Television
Box of tricks
Richard Ingrams
Humphrey Burton's latest operatic bonanza, a performance of La Traviata broadcast live from New York was interrupted by an interesting Arena tribute to the late William Gerhardie by his young friend and admirer Michael Holroyd. It might _have been called the Case of the Missing Masterpiece for to me the book that than didn't write is more interesting 'flan all the ones he did. For the last 30 years of his life he lived in seclusion near. Broadcasting House working, he told everyone, on a great masterpiece, a novel in four Parts, arranged in a Dante-esque Sequence. When the Arts Council first began the questionable practice some years ago of making grants to individual writers1 Gerhardie was one of the very first to benefit, the Council hoping, presumably, that the masterpiece would be thereby more sPeedily completed. In a TV film made' Shortly afterwards, parts of which were re-shown on Saturday, Gerhardie was seen' at work lying in bed surrounded by cardboard boxes containing the different sections of his novel — the rough notes on the left-hand side of the box, the finished Manuscript on the right. (This modus operandi was later adopted by Holroyd .tilmself, whom I have seen on TV lying in bed surrounded by of Shaw) the card index of his life , But after his death in 1977 when the boxes were examined they contained nothing but dross; unconnected fragments, potes and press cuttings. So was Gerhardie having us on? It was a question that Holroyd, perhaps wisely in view of the fact that he was asking us to appreciate the novelist's earlier work, preferred not to answer. But I rather think he was. His vanity was such that he could not face the world and admit that he was no longer able to write. He therefore shut himself away and for the benefit of his little band of admirers, the Arts Council and the BBC invented the alibi of the masterpiece in progress — in the end, perhaps, coming to believe in it himself and thereby passing into the realm of madness.
Two more cheerful senior citizens, Malcolm Muggeridge and Alec Vidler, were to be seen on Sunday in BBC's latest God slot programme, Friends, on which (Rev.) Colin Morris questions selected pairs of oldies about their friendship. In spite of Morris's inept and sometimes embarrassing questions — he referred to Dr Vidler throughout as Alex and also suggested that there might have been a sexual element in their relationship! — the two came through with flying colours. Having known him all his life Vidler has a very clear picture of Muggeridge as a prophet who says things in a hyperbolic way: 'I distinguish between what he says and the way he says it.' Muggeridge said, in turn, that he had never been sure precisely what Alec Vidler believed, but that in true friendship one does not take account of the other person's views of this, that or the other. (Rev) Morris seemed sceptical about Mugg's claim to look forward to death — 'A sense of the ultimate departure from this world is to me a source of great joy.' But to me Mugg managed to convey the genuineness of his emotion when he asked us to envisage the alternative in the shape of 'television programmes till the crack of doom'.
The BBC was doing its best all last week to remind us that it was the centenary of Bartok's birth, which meant having Bartok as Composer of the Week on Radio 3 and also a series of Bartok string quartets on BBC 2. One should always be suspicious when eminent men are brought in to tell us that we should be truly grateful for what we are about to be shown. In this case Yehudi Menuhin gave a little introduction to each of Barton quartets extolling its merits, rich contrapuntal textures etc. It is always a great pleasure to see Mr Menuhin, but I could tell from the rather wistful and desperate look in his eye that he knew he was wasting his time and that however much he praised the wonderful achievement of the Hungarian maestro, the viewers would not respond. I myself remember well my earliest visits to quartet concerts and the dread that in addition to Mozart and Beethoven. I might have to sit through Bartok as a penance. After a few bars of his discordant music, I realised that the passing of time had done nothing to mellow my attitude and was grateful for the power, not given to the concert-goer who must sit and endure his punishment, to switch off and go to bed.
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