11 SEPTEMBER 1993, Page 8

ANOTHER VOICE

Better for this man if he had changed sex

AUBERON WAUGH

In a single, 20-line paragraph of his bril- liant 'Diary' in last week's Spectator, A.N. Wilson disposed of a matter which has troubled my waking hours for as long as I can remember. It was on the subject of titles, their place in British society, the way we feel about them etc. By 'we' of course I mean chaps like me, Andrew, Angus and the rest of us — chaps who might reason- ably have given a certain amount of thought to the matter. Wilson's disposal of the whole subject in 20 lines at the begin- ning of his 'Diary' hinted that he had other, more important things to talk about, and I confess I was most grateful to learn that the bursar of Exeter College, Commander Simon Stone, a former signals officer on the royal yacht Britannia, will be known as Ms Susan Marshall from the first day of next term.

But an awareness of titles is almost uni- versal among Britons, whereas the tempta- tion to change sex is still restricted, even among former naval officers. An English- man who generalises on such a subject in no more than 20 lines must be either hiding something or suppressing more emotions than are usually considered healthy to, sup- press. Let us examine Wilson's statement line by line: I rather admired a friend of mine who inher- ited a baronetcy this summer and decided not to use his title. He and his wife both lead middle-class lives in London and felt it would be vaguely ridiculous to dub themselves Sir This and Lady That.

On the face of these two sentences, it is hard to see how Wilson's friend has done anything to be admired. Many might have admired him for inheriting the baronetcy in the first place. Despite everything said and written on this subject in recent years, it is extraordinary how many of our less sophis- ticated fellow countrymen continue to admire anyone with a title, just as it is extraordinary what complicated emotions titled people stir in the breasts of the more sophisticated. Again, it is a perfectly nor- mal thing for people to take action to avoid being made to look ridiculous, even 'vague- ly ridiculous'. There need be nothing shameful in that. But one does not admire someone simply because he does not wish to look ridiculous.

Nor is it true that Wilson's friend and his wife would have had to dub themselves Sir This and Lady That. They would have been invested with their new dignity and acclaimed in their titles by the social cus- tom of their country. It would be easy to condemn Wilson's friend and his wife as traitors to their class and to the system which once distinguished Britons from less- er breeds, gave our nation its character and pre-eminence, created the culture of the English country house, which is the highest point of western civilisation, to which French, Germans, Dutch, even distant Poles and Czechs once aspired.

But perhaps it is not reasonable to accuse people of betraying a cause which is already lost. In the foolish, muddled perceptions of our time, by no means everyone is agreed that the collapse of the class system is the chief mark of our national decline. There are those who feel they have done well out of the collapse, or that they would not have been able to do so well under the previous system. I do not really wish to accuse the mysterious Mr This and Mrs That of betraying their class when they refuse to call themselves Sir This and Lady That like everyone else.

`There is an inevitable embarrassment factor where titles are concerned,' writes A.N. Wilson. No doubt it is felt by all the peers of Britain — 24 dukes, at my last count, 29 marquesses, 157 earls, 105 vis- counts, 441 hereditary barons . . • what business, one asks oneself, have more baronets, as they go about their middle- class lives in London, to feel embarrassed in this company? Last time I made an emergency call on a London dentist, I found rather to my surprise that my root canals or whatever were being attended to by a hereditary baron. The crime of which A.N. Wilson's friends might reasonably be accused is not so much that of betraying their class, but of treason to something much more sacred, an Englishman's sense of the absurd.

I wonder how many people have the faintest idea how many baronets there are. I held a sweepstake last weekend in Somer- set. A local landowner (younger brother of a Shropshire earl) put it at 150. His daugh- ter, married to an insurance executive, said 200. A daughter of mine, married to a busi- nessman, said 100. My wife (sister of a Sur- rey earl) put it at 75. Her brother (the Sur- rey earl, himself a baronet) came through on a cellular telephone to announce confi- dently that the figure was 3,000. In fact, as I eventually discovered from the Home Office which keeps the Roll, there are between 1,230 and 1,330, the higher figure allowing for unclaimed baronetcies and those whose claims have not been properly established. Any group as large as that, scattered through the country, many no doubt working as vets, accountants, jour- nalists, is part of the warp and weft or woof of society.

Perhaps one should say it is part of the woof. Undoubtedly, it is one of the more absurd ingredients in our national comic opera, and those born to it are required to play a slightly absurd role. There are some advantages to it, if not many. A Polish count to whom I put the question told me he wears his 'title' like a dinner-jacket, only on those occasions which seem to demand it. But it is this enjoyment of life's rich absurdity which distinguishes the English, at least, from apes, Americans, Germans and most of the rest of the human race. We must all play our parts. To decline to do so on the grounds that you find it embarrass- ing or socially constricting is to renounce any meaningful participation in British life.

Of course it might turn out that A.N. Wilson's friend works for Murdoch, in which case the humour even of his renunci- ation is lost. We cannot throw too many stones. Even if we accept the Murdoch presence as part of an enemy occupation of our country, how many of us can be certain that we would have acted heroically as Frenchmen in occupied France? No doubt most of us would have continued editing literary journals as before. A.N. Wilson ends his famous 20 lines with a trenchant observation: `It is hard not to wince,' he says, 'when the widows of knights insist on calling themselves "Lady" This or That, or when the children of life peers deem it worth- while to dub themselves "Honourable".'

What one earth does he expect widows of knights to call themselves? As I say, it is extraordinary what complicated emotions titled people continue to stir in the breasts even of the most sophisticated. At least A.N. Wilson is happy to remain part of our national comic opera. As Mark Steyn observed recently, 'Britain has always been best at good middlebrow art. Gilbert and Sullivan rather than Beethoven; P.G. Wodehouse, not Goethe.' It does The Spectator no harm to be edited by the child of a life peer. Even Literary Review might carry more weight if it were edited by a baronet.