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I am down in Cornwall for the AGM of the Morrab Library, of which I am the proud president. It is one of the last subscription libraries in England — a sort of London Library on Sea (though, with an annual sub of £27, much cheaper). It has a prodigious archive, both of Napoleonic materials and of early photographs. It is also the best club in the West Country, with friendly staff and volunteers. Coffee is served — an improvement on St James’s Square! It nestles in the Morrab Gardens, which on St Piran’s day is ablaze with pink camellias and an abundance of spring flowers. Beyond, in Mount’s Bay, the sea glistens. Sun catches St Michael’s Mount. Is there any more beautiful town in this archipelago than Pensans?
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Some would answer, ‘Yes, Bath’ — my next port of call. They are having a literary festival, and here come the culture vultures, mainly from the category classified as ‘active retired’ people, swarming up the steps of the Guildhall to hear such figures as Dame Joan Bakewell, whom God preserve, giving her views on the corrupting power of magazines for teenagers, and Sir Michael Holroyd discoursing wittily on the art of biography. As I stumble through my ill-thought-out speech (on Dante) I realise that I am the only writer in the building wearing a tie. A survey of office workers carried out this week has revealed that in 20 years’ time, the tie will be as obsolete as the top hat. Fine by me, though it leaves several questions unanswered. One, a fairly major one, is what on earth my wife will find to give me for Christmas presents. The other is how an active retired person like myself can disguise the poor old broiler-chicken throat. Lucian Freud, who so mercilessly exposed every wrinkle and blemish on his sitters’ bodies, must have been aware of this difficulty. He habitually draped his gizzard with a scarf, and perhaps that is the answer. Sir Roy Strong lately had himself photographed in an Elizabethan ruff, but I do not have his courage.
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On my way home in the train, meditating upon Sir Michael’s words on the biographer’s art, I yet again read what for me is the finest biography in the English language — yes, finer even than Boswell — namely J.A. Froude’s Life of Carlyle. It caused howls of dismay in 1885 when it was published (nearly always a good sign in a book), because of the candour with which it described the lack of harmony in Carlyle’s marriage. Froude was as frank as Freud in his depiction of blemishes, but he was not cruel. You finish the book admiring both the Carlyles for the heroism with which, dragging two all-but-impossible temperaments along with them, they smoked and quarrelled their way through this vale of tears.
A.N. Wilson is a former Spectator literary editor. His latest book is Dante in Love.
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