Urbanity
By HAROLD NICOLSON A FRIEND of mine has recently sent me two articles published in a periodical called Books and Art and written by a zestful man under the pseudonym of 'Humphry Clinker.' In these articles I am reproved not so much for my prose style, as for my attitude towards life. One can always profit by criticism and I therefore read these articles with appreciation and care. I was distressed to discover that, owing in all probability to a disparity of age, I was unable to grasp the full force of `Mr. Clinker's' indictment.
His accusations in the first place were in- consistent. At one moment he referred to me as `an amply paid professional journalist' and at another point as 'an amateur.' At one moment he blames my colleague Mr. John Davenport for referring to Anthony Powell's previous novels, and at the next he rates Mr. Cyril Connolly for admitting that he had not yet read Richard Church's admirable autobiography Over the Bridge. I do not quite see how I can err by being both an amateur and a professional or why my fellow reviewers should be abused, the one for mentioning other books that he has read by the same author, and the other for remarking that he had failed so far to read a previous work by the same author. Ignoring these perplexing incon- sistencies, I settled down to study the crimes for which I was being assailed.
• There were five main delinquenCies which had earned me `Mr. Clinker's' displeasure, I was accused of being a 'virtuoso,' a word the full significance and purpose of which I do not fully understand. It is, I suppose, intended to be a term of abuse almost as destructive as the kindred term 'intellectual.' I was also accused of being `cultured,' urbane,"snobbish' and 'an amateur.' Here again I find it difficult to penetrate to the inner core of `Mr. Clinker's' meaning. Of course 1 am cultured, having received an expensive education both at home and abroad, and having read and written a large number of books during the last fifty years. For me to pretend not to be cultured would be as gross an imposition and affectation as if I were to simulate a pas- sionate interest in football pools or to adopt a Yorkshire accent. I may be mistaken in supposing that it is a creditable thing to be cultured, but I am certainly of the opinion that a certdin amount of learning is an asset to those who write history or review the historical works of others. What is discreditable is to pretend to be more cul- tured than one really is, and this is a crime to which, I earnestly hope, I am not addicted. I probably dislike every bit as much as does 'Mr. Clinker' the writer who flaunts knowledge that his readers are unlikely to possess. But, then, I do not write for the uneducated public : I write for the educated public : and I take it for granted that they can recognise the allusions that I employ.
I admit that the epithet 'urbane' is one that sends an arrow to my heart. It is not used to indi- cate that I am tolerant, gentle and overflowing with the milk of human kindness. It is meant to suggest that both the manner and the matter of my writing are as placid, smooth, and oleaginous as a tin of face-cream. I am stung when 1 read, as I frequently do read, this wounding epithet applied to my style. But I am too old to change• my placidity for violence or to become angry, vindictive or harsh. Those who hate calm styles must seek for stimulus in someone else.
The adjective 'snobbish' is one that 1 find salutary but bewildering. When I was a boy at school and at the university I was abominably snobbish, being more impressed by a duke than a viscount, by a baron than a knight. But since have reached adult age my snobbishness has considerably declined. I should not, today, regard it as one of my major faults. It may be, of course. that what 'Mr. Clinker' intended when hurling this jagged stone at my head, was not social snob- bishness but intellectual snobbishness. Yet here again I do not see that it is a grave crime to be fastidious : to prefer intelligent people to stupid people, good books to bad books, good cooking to bad cooking, or comfortable mattresses to uncomfortable mattresses.
I suspect that 'Mr. Clinker' is annoyed with me, for being detached from 'the dust and roar of life.' In the past I have experienced a great deal of dust and frequent roars. But, after all, I write generally for a sober Sunday newspaper and the readers of that newspaper spend their lives amid the rattle of Modern traffic and actually prefer, on the Day of Rest, to read something that is composed in, dulcet tones. I suspect also that what `Mr. Clinker' objects to is that I and my fellow virtuosi do not possess 'the common touch.' But there are many periodicals and daily newspapers which possess, cultivate and exploit that touch: these are readily available to those readers who prefer the rough to the smooth: and it would be un- gainly for me to pretend to be common when I am not.
`Mr. Clinker' again accuses me of being 'an amateur.' Yet he must know that I earn my living by journalism, that I have written several hundred articles and some thirty books. It is this accusa- tion that gives me some clue to the real burden of his indictment. What irritates him is that I and mY fellows should be more interested in literature than in news. 'Instead,' he. writes, 'of squatting alone in his study and speculating over a book's purpose or provenance [ski' I ought to 'hunt out, the author, and ask him how and why he wrote it. Were I a popular author, I should be infuriated if what 'Mr. Clinker' calls a 'a new-style literary columnist' were to 'hunt me out' and probe for news. Being an unpopular writer, I remain un- molested in my ivory tower, more concerned with ideas than with personalities. `Mr. Clinker' urges me to grasp the telephone and thereby to get into touch with the great authors of the age.. Shall telephone this morning to Mr. T. S. Eliot or Dame Edith Sitwell, ceasing, thereby, to be either con- siderate or urbane? 1 shall do nothing of the sort.
1 am grateful to 'Mr. Clinker' for the attention that he has paid me and for the polite terms in which he has veiled his attack. But it is not for me suddenly to start barking at younger writers in the columns of the Observer. I will make this con- Buy wisely—buy cession to 'Mr. Clinker.' I agree with him that WOLSELEY contemporary criticism, as compared to the good old days, is inclined to be mealy-mouthed. It needs more vigour; and `Mr. Clinker' and his generation will assuredly provide it.
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