MARGINAL COMMENT\
)y HAROLD NICOLSON MANY years ago I read a story by Sir John Squire about a man who wrote his own obituary. Sir John described how this individual, having failed as a poet, dramatist and leader-writer, obtained in middle age a minor appointment in the obituary department of one of our great newspapers. In the room that he shared with his fellow necrophilists stood several large cupboards or presses; in these presses were arranged in alphabetical order the files containing particulars regarding the lives of the illustrious. It was the task of this dim man to keep these files up to date. From time to time he had to insert the fact that a man whom he remembered as a snooty little boy at Repton had been appointed Governor of the Windward Islands; or that some other con- temporary, whose works he had always dismissed as tawdry, had been accorded a high literary distinction. It was with mortification that he would enter upon the files of these rivals the honours that accumulated upon them with rapidity and splendour. One morning, when his colleagues had dispersed for luncheon, he was left alone in the necropolis. He failed to resist the temptation just to glance at his own file and to see in what terms had been recorded his contribution to the beautiful or the good. He was horrified to discover that not more than three lines had been vouchsafed to his biography. Some predecessor, moreover, had spelled his name incorrectly; instead of writing " Trehearne, J. F. ', this illiterate annotator had written " Treherne, J. F." Dipping his pen into the red ink, he neatly inserted the missing " a.' That was the start of his descent to Avernus. At first he confined himself to recording the names of all the poems he had written during the last twenty years; as the rapture grew upon him, he slipped in sentences indicative of the powerful influence his early work has exercised upon T. S. Eliot and Dylan Thomas; by the time he had completed his own obituary, the phrase " under-estimated genius " occurred three times. Sir John Squire will, I know, forgive me if I have allowed myself some variations on his theme.
* * * * I have often wondered whether, were I employed in the obituary department of a great newspaper, I should resist the temptation of bringing my own entry up to date, or of rectifying some of its manifestly incorrect proportions. It is not improbable that even the most erudite obituarist might be unaware of the powerful part I had played in international affairs during the twenty years F was a civil servant. How could he know what Briand had said to me, or what I, in my turn, had said to InOnu ? It is possible even—since to err is human—that he would fail to detect, and therefore to emphasise, the remarkable consistency of my political principles. He might, in his humdrum way, have been led astray by the chance that I had fought several elections and by-elections under different banners, ignoring the fact that my banner always bore the same ennobling device. A superficial, or a hurried, deduction might blind him to the fact that the successive leaders to whom, with really moving loyalty, I pledged my allegiance had themselves been guilty of deviation; whereas I had remained, unalterable and unaltered, in storm and sun- shine, faithful to collective security, the left centre, and the right to fight. It is possible even that he might have overlooked the dominant position that I acquired during my ten years membership of the House of Commons and have omitted to mention that, when I rose to speak, the Mother of Parliaments was (if I may use the expression) swayed. The fact that others had failed to notice or record this swaying movement might tempt him to conclude that it was in the study rather than in the forum that I had attained to full self-expression. Surely my duty to posterity entitled me to correct such misconceptions. * * * * I have indulged in these reflections, since this article is in itself obituary. It is the last Marginal Comment that I shall ever write. My decision to suspend a practice that has con- tinued almost uninterrupted for some fourteen years, produc- ing in the process well over 700 articles, requires some explanation. I remember Lord Baldwin telling me that, of all the penalties of public life, the most galling was the attribution of false motive. " Again and again," he said to me, " people have said or written that I did things for reasons that never for one instant entered my mind. It is no use explaining to them; they persist in their mistaken beliefs. All that one can do about it is to grow a thicker skin." I am aware that many readers will suppose that I have left my post owing to some quarrel with the proprietors, editor, assistant editor, or managers of this weekly, and that the cause of this quarrel was either a profound conflict of political or theological opinion, or else the offer of fat monetary pay- ments by some one else. May I dispel such illusions ? In all seriousness, I do not believe that the history of journalism can show a more shining example of amicable co-operation as that which for all these years has existed between the Editor and myself. NeVer once has he asked me to alter a single line of my articles; week after week he has corrected my somewhat specialised spelling and passed the typescript on to the printers without even a sigh of protest. It was not a question of agreement or disagreement : it was an instance of symbiosis. _ * * Never, moreover, for all these years, have I received a cross word from the other Jani. My affection for the Spectator remains warm within me : and I am sure that in future, when the spirit moves me, I shall be allowed to contribute occasional articles to this tolerant, sensible and most English periodical.
No, my decision to write no further Marginal Comments has nothing to do with either quarrels or bribes. It arises from the nature of the articles themselves. A weekly essay of this sort has to be both detached and topical, both varied and consistent, both reflective and spontaneous. In my endeavour to keep my comments marginal, and not to intrude upon editorial opinion, I have striven to record weekly impressions rather than to discuss weekly events. In the days when I was actively engaged in politics and spending the whole week in London, these impressions crowded upon me thick as star- lings; now that I have, at least temporarily, abandoned politics and retired more or less to the easier companionship of trug and trowel, I find that my impressions, while remaining beautiful and good, are becoming sparse, are losing their variety. There is the danger also that in seeking to maintain a consistent point of view I may end by repeating, and even imitating, myself. I wish to postpone the date when my friends will whisper sadly among each other that I am becoming, have in fact become, a bore. Essays of this kind must also, while suggesting habits of reflection, spring from a spontaneous impulse and an authentic mood. The moment one has to search the mind and memory for a Friday theme a sense of strain comes over one; no marginal comment should be written with an effort if it is to remain authentic. People should refrain from dancing once the joints begin to creak.
I remember that when, long ago, I was engaged to be married I wrote to my friend M. Jean Cocteau informing him of that most auspicious event. " Evidemtnent," he, telegraphed in reply," it Taut quitter le Louvre avant qu'on crie ' ON FERME'." I have always remembered that injunction. Whenever I visit a museum or gallery and hear the bells announcing closing-time, or observe the custodians beginning to jangle their keys, I no longer lounge or loiter but walk briskly to the door. As I type these last marginal lines I am conscious of " Abschiedsstimmurig," knowing that never again will the Editor have to print cross letters about me, that the doriphores henceforward must find other leaves to gnaw. I part from my familiar page with regretful amity, wishing the Spectator and its readers a gentle and prosperous New Year.
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