A letter to my godson
Sir: Simon Raven cannot write a bad sentence and the letter to his son had all his usual sinewy elegance of style. It was also a rather depressing communica- tion. Any boy of fifteen plus capable of sympathis- ing with, or following, Mr Raven's advice would have to be a tight-lipped and, cold-blooded prig. An excellent fellow, no doubt, to apprentice to a smart firm of public relations men but hardly the sort of boy to take into the jungle after tigers.
As I read him, Mr Raven's ideal young man is a calculating popinjay who hedges his bets, goes to church because it sets a good example to the 'yobboes' and never makes love too far from an apothecary's shop.
Well, it is an ideal of a sort, I suppose, and better than no ideal at all, but I don't think many men are going to miss him when he finally hands in his few careful chips. Certainly no woman is going to find her life an empty, painful business because he is no longer around to share it.
It was left to Strix, that most authoritative, least authoritarian, of columnists, to describe exactly what Mr Raven was hoping to fashion: 'a minor character in a Restoration comedy. One of those attendant figures, in short, named Cautious or Touchwood, who enter, utter a neat witticism, and vanish for ever, leaving no more disturbance behind them than a lapdog.
It took Strix, too, to point out exactly what was missing from Simon Raven's blueprint for the good stockbroker's life: a concept of chivalry.
Chivalry is not too easy a code to define, but it is quite real and is about the only example that any young male of spirit will accept from his elders.
Its two essences are exuberance and risk—and how to cultivate these two qualities is the most generous legacy a father can put down for his son. They won't save you from the pox or from getting a bastard, but they do ensure that you, and those you meet, will lead dangerous, interesting and sometimes frightening lives. Nobody except a glutton can ask more of life than a little danger, a little interest and a little terror.
John Hearne School of English, University of Leeds, Leeds 2
Previous page
