Tom Perkins, whose departure a few days earlier had contributed to Patrick’s accruing disquiet, in any case possessed good sense and amiability sufficient to ride out minor awkwardnesses, and continued a warm friend and admirer of Patrick to the end:
My friendship with Patrick continued until his death in January of this year [2000]. We corresponded. He and Mary stayed in my home. They were aboard my schooner Mariette. We met at his club, Brooks [sic], in London. He was a genius and his books remain a towering, towering achievement. I miss him greatly.[fn7]
Shortly before embarking on the Andromeda, Patrick had received news of yet another tribute to his achievement:
JSS telephoned just as I was walking in upstairs – I have won the HH prize (£10000): it is to be presented at Chatsworth on 23rd June. We were not much elated: M is v low these days; & as far as I am concerned money has largely lost its meaning.
John Saumarez Smith was the erudite manager of the Heywood Hill bookshop in Mayfair belonging to the Duke of Devonshire, and it was he who had devised the newly established Heywood Hill book prize. The other judges were Mark Amory (literary editor of the Spectator) and Roy Jenkins, a former Foreign Secretary.
Shortly after their return to Collioure, Patrick flew to England. Sadly, my mother’s continuing poor health did not permit her accompanying him. From London he travelled with Stuart Proffitt by train to the Duke’s seat at Chatsworth in Derbyshire, grandiose setting for the prize’s award. They were accompanied by other friends, including Saumarez Smith himself and Alan Judd, whose novel A Breed of Heroes Patrick particularly admired.[7]
The occasion was one of what were perhaps the two most splendid celebrations of Patrick’s lifetime achievement, both of which occurred in 1995. On arrival at Chatsworth, a slightly dazed Patrick found an assembled crowd of admirers before the magnificent façade of the palatial home of the Devonshires. A huge marquee had been erected, a band played, and Patrick was greeted by a ‘welcoming though rather distraught Duke & Duchess’. After the Duke’s introductory address, the microphone was handed to the playwright Tom Stoppard, who declaimed a brief eulogy and presented Patrick with his cheque, to happy applause from the audience.
A grateful but profoundly uneasy Patrick then returned thanks. Uncertain how best to respond, he introduced what was I believe a unique public reference to his early life: ‘I launched into my ¼ prepared anecdote, which went quite well (though I left out the main or only point) & was v kindly received.’
As Alan Judd reported afterwards: ‘It was, O’Brian told us, his first literary award; in fact, his first prize of any sort since he was given a pen-knife by the headmaster of his prep school in Paignton for keeping on running when everyone else was way ahead and out of sight.’
Back to that sunny June day at Chatsworth: ‘The food, a most astonishing great spread … People ate v heartily. They wandered about. D[uke] v kindly showed me house, library, growing steadily friendlier. Then, all those I knew having disappeared I walked about the splendid grounds until it was time to go.’
On his return to London a private dinner in Patrick’s honour, arranged by John Saumarez Smith, was held at Brooks’s.
The year 1995 represents what may perhaps be regarded as the apogee of Patrick’s public recognition. In May he learned that he was to be awarded the CBE (Companion of the British Empire), which led to an initial minor embarrassment. Confirming the appointment, the Secretary of State for National Heritage went on to explain that ‘honorary awards are given to non-UK nationals, such as yourself, and do not form part of the twice-yearly honours round’. It seems that the minister assumed Patrick to be an Irish citizen, to which the latter responded with this wonderfully baroque explanation – first:
that a childless cousin meant to leave me his land in the Co. Galway, the second that after a particularly acrimonious divorce my new wife did not choose to bear the same name as the first. Then there was the question of birth: although I was begotten in Ballinasloe I was born prematurely in Buckinghamshire.
This is the sole occasion known to me that Patrick ascribed his change of name to my mother’s wish – which in itself is not impossible. For the rest, it is impossible to believe that Patrick did not have his tongue firmly in cheek: the passage reads as though borrowed from Tristram Shandy, or one of those Gothic novels that made pretty Catherine Morland’s spine tingle in Northanger Abbey.
The Secretary having evidently accepted Patrick’s picaresque birth tale, the ceremony took place at Buckingham Palace on 25 October:
The car was there & waiting after breakfast so we got into it & reached the Palace in good time – just as well since there were crowds outside & in. M[ary] & N[atasha] soon led off & the recipients in another direction through rather grand rooms with Life Guards & Blues motionless gleaming – to picture gallery with van D[yck] … Poussin. Rubens sadly ill-hung & dirty where a gold-laced person showed us what to do & how to address HM. Then we filed off & singly entered the ball-room (I think) where HM sat on a low dais. with officials behind her – my time came, [?] called out – 5 steps forward, left turn, bow, 5 steps forward. HM, holding the badge of the order ‘I am so glad to be giving you this.’ Me: ‘How v kind of you to say so.’ She then hung the cross of the order round my neck & said I had written many books ? mostly about the RN – I agreed but could not fit a majesty in, which I regretted. As I went out they took off the X & gave it me back in a case. Long pause while others were decorated – v. splendid scene, mostly red & gold. Anthem. Then a herd-like swarming out – M & N found, & car.
Patrick receiving a CBE
I believe the award meant more to Patrick, as a lifelong monarchist, absorbed in history and tradition, than any other honour he received. Privately, however, he confessed he would have preferred a knighthood, which would have included my mother in the honour.[fn8] Still, Her Majesty’s congratulatory words on the success of his naval novels were doubtless sincere, since I am told that the Duke of Edinburgh keeps a set in each of the royal residences. True to absent-minded form, Patrick subsequently lost the insignia of his decoration during a taxi journey, when he had to request a replacement from the Palace. Once back home, he preserved it in his especially hollowed-out copy of The Golden Ocean, originally designed to conceal small sums of money.
Even the grape harvest that year seemed set to celebrate Patrick’s annus mirabilis. Writing to his editor at Norton on 25 September, he rhapsodized:
Yesterday we finished picking the grapes – very beautiful grapes in spite of recent heavy rain – in our little mountain vineyard. There were three times as many as last year: indeed they overflow the vat which holds only 400 bottles, and we shall have to have a little separate brewing.
Pressure of advancing years meant that Patrick was obliged to reduce the extent of his previously arduous physical labours at Correch d’en Baus. The vineyard had now to be abandoned, being given over to trees and shrubs. At the bottom of the slope two grassy areas, sheltered by hedges from prying eyes, continued to provide a delightful refuge. There, too, Patrick kept his orchid house. Once there had been vegetable patches and beehives, but those cosy days of self-sufficiency were fast slipping away into poignant memory.
At the beginning of December John Saumarez Smith reported his negotiation of the sale of manuscripts of the first thirteen Aubrey–Maturin novels for the relatively modest sum of £60,000 to the Lilly Library at Indiana University. The Library continued thereafter to add related material to their Patrick O’Brian collection, which now houses the fullest collection of his papers not in private hands. Since then few if any manuscript materials have appeared on the market, while first editions of Patrick’s works continue to rise in value by the year.
Three months later Patrick wrote to Edwin Moore at Collins, ruefully acknowledging:
Yes, I did know about the ludicrous price of my early edition: I belong to the same club as John Saumarez Smith, who runs a bookshop in Curzon Street and one day when we were lunching side by side he told
me, thereby ruining my meal. Not long before, Mary & I had grown tired of chests & cupboards crammed with those copies that come by terms of the contract from publishers and that I very rarely give away (forced praise is a bore to both sides): so we carried two massive loads down for the incinerator.
As the New Year of 1996 opened, it might have appeared that Patrick had attained a career summit achieved by but a handful of authors. Despite this, his introspective character left him continuingly vulnerable to misgivings and bouts of depression. ‘Discontent much of the day, however – we frip or subfrip but what we should do without one another the Dear knows – wither away?’ he noted. A few days later, and ‘I am bereft of book & purpose.’
Perennial frustration lay in the ever-increasing technical complexity of the contemporary world, from which that of Jack Aubrey provided a refuge. ‘I found a small vacuum-cleaner’ – but next day Patrick lamented:
I tried putting up the vacuum-cleaner – a frightful struggle – holes mismeasured – instructions misunderstood – but at last I got it into place, with the machine charging … A rotten day, but at night I dreamt a JA & SM piece with great pleasure – visual images, SM being smaller & older than I had thought, in an old black coat.
Despite his accruing wealth, Patrick continued determined to repair everything possible within the house through exercise of his own ingenuity:
I proved [read proofs] most of the day, when I was not trying to fix a hook into the bathroom wall to hold a dangling cable: from utter simplicity it turned into a great blundering task with machinery brought in & a most indifferent result at the end – frayed temper of course.
The ‘dangling cable’ comprised part of Patrick’s haphazard installation of much of the house’s erratic wiring system. Nothing daunted, he spent the remainder of the day wrestling inconclusively with his Rubik’s Cube, which today continues to baffle our grandchildren.
In March Patrick underwent yet another painful operation on his left hand at the hospital in Perpignan. He felt his age continually, a complaint not consoled by the cheery acknowledgement of a beggar he tipped in the street outside: ‘Merci, l’ancien!’
The modest size of Correch d’en Baus precluded much addition to its contents, collected in earlier years, which imparted cherished memories of his shared past with my mother. Now that they possessed two garages, however, Patrick toyed with the idea of converting that adjacent to the living room into a library (its construction was completed in May 1995). Some bookshelves were eventually installed, but in the event housed only rows of unwanted translations of his books. In consequence only a trickle of new books could be managed within the house, among Patrick’s favourites being the splendid five-volume Oxford edition of Dr Johnson’s correspondence, which he was fortunately invited to review. At the same time, he had for some years possessed easy access to whatever books he required beyond his own highly personal collection in the invaluable London Library, founded by Carlyle and Thackeray, and constituting what must surely be the best private-subscription library in the world.
In addition, he had amassed a quirky collection of artefacts, not a few of which found their way into the texts of his novels. In this way, as in others, his own life became in a sense physically infused into that Georgian realm of the mind he inhabited with such facility. These, as I look around me, include the harpoon that gashed the side of Skogula the sperm whale in Beasts Royal;[8] the copy of William Winstanley’s The New Help to Discourse. Or Wit & Mirth, Intermix’d With more serious Matters (London, 1716) given by Commodore Anson to Peter Palafox in The Golden Ocean;[9] the whale’s tooth mentioned in Master and Commander and The Reverse of the Medal;[10] a set of pincers for extracting musket balls or splinters, once presumably the property of Stephen Maturin MD; the handsome ‘black scrutoire’, in which Jack preserved his correspondence in The Nutmeg of Consolation;[11] and the folio copy of Sir Richard Baker’s A Chronicle of the Kings of England From the Time of ye Romans Government unto the Death of King James (London, 1696), prominent among books in Jack Aubrey’s library noticed in The Yellow Admiral.[12]
By the autumn of 1996 honours continued to accrue thick and fast, to Patrick’s mingled gratification and bewilderment. Early in the year he had received a letter from Max Hastings, editor of the Evening Standard, who proposed celebrating his literary achievement with a formal banquet at Greenwich. That guests were required to pay handsomely for their attendance confirms the enthusiasm the occasion aroused, not a few having flown in for the occasion from the United States. It was hard to conceive of a more appropriate venue for the author of so many books extolling the record of the Royal Navy, and Patrick gladly accepted. The dinner was held on 11 October, and he was reassured on learning that he might select as many guests as he liked.
Patrick and my mother flew to England, she unfortunately feeling far from well. The occasion was one of great splendour, being held in the magnificent Painted Hall. At the same time, as was generally the case with Patrick, the expedition was accompanied by a succession of minor mishaps. On the day of the event, our son Dmitri, whom Patrick had invited, arrived at tea-time. After changing into evening dress, they were joined by Patrick’s editor Stuart Proffitt, and set off in a taxi. By the time they had crossed Lambeth Bridge, Patrick discovered that he had left their invitation behind. Fortunately, a lively fear that he might be denied entry proved illusory, and having with some difficulty discovered the entrance to the building, the four were ushered into an anteroom, where they found hundreds of guests assembled.
The noise made it difficult for Patrick to hear, but he was relieved to find many friends present. Next, the company moved on to the hall, where, once settled at their tables, Patrick and my mother were ushered in, accompanied by a naval commander and attendant bearing a halberd. Trumpeters of the Royal Marines played a fanfare, and the assemblage applauded enthusiastically. Patrick found himself seated next to Lady Layard, wife of Admiral Sir Michael Layard: both the Royal Navy and US Navy (Admiral William J. Crowe) were well represented at the occasion. On his right was William Waldegrave’s wife Caroline, ‘looking lovely’.
William Waldegrave, then Chief Secretary to the Treasury, delivered the address. After paying eloquent tribute to Patrick’s great literary creation and the pleasure it had afforded millions, he noted that:
He is a private man. He is not a man who has sought the limelight. There is therefore something utterly delightful about the way the tide of recognition for his achievement has come flooding silently but inexorably in from every quarter of the globe and every kind and condition of people.
Next, the actor Robert Hardy, whose recorded readings of his novels Patrick much admired, read a passage from one of the novels. Finally, following the Loyal Toast, a nervous Patrick arose to speak. At first the modest disclaimer of the orator’s ability to speak effectively in public rang true, but among so unreservedly enthusiastic a following his confidence swiftly grew. He concluded by declaring ‘on this occasion, when there are even more general officers and admirals present, I am sustained by my fervent, my very fervent wish to drink to the Royal Navy, that glorious service, and to the navies of our gallant allies.’
The Royal Marine band played the retreat and (in Patrick’s own words) ‘then (I believe) I was led away’. Friends and admirers rejoined him in the anteroom, surrounding him with plaudits which left the happy author a little dazed, ‘after which I ill-advisedly looked at the chapel, thus losing M for some time’. Five years later, many of those attending would gather in the same chapel for Patrick’s memorial service.
Among admirers present was his generous fan Thomas Perkins, on whose yacht he had sailed in the previous summer, together with Danielle Steel. Next morning, after being filmed for an interview by the BBC, Patrick and my mother were whisked in a Perkins limousine to his country house for the night. This was Plumpton Place, a magnificent Elizabethan pile on the Sussex Downs, not far from Patrick’s beloved childhood home at Lewes. He enjoyed the intelligent conversation
, admired ‘the park-like garden – moat, pools & remarkable outbuildings (a fulling mill with such a gush of water)’, and shared an enthusiasm for Perkins’s collection of clocks, which included a particularly fine seventeenth-century Knibb.
Back in town, invitations continued to pour in. The Duke of Devonshire wrote from Chatsworth, inviting Patrick to become a special member of his private club, Pratt’s. This Patrick was delighted to accept, but other requests he turned down. A month later he received ‘Invitation to 10 Downing St. 6 30–8 on 5 XII’, to which he sent ‘reply to PM’s office, civilly declining’. In the New Year ‘Ambassador [to France] invites us … to dinner in honour of I think CIGS[fn9] – declined’. Not long after, Stuart Proffitt ‘telephoned at tea-time. USN admiral invites me to Marblehead [Harbor, Connecticut] of Constitution’s cruise – begged him to decline for me.’
The year 1996 had proved a golden year for Patrick. As though the Greenwich banquet and its aftermath were not sufficient reward for any author, let alone one who had struggled for so long against poverty and disappointment, at the end of November his literary agent:
telephoned to say that there was a strong probability of a film (M[aster] & C[ommander]) & could director/man in charge come & see me? I said no, I must get on with book & we agreed that I should say when I was coming to London. Some exhilharation [sic], but not much.
Exciting as this was, unalloyed happiness lay elsewhere. Once again safely ensconced with my mother at their snug home in Collioure: ‘Before bed I read some more P[ride]& P[rejudice] – some best pure J[ane]A[usten] (Collins – elegant females – Mr Bennet). How I hope that in 200 years people may laugh, reading me.’
A fortnight on, ‘Quite late I finished P & P, the dear book.’
Patrick O'Brian Page 45