Shrewd and charming he would of necessity be on this analysis. An inadequate father, of course – though this would be balanced out by his being a perfectly adequate father, too. He would also be hexagonal, Chinese, mother-fixated, 12 years old, soluble in dilute sulphuric acid, southwesterly veering to westerly, and entirely composed of blotting-paper soaked in minestrone.
Yet few people took the opportunity to describe him as such.
Other theologians maintained that he was the sum of all possible perfections, which would have reduced his range a good deal, but still left him with perfect conductivity, perfect insulation, 20/20 eyesight, and first-class honours in social anthropology.
But these characteristics were little remarked upon at the time.
And quite what’s being asserted of God when it’s said that he’s merciful, etc., is difficult to know. Because if one queries whether God really is quite as merciful as he is cracked up to be, given the astonishing number of quite merciless things which occur under his jurisdiction, and which in any other organisation would lead to vociferous demands for his resignation, religious people are astonished at the naïvety of one’s interpretation.
‘Good heavens!’ they cry, often laughing cheerfully as well. ‘when we say that God’s merciful we don’t mean that he’s merciful in any merely human sense of the word! With our miserably limited understanding, and our pathetically inadequate language, we couldn’t hope to make anything but the most incomplete and misleading attempt at describing him.
‘There’s no way of knowing what we mean when we say that he is merciful. For all we know, God’s mercifulness may consist in just those very things which we, with our poor understanding, think of as merciless!’
Gods weren’t always as indescribable as this. The Greeks didn’t hesitate to characterise their team as lecherous meaning lecherous, jealous meaning jealous, and drunken meaning drunken. God is very clearly characterised by the Old Testament, too. He’s the local dictator who invents his own laws as he goes along and insatiably demands flattery; the unsleeping father of his people and architect of their victories, who bullies his courtiers and plays cruel tricks on them, and who murders individuals and destroys whole communities who step out of line – a small-time Stalin, with something of Castro’s showmanship.
Now that’s what I call a god. Nobody could read the Old Testament without being stirred to wholesome indignation. But then the producers got worried about the series – felt it didn’t reflect the changing tastes of the age, thought it might be having an anti-social influence. So they tried to make the chief character turn on goodness instead of sheer power. They stopped him murdering people, and had him helping them in distress instead.
A weaker piece of characterisation, in my opinion. And when people began to complain that the new character was implausible, and viewing figures dropped off, the producers made a disastrous series of concessions. Instead of strengthening the character again, they weakened him-still further.
‘All right‚’ they said. ‘If people don’t believe there could be this all-powerful magic character going round doing good deeds, let’s have him not going round doing good deeds. Let’s have him doing nothing – just being good, and feeling agonised by the awfulness of things, and trying to make everything all right in the end.’
Down went the viewing figures again, naturally.
‘No, listen, all right, we’ve got it now,’ said the producers desperately. ‘This is a kind of more subtle thing. When we say he’s good, we don’t mean he’s good in any ordinary, obvious way. We mean he’s got this secret code of his own which …’
And down went the figures once more.
‘Hey, no, stop, we’ve rethought the whole product!’ shouted the producers. ‘He’s not a person at all! No, listen, you’ll love this – he’s a kind of scientific principle, a sort of abstract emotional kind of … No, hey …’
I think it’s a pity to see the whole series go down the drain. Of course, we can’t go back to the old characterisation now. We need something more sophisticated, a character which suggests a certain psychological insight; and this, I suppose, is what Canon Montefiore is attempting to provide. We also need some sort of recognition of the moral ambivalence you’d expect in a god, and of the essentially illusory nature of power.
My advice to the company is to get the theologians off the programme. No theologian ever wrote a good legend.
(1967)
A question of downbringing
My wife’s studying sociology. She comes home from the lectures and teaches it to me over dinner, and one of the most interesting nuggets of sociological information I’ve been tossed across the cheese and biscuits so far is that my wife (a doctor’s daughter) has married beneath her.
‘It hadn’t really struck me before,’ she said. ‘Journalists are lower-middle class.’
‘Don’t talk tripe,’ I replied, with my usual scientific detachment.
‘I’m not using the term with any emotive connotation,’ said my wife. ‘It’s just a simple sociological fact. I had it from the lecturer less than an hour ago.’
‘Class is a matter of supreme indifference to me personally, as you know, so leave me out of it. But are you trying to tell me that people like the editor of the Spectator with his £40,000 house are lower-middle class? You take a look at the lads soaking up the hock in El Vino’s and you won’t go round screaming “lower-middle class” like that.’
‘I’m not screaming anything. I’m giving you a piece of completely objective sociological information. Where do you think you come on the social scale, anyway?’
‘Just about anywhere except the lower-middle class, if you really want to know. Working class, upper-middle class – I don’t mind, just so long as it’s not lower-middle.’
‘Because deep inside you know lower-middle’s what you are. Everybody struggles to get off his own particular pin, and just succeeds in impaling himself harder and harder.’
She showed me the tables – the Registrar-General’s classification of social classes; the Hall-Jones scale; the A/B scale used by the Institute of Practitioners in Advertising. It was difficult to get round it, certainly. I’m clearly not a member of a learned profession (the top of everybody’s list), or the daughter of one. I don’t manage or administer anything. I’m not a skilled manual worker. The only possible hole for a man in my position seems to be Hall-Jones group 3 or 4 (Inspectional and Supervisory) or IPA group C 1 (Supervisory and Clerical), on the grounds that I mind or supervise other people’s business. And Group C 1 is clearly down in black and white as lower-middle class.
‘Are you trying to tell me I’m worse than some crooked accountant or fly-by-night lawyer?’ I shouted calmly.
‘Who said anything about better or worse?’ said my wife. You’re just lower down the social scale, that’s all. There’s no need to get upset about it.’
‘As if I’d get upset about some obsolete pseudo-concept like class!’ I snarled, doing my best to be reasonable and conciliatory. ‘Look, I’m not trying to say I’m upper-middle class, or even middle-middle class. But as a matter of sober and objective self-assessment I do happen to believe that I’m upper-lower-middle. Or, at any rate upper-middle-middle lower-middle.’
‘It’s no good trying to persuade me,’ said my wife. ‘Take it up with the Registrar-General. Argue it out with the IPA I can’t change natural laws to suit your convenience.’
‘But don’t you remember, before you started doing sociology, how we always used to feel tremendously middle-middle class together?’
‘Michael, everyone thinks he’s middle-middle class. It’s just a romantic notion one has to grow out of. Let’s face up to reality. You happen to be two or three social classes below me. That’s all. I’m sure that with good will and understanding on both sides this needn’t prove an insurmountable barrier.’
*
It’s a difficult subject all right, class. When Anthony Powell appeared on television, the Radio Times desc
ribed him as a novelist who ‘satirises the upper-middle classes with a brilliant sense of social nuance.’
The upper-middle classes? The Earl of Warminster, Sir Gavin Walpole-Wilson, General Conyers, Sir Magnus Donners-Brebner, Lady Ardglass, Lady Molly Jeavons, Prince Theodoric, and all the rest of those magnificent characters, upper-middle class?
Well, stap me! I thought they were the upper classes! I suppose that just shows my embarrassing lower-middle class naïvety. The Radio Times, with its brilliant sense of social nuance, saw immediately that all Powell’s earls, courtiers, and great industrialists were really horribly bourgeois. And indeed, the whole upper class recedes like the horizon as you approach it. What could be more middle class than an earl or a courtier, when you come to think about it? Except perhaps a royal duke, or an oil millionaire?
Indeed, as my wife pointed out when I raised the matter at my next tutorial, for sociological purposes the upper classes simply don’t exist. The Registrar-General’s classification and the Hall-Jones scale both start with the professional classes, the IPA grading with group A, the upper-middle class.
‘But look,’ I protested, ‘the middle classes must be in the middle of something. They can’t just be sandwiched between the lower classes and God.’ ‘Lower classes?’ said my wife. ‘What are they? You don’t mean the working classes, do you?’
‘What I’m getting at is, are you trying to tell me that you and your professional pals are higher up the social scale than earls and kings and so on?’
‘It depends how the earls and kings spend their time, Michael. If they just inspect their troops and supervise the running of their estates I suppose they come in the Inspectional and Supervisory category along with you.’
‘What? You honestly think a doctor’s daughter’s higher up than a full-blown belted earl!’
‘This is a surprisingly reactionary attitude you’re taking up, Michael.’
‘Well, for heaven’s sake! I mean, one does know certain things instinctively.’
No, let’s be bold and radical. The upper classes have got to have somewhere to live, after all. I don’t mind having them down here with me in the lower-middle classes. Just so long as they don’t tell my smart friends they saw me down here.
(1966)
Ready, steady … no …
Now have I got everything?
Shoulder-bag with my various bits and pieces in – yes, on my shoulder. I think that’s all I need, isn’t it? I’m only going to Tunbridge Wells. I’m only going to be away for two or three hours. Oh, keys, of course … Not still lying on the hall table, are they, as has been known to happen occasionally in the past …? No, here in my hand, just where they ought to be.
Very satisfyng. I do believe that for once I’m setting out in reasonably good time for something. I’m going to catch the train without any hurry at all.
So, just set the burglar-alarm, and I can …
Hold on. Better check I’ve got some money in my pocket … I did pick up my wallet …? Yes, I did. And my little organiser thing, and my penknife? I don’t want to find myself in Tunbridge Wells for two hours without a penknife …
Yes, everything’s under control … Oh, have I closed the bathroom window? Better look. Don’t want to get halfway down the street and have to come running back … Yes, window closed. I did switch off the copier …? Oh, come on! Just set the burglar-alarm and … Ticket! Where’s my ticket? I’ve forgotten my ticket!
No, here it is, neatly tucked away in the ticket section of my wallet. Perhaps I am finally beginning to get organised in life. Got my money, got my ticket, got my passport …
No, I haven’t! I’ve forgotten my passport!
Now, don’t be silly. Tunbridge Wells – remember? Tell the Tunbridge Wells Writers’ Circle how to organise their professional lives, then home again. I don’t need sun cream, I don’t need a mosquito coil … Might need a spare sweater, though. I’ve no idea what the weather’s doing down there in Kent. Might be pouring with rain … Rain, yes! Umbrella – where is it? And a comb. Gale blowing up Tunbridge Wells High Street – last few hairs seriously deranged. Not the kind of thing they like in Tunbridge Wells.
Anything else, before I definitively set the burglar-alarm? How about something to read on the train? Quick look along the shelves – grab anything – haven’t got all that much time now … The Brothers Karamazov … My God, it weighs a ton …
Right – burglar-alarm on … This departure has now taken slightly longer than the last act of The Cherry Orchard. Yes – I haven’t left any aged retainers locked inside, have I? No, but I am leaving without a handkerchief! I was going to spend the entire talk wiping my nose on my sleeve!
Switch off the burglar alarm … Take a spare handkerchief as well, perhaps. Driving rain coming under the umbrella – I might suddenly find I’ve got a cold coming on. Yes – better put some aspirin in … And throat-lozenges … What’s this packet? Plasters … Well, why not? Sensible precaution. Antiseptic cream, too. Pair of tweezers for getting splinters out …
Spare socks? No, no, I’m not on a walking tour. Nice to have a map, though. And the map-measurer? Well … why not …? And the compass? Come on, this is getting out of hand … Though since it takes up so little room …
So … This bag’s going to burst. I’ll just quickly transfer everything into a suitcase …
Actually there’s room for one or two more things, now I’m taking the suitcase. How about a few apples to eat on the train? We might break down between stations – get stuck overnight in a snowdrift. Look round the kitchen as I collect the apples. That ball of string might come in handy. A few elastic bands.
Right – burglar-alarm on and out of the door before I think of anything else! Double-lock the Yale. Lock the Chubb … Only now I’m outside it feels distinctly warm. Supposing it turned out to be a heatwave? Better just run back in and take my vest off …
Quick, quick – unlock the Chubb, unlock the Yale – switch off the burglar-alarm … Coat off, shirt off, vest off – shirt on, coat on, alarm on … On the other hand, ne’er cast a clout … Alarm off, coat off, shirt off – vest on, shirt on, coat on, alarm on … Stop! Where are the keys! I’ve put them down on the hall table, unbelievably. I’m going to lock myself out again! Grab keys – out of the door before the burglar-alarm goes off … Lock Yale, lock Chubb. I’m going to have to hurry.
I can’t hurry! Not with this load! Unlock, unlock. Alarm off. Brothers Karamazov out. Apples out. Spare handkerchief out. Elastic bands out … Alarm on. Lock, lock. Now – run!
Run back! The talk! The text of my talk!
Unlock, unlock. Alarm off … Where is it? Right … Alarm on. Lock, lock. Run, run …!
I did lock up …? Back, back! Unlock Chubb – was locked – relock it. Unlock Yale – also locked – relock. Run! Except … I never put the alarm on! Unlock, unlock. Beep beep … I did put the alarm on! So – lock, lock. Run, run, run, run…. SCREECH SCREECH!
What …? Oh, my God, I never switched it off! Back, back! Fumble, fumble – SCREECH SCREECH! Fumble, fumble, fumble – SCREECH, SCREECH, SCREECH! Fumble, fumble, fumble, fumble …
Finally restore peace. Reassure the neighbours. Put the keys and the suitcase very calmly and unhurriedly back on the hall table, and reassess the situation. OK, I’ve missed the train. Does that matter so very much, in the great scale of things? I’ll get the next one! I simply ring Tunbridge Wells and tell them they’ll have to talk quietly amongst themselves for an hour or two, sort out their own problems.
At least I’ve now got plenty of time to take a last look round … put the ball of string back in the kitchen, the plasters back in the medicine cabinet … take my vest off again … transfer the text of the talk and a few other bare essentials back into the shoulder-bag … put the shoulder-bag neatly back beside the keys on the hall table … turn on the burglar-alarm … and close the door behind me in unhurried dignity.
Shoulder-bag … I’ve left it on the hall table. Never mind – no rush
now. Just quietly unlock the door and … Keys … They’re not …? They can’t be …!
(1995)
Return match
What really makes a holiday of course, is not the sun or the landscape or the architecture; it’s the people.
It’s the people who give the place its character, after all, and the intelligent holidaymaker makes a great effort to get to know them. They may be a bit shy at first, but you can be sure there’s nothing they like more than a visitor really taking an interest in them. You stop and chat with them about their work. You find out how they live. You try to enter into the communal life of the place for a week or two. That’s how real international understanding is created.
All the same, as I stroll about that delightful little unspoilt Psychomanian village chatting with the goatherds and dropping in for a glass of something with the old wattle-dauber, a worrying thought sometimes comes to me. Supposing they take it into their heads to get to know me back?
One day when I am back at home the front door bell is going to ring, and there on the doorstep will be a colourful Psychomanian peasant with his wrinkled wife, their wonderful timeless quality looking unpleasantly out of place among the sodium lights.
‘Good morning!’ he will say, with an ingratiating smile and irritatingly grammatical English. ‘Marvellous weather we’re having, are we not?’
‘Ah,’ I shall reply guardedly, my eyes narrowing with shrewd middle-class cautiousness.
‘Of course, everyone knows the weather is never right for you townspeople! Ha, ha, ha! But the truth is, you people don’t know how lucky you are to live in a suburb like this. The air’s so thick and fumy – it’s like wine. For poor devils like us who have to spend, the rest of the year cooped up in the countryside breathing that thin country air it’s as good as a tonic.
‘I just dropped in to pass the time of day. Do you mind if I take a photograph of you as we talk? You look so typical, somehow, standing there in the door of your little home … Head up, please. Look into the camera, will you, with that stupefied sort of expression? Thanks. Well, I expect you’ve got work to do.’
Collected Columns Page 29