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 'a little place in the country' At least until you’ve found your feet, speak little. In France it is impolite to let a conversation drop; in England it’s imprudent to pick it up again. No-one here will reproach you for your silence, and when after three years you still haven’t opened your mouth they’ll think: ‘What a calm and pleasant Frenchman this one is.’ Be modest. An Englishman will say to you: ‘I’ve a little place in the country’. When he takes you there, you’ll discover that the little place is a stately home with 300 rooms. If you are a world champion tennis-player, say: ‘Yes, I don’t play too badly.’ If you’ve sailed a six-metre skiff across the Atlantic, you might mention you do a little canoeing. If you’ve written books, say nothing. In time, they will discover for themselves your regrettable but inoffensive weakness. They’ll laugh and say ‘I know your secret,’ and that will bind you together. If you are treated unjustly (because the English are sometimes unjust) go straight up to them and explain your grievance. There’s a good chance they will recognise they are in the wrong. They’ll play up and play the game. Golden rule: Never ask questions. During the war I lived six months in the same tent as an Englishman. We shared the same bath but he never asked me if I was married, what I did in peace-time or about the books I was reading under his nose. If you volunteer any private information, you will be heard out with a polite indifference. Keep your thoughts about other people to yourself. Gossip exists here like anywhere else, but it is more rare and more serious. There is no middle ground between silence and scandal. Prefer the sound of silence.
Ah, all French writers should look like this. You are going to live in a country far far away, not by distance, but by ideas and behaviour. You are going to live in a difficult and mysterious country. In the first few days you will think: ‘This undertaking is hopeless; I’ll never get to know them; the gulf is too wide to be bridged.’ Don’t panic. We can bridge it. Tell yourself that when you are eventually adopted they will be the most faithful of friends. Read Lawrence’s book Revolt in the Desert; you’ll see how this lone Englishman crossed a dangerous desert to search for a nobody Arab left behind by the caravan. Such is the friendship of the best among them. I tested it out for myself during the war. To earn it, all you need do is make a little effort. National Academy of Writing Martlet: Issue 13 Spring 2009
While researching an article for the recent book Pembroke in our Time, I trawled the post-war Pembroke Gazettes for evidence of patterns in Pembroke sport. We turn out to be stubborn in pursuit of victory yet good-humoured should it escape. We can be over-enthusiastic (the 1990 tennis team played ninety minutes of football between two rounds of Cuppers), drily unshakeable (‘the sight of blood on the wicket,’ reports the cricket captain in 1992, ‘is never pleasing to an incoming batsman’), and sometimes shockingly obsequious (the 1948 Debating Society conveyed congratulations to Prince Elizabeth on her engagement). These are all curiosities that for reasons of space I was unable to include in the book. Another was the demise of the Pembroke Mile. In the history of College sport, any innovation lasting for more than three years is instantly considered timeless. Various Pembroke teams, notably the Pathfinders, the Pint-pots, the Prawns and the Perfectionists, were once considered imperishable features of Pembroke life. This mid-century affection for nouns beginning with P was perhaps always destined to fade. Continue reading The Pembroke Mile |
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Copyright © 2009 Richard Beard - All Rights Reserved
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