilization advances?’ ‘Of what use are museums?’ ‘Compare any two of the following:- Bach and Handel; Reynolds and Gainsborough; Keats and Shelley; Trollope and Dickens.’ And there, at the foot of the page, ‘What measures would you take to avoid a slump?’
As it fell out, this exam. spanned the end of term at Bradfield, so I was returning home direct from Worcester. My mother, who loved to go out in the car whenever she could (she didn’t drive), had been driven to Oxford by Thorn to take a look round, have tea and return home with me. She was early - the exam. hadn’t finished - but in spite of the cold she set out to have a walk round the College. As she was thus engaged, in some way or other she ran into and became acquainted with the medieval history tutor, Vere Somerset. Vere Somerset was a bachelor, at this time in his mid-forties, I suppose: something of an aristocrat (a connection of the family of Beaufort) and passionately fond of music. As I was to learn, he enjoyed arranging social occasions for his students and getting to know them. My mother, who had been a pretty girl, was always up for a little light flirtation, and what with my father’s illness and our financial decline, must during the last year or two have come to feel rather deprived socially. Anyway, she and Vere Somerset took a shine to each other, and it was he with whom she had tea. A little later, in the early evening, I underwent a fascinating viva voce. All I can remember of it is that they were plainly well-disposed towards me, and that I had a friendly altercation with Mr Pickard-Cambridge, the distinguished philosopher, about the merits of Tchaikovsky as a composer. (I was pro-Tchaikovsky: Mr P.-C. courteously suggested that in time I would get tired of him. I can’t say that I ever have.)
We were home in time for dinner, and I found my father coherent and convalescent. I knew intuitively that he had stopped drinking whisky (I expect he had been badly frightened), but he was ready enough to go two hundred yards up the road with me to the village pub. and have a beer or two. We didn’t talk about his illness, but I could tell he was as glad to see me again as I was to see him. He had retired from work, and I had the feeling that now that he would soon be recovered, he was likely to find time hanging on his hands. My brother was at home, but my sister - now teaching at the Frances Holland in London - hadn’t yet arrived for Christmas.
I didn’t have to wait long for news from Worcester. A day or two later my mother received a short letter from Mr Somerset in his own hand. It said how much he had enjoyed their meeting at the College, and then went on to tell her that it was intended to elect her son to an open scholarship the following day. In a P.S., he added ‘I enjoyed your son’s remarks on Keats and Shelley.’ (I can’t remember saying anything very original.)
Here was a go! My kind, serious-minded, responsible brother at once began worrying his head about ways and means. The scholarship (Worcester awarded two history and two classical scholarships annually) was worth £100 a year. At that time, it was generally reckoned that a student could manage in a modest way on about £240 a year. Where was the other £140 to come from? My brother set about the business of applying to the County Council for an auxiliary (county) scholarship.
A day or two later came the official invitation from the College, offering me the scholarship. It was necessary for me to accept formally in writing. At the same time arrived my sister - the arrival of whom I had been awaiting eagerly.
I had always respected and admired my sister. Her own fine university achievement had made me dare to hope that one day I might be able to manage something of the sort. During my time at Bradfield, although I had achieved certain academic successes, she had never spoken a word of praise or congratulation. At last, I thought, I knew why. It was because, as I now perceived, these had been relatively trifling, parochial matters, not really worth remark by a scholar of her standing. She had been waiting to see whether I was capable of doing something worthwhile in the real world. Now I had. Now, at last, she - the only knowledgeable, discriminating person, apart from Hiscocks and Hunt, whose praise was worth having - would say what she had been keeping back for something that really deserved it.
She showed up in her usual door-slamming, kick-off-your-shoes style. I waited happily while she had a drink and a meal. Afterwards, while she was reading the paper, my mother said something about the scholarship.
‘Well,’ said my sister, ‘I do think someone might have taken the trouble to ring me up and tell me.’ A little later she went out somewhere. She didn’t allude to the matter again.
It still hurts, after all these years. But little by little I came to realize that her saying nothing was due not to deliberate unkindness, but to a sort of emotional inhibition which made it impossible for her to find or to come out with words of warmth or compliment. There are people - they are usually clever people - who have this limitation. Years lat
er, I was to work for a brilliant civil servant, David Nenk, in the Ministry of Education, who had the same impediment. Anyway, my mortification was eased by a telegram which arrived that evening. ‘Congratulations and best wishes Hiscocks.’ (Nothing from Mr Arnold, of course.)
My brother’s representations to the Berkshire County Council were successful. They awarded me a grant of £90 a year. The other £50 would be found somehow. I rather think Aunt Lilian came down with the ready. Good for her! The more immediate question was whether I should now leave Bradfield or remain there until the end of the summer term. Once again, I had no views of my own and was quite content to wait until others had decided for me. My sister and Hiscocks met and talked it over: their decision was that on balance I would gain more by staying at Bradfield. Hiscocks remained of the view which he had put into writing for the authorities at Worcester. ‘As a historian he is immature but capable of good work.’ (‘It’s always better, Adams, not to - er - lay it on too thick.’) I could do with two more terms of Hiscocks.
I had no objections. As the winner of an open scholarship, I now rated the privileges of a full blood; that is to say, in all respects those of a house - though not a College - prefect. This was certainly one step towards putting down the housemaster. I began to meditate on other possibilities. Two were open to me during the coming Lent term. I could try to get my fives colours and I could try to win the Denning, as it was called - the College prize for English literature.
Both were distinctly chancy. The fives team consisted of only two pairs, which meant that, logically, only four people stood to win their colours. Michael Paine, the head prefect of the Close, was an outstanding athlete and easily the best fives player in the school. He had taught me virtually all the skill I had — really because he wanted a decent partner for the house to win the fives doubles cup. (He himself would win the singles.) In another house there was a boy called Henry Joy whom I knew I couldn’t beat. That left two places, and the aspirants were myself and two other boys called John Hoare and David Martin. What actually happened in the event was that I began that term in the College second pair with John Hoare; then David displaced me; but towards the end of the term, David went sick and I played the last two or three matches in his stead. Exceptionally, the term ended with five colours, Paine, Joy, Hoare, Martin and myself.
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