Pudding and plums
James Michie
A Beggar in Purple: Selections from the Commonplace Book of Rupert Hart-Davis (Hamish Hamilton £6.95)
C ir Rupert Hart-Davis has been a mem- ber of the Coldstream Guards, a distinguished publisher, the masterly editor of The Letters of Oscar Wilde, one of the prime saviours of the London Library, and a delightful contributor to several volumes of correspondence between George Lyttelton and himself. In short, palpably a good egg. Viewed also as an egg, this com- monplace book doesn't rate quite as highly as its cook: it verges on the soft-boiled, although I rush to add, in truth as well as politeness, that 'parts of it are excellent'.
A commonplace is a notable passage of literature, but the word more usually now signifies 'hackneyed' or `ordinary'. Sir Rupert's choice of items which have 'in- terested, moved or amused' him over 50 years come into both categories of mean- ing. There are at least 20 pieces which must be dully familiar to any reader of the stan- dard anthologies — 'Adlestrop', for in- stance, Blake's `Mock on, mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau . . Hopkins's `Spring', or Carew's 'Ask me no more where June bestows . . .' (though this is at least given a new look by a misquotation or misprint). In a collection so purely literary — unlike Auden's A Certain World, which is diversified by excursions into geology, gastronomy and anthropology, or John Julius Norwich's Christmas Crackers, which is enlivened by the curious and the cranky — it seems a pity to waste good time picking flowers from the edge of the motor- way.
I should also have been happier if Sir Rupert, like the other two, had felt moved to add occasional supplementary informa- tion, or personal notes explaining why par- ticular passages appealed to him. 'Our lives are in the power of chance', `An unknown man in a lonely place is a permitted object of fear to a young woman privately bred', 'Sir, he lived in London, and hung loose upon society', 'My living in Yorkshire was so far out of the way that it was actually twelve miles from a lemon', `The Webbs' letters lacked the linguistic vivacity which makes tolerable Shaw's massive boringness' — I should dearly like to know why these apparently banal one-liners were chosen from the large wit and wisdom of, respec- tively, Gibbon, Henry James, Dr Johnson, Sydney Smith and Robert Skidelsky. And talking of wisdom, why include the follow- ing, which don't even glitter with half- truth: 'I don't think it matters who Christ was as long as one tries to imitate him in his noble life and self-denial' (F. York Powell to E. G. Punchard: who they?), which is pure pop bishop; 'I think humility is the solution of almost everything. You can't tell whether you have it, till the time comes' (Walter Raleigh), which strikes me as proudly smug; and 'Nothing is certain, only the certain spring' (Laurence Binyon), which comes close to nonsense — what about death and taxes, let alone autumn? There are times when one longs for the tart- ness of Connolly's beloved Chamfort.
But Sir Rupert is a predominantly 19th- century man. The only authors to score more than half a dozen entries belong to that period. There are enjoyable separate sections devoted to Napoleon, Scott and Landor. There are a handful of living writers, some of them not to my taste. The French are well and interestingly represented (nice to see a sonnet by the underread Heredia) in French, but the four Germans get englished, as does, more reasonably, the sole Russian.
If I appear curmudgeonly, it is because 114 pages at £6.95 beg for the most careful selective process. There are, of course, marvellous things which I never knew and am grateful to have been shown, such as two of the shortest and one of the longest items. The first is the telegram in Proust: `Impossible venir, mensonge suit. Guer- mantes.' The second is Ludwig II of Bavaria's note to his servant: 'Remind me to look happier tomorrow.' And the last is a letter of condolence from Henry James to a deeply suffering (why?) Miss Grace Nor- ton (who?). It is, as well as being beautifully written, a model of tenderness, toughness and humour. To read it is to renew the belief that `life is the most valuable thing We know anything about, and it is therefore presumably a great mistake to surrender it while there is any yet left in the cup'. It alone is worth the price of the book — well. almost.
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