Nyet
MY DEAR GODSON,
Thank you for your letter. I am delighted to hear that you have been elected president of the Inscrutables; 1 don't think they were going in my day, but now that there are so many more undergraduates it is only logical that there should be more undergraduate societies.
I am greatly honoured by your invitation to address the society, on any subject I care to choose, on any Tuesday evening during the current term, but 1 am afraid I cannot accept it. Cannot? Prevarication should never be allowed to sully the relationship between godfather and godson; let us, say rather that I will not accept it. The reasons will emerge from my answer to the question in your postscript. Can I, you ask, suggest the names of some other potential speakers who might be invited to address your meetings?
I can. For the loan of your ears and the run of their teeth any of the following will answer your summons at the drop of a hat : Miss Puce, who in 1955 spent the best part of a fortnight in Russia, speaks persuasively on 'Soviet Russia Today,' Canon Smog holds strong, lucid views on nuclear warfare, Ron Beige illustrates his talk on 'The Poet's Dilemma' with readings from his own works, and Mr. Gorge, MP, can be relied on for a tour d'horizon of the political scene from Suez to Wolfenden, with an attack on the Royal Family thrown in.
But these, if not hacks, are professionals. If you are after shyer birds perhaps I can illustrate from my own experience some of the difficulties inherent in your guest.
Odd and unnatural though it may seem to you, I do not like the sound of my own voice. Although in daydreams I often see myself per- forming meritorious actions, such as overpower- ing an armed bank robber or getting a right and left at woodcock, these visions have never in- cluded one in which 1 hold an audience spell- bound by my oratory.
There was nevertheless a time when my im- pulse, on receiving an invitation such as yours, was to accept it. In this I was partly influenced by the short list of far more eminent people who, according to my would-be hosts, had in the recent past addressed their gatherings. I was (as no doubt they had hoped) flattered to find myself in the same class as Mr. Dash, Professor Dot and Lord Bracket; and it took some time before the a:most invariable expressions of regret for approaching me at such short notice opened my mind to the sus- picion that I was normally a stopgap, taking the place of someone who had let them down.
It took even longei before I fully realised what each of these engagements cost me in diversion of effort and mental anguish. Incapable, when the day comes, of sitting down and composing a speech, I am equally incapable of addressing my energies to the day's ordinary work. The morning and the afternoon are sterilised. If at luncheon my wife asks me what I am going to talk to them about I say, with a snarl, that I do not know. It is true. At length I set out,, a few laboured witticisms writhing sluggishly in my mind like lugworms in a bait-tin. Two glasses of South African sherry do nothing to restore my morale. And here, my dear boy, let me give you a small but useful hint on speaker- management. Tell him that one of his predeces- sors was a ghastly flop. It need not be true, but tell him all the same. You might think that the news that (say) Sir Alan Herbert had bored the society to tears a week or two earlier would alarm and discourage your guest. Far from it. He will be perversely reassured, whereas the much more credible intelligence that Sir Alan had them rolling in the aisles will increase his misgivings.
Often, though not always, the guest-speaker's oration is preceded by an interlude during which the society's business is conducted by local talent. This has an extremely dispiriting effect on the guest-speaker. Like the captive of some tribe into whose rites he has not been initiated, he finds himself listening to a series of personal or topical allusions which, while they mean nothing what- soever to him, have for everyone else present a vivid significance.
'Mr. President,' says the secretary, 'I have to announce the resignation of a member. (Loud cheers and boos.) Mr. Peregrine Quiff (cries of "Good old PQ," "Cavalry twill," and "What about Rosie?") has written me a letter. (Laughter.) You may be surprised to hear that it is short (loud laughter) and legible (loud laughter); you will not be surprised to hear that it is written in green ink (paroxysms of mirth) or that it is marked Con- fidential. (More laughter; shouts of "Trust the Intelligence Corps," "Send for M15," etc.) With your permission, sir, I propose to read this interesting missive to the Society.' (Prolonged cheers, accompanied by bread-throwing.) Upon the music halls an artiste might be glad to have the audience warmed up to this hilarious pitch, but the guest-speaker's blood runs cold. It is clear to him that he is on the wrong wave- length altogether, that he might as well recite Lycidas in Erse as deliver his own speech to an audience with whose mental processes he is so hopelessly out of touch. When at last the Presi- dent rises and, having with difficulty restored the meeting to order, begins 'And now, gentlemen, it is my pleasant duty to introduce our guest of the evening,' the temperature perceptibly falls.
Even the weariest river (except, to be pedantic, a few in Chinese Central Asia) winds somewhere safe to sea, and at last the speaker has finished his speech : has failed to answer a number of searching questions about books he has not read, personalities he does not know and policies he does not understand : has thanked his hosts : and is free to go. Can he be blamed for wondering whatever induced him to come?
I am sorry, my dear boy, to have written at such length; but if speakers are to be your quarry it is as well that you should have some under- standing of the ordeal which the reluctant and unpractised orator undergoes when he falls to your lures. And I hope my diagnosis explains, if it does not condone, what must seem to you churlishness on the part of Your Godfather, STRIX
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