MARGINAL COMMENT
By HAROLD NICOLSON
IHAVE often endeavoured, in using the space accorded to me by this hospitable newspaper, to communicate to others the comfort and the relaxation that I obtain from the reading of detective fiction. There will occur long stretches of time, when the pulse of life beats evenly, when I feel no temptation at all to resort to this special form of anodyne. But when anxiety or worry comes to quicken the pulse, or a bout of overwork renders it sluggish, then is the moment surreptitiously to slide one of the slim volumes into the overcoat pocket, and to transport oneself for a while into a world of adventure, ingenuity and daring. If the pulse be slow, then these vicarious excitements impart to it the required acceleration: if it be too fast or nervous, then one is assuaged by the thought that these horrible 'calamities—so far more intimidating than any that are likely to assail one per- sonally—did not in fact occur. There are those, I know, who regard it as a sign of protracted adolescence if a person of mature years finds comfort in such indulgences. Yet I can assure these spoil-sports that, as Mr. Gladstone benignly remarked of a friend who was accused of disreputable habits, " it is within my experi- ence that such tastes are not incompatible with the widest erudi- tion and the most profound religious convictions." I admit that if I am caught reading a detective novel when I ought to be reading about the Statute of Westminster I experience a sort of flurried shame. My first instinct is to conceal the little volume, but such movements of dissimulation should easily be mastered. " It is not," I remark casually, " the impossible that I object to in detective novels: it is the improbable that destroys all suspension of disbelief." It is for this reason that the works of Georges Simenon delight me above all others. He is frequently impossible: but never does he allow himself to descend to the improbable. He manages, by his remarkable skill in creating atmosphere. to render his personages three-dimensional. The whole of one's attention is transposed. * * * * The great detectives of fiction are, of course, readily recognis- able. One would easily be able to identify Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, Lord Peter or Mr. Albert Campion if one met them in a crowd ; one would have time to escape before Mr. Ellery Queen succeeded in imposing upon one his appalling volubility. Yet these people would be recognised as well-known public figures, even as one recognises, without knowing them. famous athletes, actors or politicians. Commissioner Maigret, the hero of Simenon's novels, is in a different category. One would greet him as an old acquaintance, enquire politely after the health of Madame Maigret, and instinctively tender one's tobacco-pouch as he pulled out his pipe. Simenon has accorded to Maigret a consistent and natural personality, so vivid and convincing that all his former and subsequent colleagues appear as mere puppets, twitching their arms and legs artificially and emitting ventriloquial sounds. It is thus with some displeasure that I have this week been reading a volume published by the Presses de la Cite and entitled Les menzoires de Maigret. The tone of this little book is direct and forcible ; it would seem even that the Commissaire Maigret, from long association with Simenon, has acquired much of his traducer's mastery of style. Yet the effect of these memoirs is disturbing, in that they reveal the many inaccuracies committed by Simenon, and superimpose upon the familiar portrait of Maigret another more authentic portrait of the individual himself. To the original Maigret, whom one knew so intimately. is added another Maigret who, although fully recognisable. is new and alien.
* * * * These memoirs of the famous detective of the Quai des Orfevrcs were completed as recently as September last in his retirement at Meung-sur-Loire. They do not comprise, except as incidental illustrations, accounts of the many notorious cases jn which M. Maigret was involved. They are an attempt rather on the part of Simenon's hero and victim to rescue his indi- viduality from the stereotyped caricature that has been imposed upon it by the forty volumes devoted to his activities. Maigret, although he denies it expressly. writes in a tone of protest, even of indignation. Being a man of great integrity, a man who " detests exaggeration," he admits that the writings of Simenon have conferred on him wide and durable celebrity. He admits that in some ways he has found it agreeable to be rendered so famous a man. It enables him to find a table in some crowded restaurant and to be accorded a comfortable place in the train. In some ways even it has proved a solace to his vanity. Nor does he feel for his biographer any deep personal animosity ; they are to this day intimate and congenial friends. Yet his purpose in writing his memoirs has been to point out the many inaccuracies of Simenon's portrait and once and for all to estab- lish the facts as they were in reality and as they were not in his biographer's imagination. He disclaims all personal rancour. His sole desire is to confront a fictional character with a real character, an imaginary portrait with a precise self-portrait. Sub- consciously, it is evident, he wishes to cleanse his personal dignity from the slight smears of ridicule left by the forty volumes published by the man whom, without any acute bitterness, he describes as "le denomme Sint."
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What we have all loved about Maigret is his ingenuous frank- ness. Even in his most broody moments he is terribly anxious to avoid all affectation and to tell the truth. He is aware, for instance, 'hat there may be something pretentious in a retired policeman writing a whole volume to correct what may appear to others as trivial points. He knows that he ought to have written this Apology in a tone of light banter, since after all he is discussing a matter wounding to his own self-esteem. Yet he also knows that he has " never acquired the habit of handling irony and would do so heavily." He therefore writes his book in a style of offended dignity. He generously forgives Simenon for telescoping his many cases, for reducing weeks of patient examination and thought to a few short hours, even for muddling up the Stirete Nationale with the Police Judiciaire. He was evidently impressed by Simenon's assertion that it was necessary for literary reasons that the personality of his hero should be somewhat stylised. Yet he cannot forgive Simenon for dwelling so much upon the solidity of his figure, the slow deliberation of his walk, the heaviness of his expression. He is annoyed when Simenon adds kilos to his weight and ten years to his age. But what has made him suffer more than anything is that Simenon represents him always as clad in a raincoat with a velvet collar with a bowler hat upon his head. It is true that when the young Sim first entered Maigret's office there was a bowler hat upon a peg. Yet this hat was reserved strictly for funerals and for official ceremonies. Why, in order to be "picturesque," should this importunate author impose upon him a form of headgear that he detested and hardly ever wore?
One has the impression that, had it not been for Madame Maigret. the relations between Simenon and his victim would have become strained. She was delighted by Cie portrait sketched of her in these forty volumes, delighted by the milk- man's awe of her famous husband, entranced by the added esteem she acquired in the quarter of the Boulevard Richard- Lenoir. and grateful for all these things to Simenon himself. When she herself read the manuscript of these memoirs she made the infelicitous remark that she could see no difference between the self-portrait and that drawn by Simenon. Maigret was enraged. Perhaps I was wrong," murmured his devoted wife, " to offer an opinion." No, Madame Maigret, you were perfectly right. There is essentially no difference at all. .,
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