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And Another Thing

Paul Johnson

Wednesday, 30th April 2008

When the corridors of power echo to the strains of ‘Nil nisi bunkum’

In memorial services in those days there were regular participants. A tall nonentity of exceptional distinction, in a faultless tail coat, stood in for the Queen. If the deceased was grand enough, on the left in the middle of the front pew was always Roy Jenkins, especially in his reincarnation as Lord Jenkins of Hillhead. ‘And who is he representing?’ people would ask, to which I replied, ‘Oh, Civilisation, of course.’ In the middle of the back row, if the occasion had political or racing implications, stood the tall, lugubrious figure of Colonel, later Lord, Wigg, often a disturbing presence, since he recognised no right to silence at a memorial ceremony, and if the building belonged to the Church of England, he would point out any irregularities in the rubric or ceremonial with the loud comment: ‘It’s illegal, you know. It’s all illegal.’ Then, for good measure: ‘ILLEGAL!’

Some time ago Angela Huth published a collection of memorial addresses, in which one of mine figures. It is a minor art form. Ideally it should contain 1. no reference at all to the person delivering it; 2. one, but only one, characteristic anecdote; 3. a joke, in sturdy taste, early on to raise a laugh; 4. another joke, a bit rougher, towards the end; 5. a sentence calculated to squeeze a tear out of normally dry eyes; 6. one short but emphatic passage recalling the awesomeness, finality and dignity of Death; and, finally, it should be three or four minutes shorter than people expect.

Lady Violet Bonham Carter, in her reincarnation as Baroness Asquith, was also a familiar figure in the left-hand pews. She used to say: ‘I refused to go to Lloyd George’s, if he had one. Or Baldwin’s. I went to Neville Chamberlain’s because he was not totally devoid of conscience, morality and good nature, though not many would agree with me. I even went to Margot’s. Well, I had to, hadn’t I? A memorial service, whether of faith or fatalistic, is an important event, not just for the dead but for the survivors. You want to see who is there, who is not there, by design, inadvertence, or debility, and who is there maliciously or gloatingly. It is a verdict on the person gone, and those about to go, and fearful of going. In a sense it is a premonitory symptom, a dress rehearsal, an adumbration of the Last Judgment.’ Just so, though I prefer Philip Hope-Wallace’s more charitable saying that memorial services are ‘the cocktail parties of the aged’. I do not want one — forbid it, indeed. What I want is a proper requiem mass, in Latin, with the whole of the Dies Irae, not in the settings by Mozart or Verdi, marvellous though they are, but in plain chant. Words and music forming in conjunction the supreme mediaeval work of art. If this is not done I shall return to haunt those responsible.

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Herbert Thornton

May 4th, 2008 4:03am

The account of somebody accidentally pressing the starter button to send H.G.Wells' to the incinerator before the due time reminds me of another story about it. Some woman - I forget who it was, but she apparently knew him well - is said to have remarked something like -

"Oh dear. He was always terrified of premature ejaculation."

Gesto Charles Ranald

May 5th, 2008 8:21pm

A pity you could not find it in your heart to acknowledge my comment to you last week when I pointed out that 'Twenty Years on' was the territory of
Harrow and not Eton as you wrongly pronounced.

A shame really that a journalist of your emminence finds it so difficult to admit to a mistake.