VAGARIES OF THE GREAT
By PETER FLEMING
FROM these crowded pages* you can still ascertain Hitler's tele- phone number, though both his marriage and his death are recorded. You can still search (but in vain) for instances in which the editor's admirable system of abbreviations has let him down by leaving it doubtful whether an individual (for instance) belongs to the Royal Horse Artillery or the Royal Hibernian Academy ; is a Rural Dean or has won the naval equivalent of the Territorial Decoration ; or deserves to be remembered as a Privy Councillor, a Police Constable, a Perpetual Curate or a Peace Commissioner (Irish Free,State). You can examine the records of our new legis- lators, who form the bulk of the young entry, but you will find these curiously colourless. Some new Members of Parliament (Mr. Zilliacus is an example) appear to be either ignorant or oblivious of their antecedents, for they do not say when, nor to whom, they were born. You can admire the vicarious belligerence of Dr. Buchman, author of You Can Defend America, You Can Fight for Canada, Battle Together for Britain and Fight On, Australia. And you can hardly help having a soft spot for the publicist—author of " multi- tudinous newspaper articles "—who recalls that he " gave voluntary assistance of great value to many Government, Departments during the war."
If you need reminding that the pen is mightier than the sword you have only to compare " Liddell Hart, Basil Henry : Military Scientist," who occupies two-thirds of a column, with the humbler contributions of Field-Marshals Wavell, Alexander and Montgomery. It you enjoy reticence Sir Oswald Mosley can be recommended, and if you are interested in the habits of ,Antarctic explorers you may care to note that Rear-Admiral Richard Byrd belongs to no less than sixteen clubs. Whether you are a wet-bob or a dry-bob you will be impressed by Mr. E. G. Henunercle,„K„,c., who won the Diamond Sculls after playing cricket for Winchester ; and if you follow the Nuremberg trials you may wonder whether Goering now regrets his categorical admission that he was " responsible for the creation of the German Air Force."
But in this, as in other editions, it is the entries under Recreations * Who's Who, 1946. (A. and C. Black. 8os.) • that will form the chief attraction for the reading public. It is pleasant to find that the editor of so august, so demi-official a compila- tion still regards information about our pleasures as no less deserving of record than the sterner more mundane details of our careers. We have all, in the past seven years, filled up a good many forms about ourselves. The arbiters of our destinies have shown themselves to be interested in many of our particularities—our height, our weight, the colour of our hair, our parents' nationalities at birth, the diseases from which we have suffered, the calibres of our firearms, the horse- power of our car. But nobody has ever required us to divulge what we liked doing best in our spare time, and it is thus all the pleasanter to find that Who's Who retains an indulgent curiosity in this respect.
Most of the 34,000 (approx.) human beings whose autobiographies are compressed within these 3,000 pages admit to having some form of recreation. A very small minority, headed by the Spartan figures of Lord Berners and Mr. Sacheverell Sitwell say firmly that they have none. Unfortunately, the way in which they are obliged to say it—"Recreation: None "—strikes a defiant, an almost explosive note of self-righteousness. Miss Naomi Mitchi- son has recreations "seldom," thus begging the question she was asked. Mr. Christopher Isherwood answers negligently " usual " and leaves us the impossible task of deciding what the usual recrea- tions are. Mr. Bernard Shaw says " anything but sport," but does he mean it? Is he keen, as some are, on needlework and numis- matics? He tells his admirers enough to discourage them from pre- senting him with polo-sticks and trout-flies, but he might have conquered his aversion for the limelight enough to tell them a little more.
Some of the other entrants (or ought it. to be, in certain cases, exhibitors?) are far less imprecise. What is it about the literary world which induces in some of its ornaments a tendency to arch- ness? Has perhaps broadcasting got something to do with it? For certainly Mr. Val Gielgud (" enjoying the society of Siamese Cats ") and Mr. Lance Sieveking (" looking for the Past in the Future ") are among the more irretrievably whimsical. Squadron-Leader John Pudney, clearly a sophisticated type, likes " sleeping at the cinema." Mr. Cyril Connolly, who may have missed some of the Middle- Eastern campaigns, gives " the Mediterranean " as one of his recrea- tions, while Mr. Sean O'Faolain strikes a tender note with " day- dreaming." It is by contrast refreshing to find Signor Ignazio Silone, who appropriately makes his debut in the first Mussolini-less Who's Who for some years, proclaiming with transparent honesty his addiction to " watching football matches."
But is it really both churlish and impolitic to criticise those who like to make a little splash in these still, deep waters, for Who's Who would not be the same without them. Looking for them is rather like bird's-nesting. The Maharajahs and the Major-Generals, the Captains of Industry and the Masters of Foxhounds—the eye skims along their ranks as it skims along a lush hedge. Is it worth parting the foliage here, reading the whole of this entry, peering through the unrevealing tangle of campaigns and directorships and books on big game, in the hope of,finding the egg of eccentricity? Disappoint- ment succeeds disappointment. Then suddenly, in the least promis- ing of contexts, you strike lucky. Here is the Bishop of the Wind- ward Islands and his recreation, his only recreation, is " autograph collecting." Poor man! A most affecting picture is instantly con- jured up—the lorn prelate pacing, in tropical gaiters, upon the coral strand, his telescope under his arm, scanning the empty horizon for the yacht laden with celebrities that never, or hardly ever, comes.
And so the quest goes on and the imagination plays idly with its rare rewards. Has rationing much interfered with " gastrotechnics," which Mr. J. D. North lists as one of his recreations? And what is " bilboquet," which (with " boomerang ") constitutes the main diver- sion of Sir William Nicholson, the painter? Has anybody been more often wounded than Lt.-Gen. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, who admits to having been hit ten times? And has anybody ever tried giving as one of his or her recreations " Reading Who's Who"? It may not be a patch on bilboquet, it may not be fashionable or salubrious or good for- esprit de corps ; but no one can say that it isn't a recreation.
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