by John Calder
Harewood was interested. He liked new ideas and audacity, and was about to give Edinburgh a large dose of Schoenberg’s music, which only a Festival Director with his royal credentials could get away with. His programme for that year and the following year was already full, and so was his budget, but he agreed that I could go ahead with a big literary jamboree of up to a hundred writers from many countries, provided – and this was the main condition – I could find a way not to lose money. I felt confident about this and had already worked out an approximate budget. In a later article, Harewood remembered our lunch like this:
“He would take an envelope out of his pocket – have you noticed that people that work on the back of envelopes always have one on hand? – and improvise an answer to my question. What he wrote down involved a rough calculation of the cost of people he thought should be invited to attend (travel, hotels, fees, subsistence), which could be set against the tickets we would sell for the events. The difference between cost and box-office income would be met by the sale of rights… even when the procedure was repeated at our next meeting, the figures were quite different, but the bottom line always indicated a balance.”
The logistics were such that we eventually decided to hold the Writer’s Conference, as it came to be billed, in 1962 instead of 1961. I became busy, using all my experience of approaching the embassies of governments with interesting writers to see how far they would be willing to help their local literatures. I had of course, early on, intended to give a platform to my own writers, especially the French ones, but here I was totally unsuccessful. Robbe-Grillet, and the other French writers I had invited, thought it impossible that in the month of August, the sacred month for holidays, anyone, and certainly not themselves, would exchange the warm sun and sea of the Mediterranean for the cold climes of Northern Britain. I came to publish several authors as a result of the conference, but it did little good to those already in our catalogue.
I made a list of desirable names – British, American and European – but also looked to the east. I had taken on, as an author, the distinguished Indian novelist, historian and journalist Khushwant Singh, and when I submitted the list to Harewood he spotted the name and became instantly enthusiastic: he knew him and said he would be good value. About that time Khushwant came to London and we got on famously. He told me an interesting story. On a previous visit to London he had been taken to Rules Restaurant by Richard Crossman, then a government minister. The manager had taken Crossman aside and said that on this occasion he would do nothing, but “normally we do not serve coloured gentlemen”. Crossman went to the telephone, and within minutes an official arrived from the appropriate ministry to remove the restaurant’s licence to sell wine and alcoholic beverages. The two diners, who had not ordered anything other than drinks, then moved to another restaurant. Khushwant loved wine, which he could not get – or at least be seen to drink – in India, and also western women, who he was too proper to approach. But he had a wicked sense of humour and a capacity to make mischief, which he indulged frequently in his political journalism; it would play a big part in the conference. A green-turbaned Sikh, he had published many novels, most notably Train to Pakistan and I Shall Not Hear the Nightingale, which latter I had acquired from Grove Press. He was soon to become the editor of The Times of India, a long tenure, and he had a son currently at Oxford. We were to have several meetings over the next few years. When I told him that I had invited Henry Miller, who had already accepted, his eyes gleamed. “I think I know who the Indian politician is in Tropic of Cancer,” he said to me, “and I want to ask him.”
Henry Miller was one of several Americans on the list. I knew that Sonia Orwell had come to know many American writers during the time she was a commissioning editor for Weidenfeld & Nicolson, and I recruited her to help persuade such friends as Mary McCarthy and Norman Mailer to come. I spoke to the cultural attachés at London embassies, who proposed writers from their countries whose names were often unfamiliar to me. Most of them spoke good English and turned out to be excellent value. They included Bárbara Heliodora from Brazil, Georgios Theotokas from Greece, Izhar Smilansky from Israel and many more, some becoming known to us too late to get their names into the programme. I made sure that everyone could speak at least one of the three official languages: English, French and German. The language problem applied not just to the delegates, but to the public as well. Since much of the Festival audience was foreign, I contacted a firm of conference translators who did simultaneous translation that could be listened to through earphones. The audience was thus enabled to hear whatever language was being spoken alive or in translation, but as the earphones also boosted the sound and were much clearer, many preferred to hear everything through earphones.
Gradually the acceptances and refusals began to come in, but with some later changes of mind both ways. Soon we had about eighty acceptances, and they included many well-known names. Graham Greene accepted but cancelled at the last minute, Aldous Huxley and Bertrand Russell did the same, and Norman Mailer was a cliff-hanger, but came in the end. The conference-programme book, which was really a lavishly produced literary magazine, partly produced on art paper, but with a central section on grey cartridge, gave two lists: a longer one with short biographies of participants and photographs of everyone who had accepted, which was prepared well in advance on white art, and a last-minute list, very different, but still incomplete, on grey. The latter section also gave a longish description of each day’s topic and what was expected to happen, as well as listing the principal speakers for those days.
My list of names changed almost daily as individuals and organizations wrote or telephoned. The British Council sponsored several writers, and they too always had new suggestions. I never really worried about there being too many writers coming, or after the first months of there not being enough: the problem was to make sure that at least half of the names would be in some way known to the public, although not necessarily just the Edinburgh local public which still made up the bulk of Edinburgh Festival audiences.
The programme book was a big undertaking. Jim had found me an editor for it, Andrew Hook, lecturer in English at Edinburgh University and a former student and a warm admirer of F.R. Leavis. With some help from me he commissioned articles from many contributors. My introduction, preceded by a short preface of welcome from Sir Compton Mackenzie, who in the end did not attend, was followed by enlightening articles from J.G. Weightman (on the different varieties of novels being written), by Malcolm Bradbury (on the social versus the intellectual novel), by David Daiches (on the Scottish tradition), by David Craig (on modern Scottish literature), by Hugh MacDiarmid (on poetry), by Raymond Williams, Alain Robbe-Grillet and Andrew Hook (all on commitment), by Dennis Donoghue and Colin MacInnes (on censorship) and by a variety of other well-known names all answering a questionnaire about the future of the novel. There were also articles on some of the most eminent authors in vogue at that time. Looking back so many years later, I am amazed by how well the conference’s programme, entitled The Novel Today, still reads, how the issues laid out there are still with us and the arguments valid. It sold for five shillings.
The cost of bringing in the writers was almost entirely underwritten by embassies, the British Council and publishers anxious to have their writers in the limelight. Only a few, and those were the biggest names, came out of my conference budget that had to be covered by ticket sales. I did do a little checking on most of the embassy suggestions, but lack of time did mean taking a few chances. There had to be a Scottish participation of course, and I took much advice here, some of it from Bill Watson, literary editor of the Scotsman, some from friends at the BBC like Finlay MacDonald, and much from Alex Neish, a well-read young littérateur-about-town with whom I was friendly. Jim Haynes was also invaluable with suggestions: most Edinburgh writers frequented his bookshop, and he could easily get information about others in Glasgow or other parts of Scotland. I went to see Sir Compton M
ackenzie, then seventy-nine and the grand old man of Scottish literature. He agreed initially to be president or chairman of the conference, but when the lure of the south of France became greater than his initial commitment, he wrote a one-paragraph programme greeting instead. During several visits to him that year, I was always offered Grant’s Standfast whisky, because he received a free supply for giving his name to its advertisements. His Whisky Galore, which had been a best-selling novel and a successful film, no doubt had something to do with it. I saw the famous chair, made to order, in which he could write his books with all his needs within reach, rather like a child’s high chair. Years later I was to see it again in the literary collection of the library at the University of Texas in Austin.
That June my grandfather died at ninety-five. The funeral service was held in the chapel at Ardargie. I was roped in to be an acolyte alongside my great Uncle Jim, and I managed, with only a mistake or two, to remember how to serve Mass. Then a cortège of cars went to the Catholic church at Forgandenny, not far off, where my father, great-grandfather and numerous other Calders were buried, then back to Ardargie for a wake. The dogs of aunts and cousins were all roped to the railings outside the lodge until our return, and were then released and soon fighting, but not as hard or nastily as the aunts themselves. In particular, my Aunt Nancy Smith (who had come from Connecticut) and my Aunt Elsie (Lady Clifford) enclosed themselves in the morning room, where their loud and angry argument over my grandfather’s will could be heard by all. I, of course, inherited nothing.
The city of Edinburgh, from the time the press announced the Writers’ Conference, took a big interest, but it was not all friendly. I went to speak to the Scottish PEN Club, to the Saltire Society and to many groups of Scottish writers. Cliff Hanley and Joan Lingard, among a few other local novelists, were welcoming, but the more traditional ones like Nigel Tranter were highly suspicious. They spoke frequently to audiences and did not expect a fee, nor did their listeners expect to pay to hear them. Why should people pay to listen to writers? Harewood had asked the same question, and I had assured him that they would, provided there was the right mixture of well-known names and those worthy of becoming better-known, and providing always that sufficient thought went into creating a format that would encourage interesting debate and bring out the important ideas that always underlay good literature.
There was much scepticism, but it was fairly muted, because after all, this was the first time that literature would play a part in the Festival. Magnus Magnusson, the principal arts and culture feature writer for the Scotsman, and Finlay MacDonald, a BBC arts producer, took me to lunch at the Doric Tavern, then the main watering hole for Edinburgh journalists and intellectuals on a limited budget, and quizzed me over my plans for the conference and my career as a publisher. What they principally wanted to know was: who was coming, what they would discuss and how much freedom would they be given to say what they wanted to say. My enthusiasm, and in particular my libertarian approach, got them on my side: they scented news value. Bill Watson, literary editor, and his deputy, Christopher MacLehose, also followed my progress as the year went on.
A press conference was called by the Festival, and I was also asked to address the Friends of the Edinburgh Festival, a large supporting body. Sonia Orwell came with me, not quite realizing what was involved. When on the second occasion I asked her to say a few words, she lost the point, and being rather sodden with alcohol, she was rather incomprehensible. I covered up for her as best I could, stressed that what we wanted to do was to return literature to its proper place in the Edinburgh arts, and to fertilize the Scottish scene with a big international presence. Had George Thomson of the Edinburgh Review not commissioned songs from Haydn and Beethoven, articles and new work from Goethe and Stendhal and made Edinburgh a European centre when London was provincial? Bookshops flourished in Scotland, when there was hardly a publisher in London and bookshops there had to subscribe a new book to its customers before it could be printed. The response was good. The newspapers, many of which had attacked Harewood the previous year for introducing challenging modern music into his programming, now aimed their guns at the Writers’ Conference. How many of the writers we had invited would really come, and would the public be interested? I remained positive on both questions.
After some difficult negotiations, I managed to rent the biggest available hall in Edinburgh, the McEwan Hall, which belonged to the University. It had never been let before, but the importance of the occasion and the official Festival backing finally convinced the university authorities. It seated 2,300 people and had a large platform that could seat at least a hundred. But it would take a lot to fill it.
I tried hard to interest the BBC in broadcasting the conference, and with considerable difficulty managed to get an appointment with Donald Baverstock, whose office was at Television Centre. Baverstock was one of the new brooms who were sweeping the cobwebs away from the old Reithian image, where each broadcasting service was aimed at a particular class and had been geared to its tastes and expectations. Baverstock was part of the revolution that followed the appointment of Hugh Carleton Greene as Director General. He gave the group that had been trained by Grace Wyndham Goldie, a legendary broadcasting figure, its head to innovate and experiment. I was told that he could see me for five minutes at most, that we would almost certainly be interrupted by outside calls and that I could not be too brief.
In the event, once I had started to explain what I was doing and who was coming, Donald Baverstock became extremely interested, and after half an hour he told his secretary to put through no more calls, as he wanted no interruptions. He finally agreed to tape the whole conference for radio, to have television cameras present on occasion and to broadcast what was most interesting. He was as good as his word.
The Scottish press, and especially the tabloids, kept airing local objections to the conference, but really as part of the general and continuing campaign against the Festival as a whole. What the city needed, ran the constant refrain, were better drains or other civic improvements, not culture or the arts. But I noticed that letters to the editor attacking the Festival attracted others that supported it, and I added to the correspondence by sending in bogus letters attacking writers as responsible for spreading dangerous ideas and making people think (which was bad for them), as well as other letters agreeing that literature was influential and useful. The correspondence columns, which were much read in Edinburgh, were an excellent way of getting free advertising and of putting points of view one wanted to encourage or knock down.
I spoke to every kind of group that invited me, to many Rotary Clubs, to university groups, to literary societies and to anyone who would listen. I was interviewed by radio and television as well as the press and began to become confident that the interest in my new venture was growing fast. I pointed out, to individuals and groups, that listening to the best minds explaining their ideas, especially in the presence of other good minds, was exciting for audiences and helped listeners to understand themselves. I promoted my own authors by explaining their theories; at that point I still expected many of them to appear in Edinburgh in August.
Jim Haynes remained a great help. He introduced me to many people who were willing to help as volunteers to meet and look after the writers when they arrived, to accommodate many of them, and even to give parties during the conference, which would cut our expenses and keep them entertained.
The five sessions would take place in the afternoons during the first week of the conference from 2.30 to 5.00, starting on Monday 20th August. We had to fill the evenings for those participating, and while I could probably get some festival tickets and there would be some civic receptions, to arrange parties where they could talk, meet local writers and exchange ideas was the obvious solution to the problem of keeping them busy and in the mood to debate their ideas in public. We now had generous hosts for those parties every night.
Sonia was invited to give
talks on her own, mainly to women’s groups, and she also made some radio and television appearances, one together with Elizabeth Jane Howard. She became better at it and made some effort to control her drinking. But she could be very moody and erratic.
One evening in Edinburgh, at a Greek restaurant on Rose Street where Sonia, Jim and I were having dinner, some remark of mine annoyed her: she took the wine bottle on the table by the neck and hit me hard on the head with it, knocking me out. She was all remorse a minute later, but her alcoholic problem was growing. Once radiantly beautiful, she was becoming heavy, red-faced and glassy-eyed, still wanting to be seen as a brilliant intellectual, but ever more intolerant of others, short on tact and unpredictable. I needed her primarily for her literary contacts outside my own sphere. She had helped me recruit Malcolm Muggeridge, Angus Wilson, Rosamund Lehmann, L.P. Hartley, Stephen Spender, the two Americans I have mentioned above and one or two others who at the conference did little but sit and listen. The others I had approached myself or were being sent by their respective governments. David Daiches, eminent Scottish critic and academic, whose father had been Chief Rabbi of Scotland, had agreed to chair the Scottish day, the Tuesday, and we had a big line-up for that. Hugh MacDiarmid, Sydney Goodsir Smith, Naomi Mitchison, Robin Jenkins and Edwin Morgan figured large on the panel for that day. I put my new author, Alexander Trocchi, onto the panel, but I cannot remember whether or not I discussed his name with Daiches – probably not.
As the summer progressed, the details began to fall into place. In Paris I had various occasions to meet William Burroughs, whose very controversial novels published by Olympia Press I had read. Naked Lunch already had a colourful history. Extracts had been published in the review of the University of Chicago, but when the university banned the issue the editors all resigned and started a new magazine, Big Table, using the same excerpts. Burroughs was brought to Girodias by Allen Ginsberg,12 and the former enthusiastically published three of his novels. I had already invited Girodias to the conference, wanting him to take part in the censorship discussion, and early in the summer I took Burroughs to lunch and without much difficulty persuaded him to come as well. Of course there would be no sponsor for him.