Unholy Waugh
Sir: There was once a West African tribe which by long tradition employed, when a chief died, the oldest unmarried woman (habitually, because of her low status, used to dispose of the village night soil) to spit upon the grave — thus disposing of any petty jealousies which might otherwise persue the chief beyond the tomb.
I am fascinated to see tkat The Spectator follows this old pagan ritual (October 27) and that the editor has hired a certain Beverley Nichols to do the spitting. (He performed the same ritual, it may be remembered, at the grave of Somerset Maugham). It might have been supposed that a sexual regulation might have precluded B.N. from playing the role in this sacred performance. Perhaps the explanation can be found in an essay of my own called 'Portrait of a Maiden Lady' which appeared in The Spectator. I wrote there of someone also called Beverley Nichols, the author of No Place Like Home: " Her emotions are so revealing: she weeps, literally weeps, over Athens. She disapproves of women who don't grow old gracefully. she feels tenderly towards young people (' The silvery treble of youth that is sweeter because it is sexless '). The old dear, one exclaims with real affection."
Can it really be the same dear old lady whom one now sees employed in what is after all a rather ugly ceremony? I wonder why Evelyn "should have invited himself" to sit at Beverley Nichols's table on an Atlantic crossing? Was it that no other seat was available? Or was it perhaps the satirist's curiosity to listen to the conversation of the author of No Place Like Home? (" It was almost indecent. the way he took out pyjamas and shook them "). Is it even possible that he insulted the waiter because he could not express his pent-up emotions to so sensitive a fellow traveller?
• Well, the chief is dead and savage rituals must be keserved just as night soil must be carted away. Only one must say this of Evelyn as one cannot of the gentle old thing with whom he shared the table: Evelyn never waited till a man was dead to release his venom — he would always have chosen to spit in a man's face rather than on his grave. •
Graham Greene
130 Boulevard Malesherbes, Paris 17
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