LET'S LOOK ON THE DARK SIDE
I ONCE worked in an office where every- body was terribly gloomy. You could say it was because this firm published books, but I don't believe that had anything to do with it. My boss was an immensely tall man, with an altogether oversized body that seemed to be seeking the spaciousness of a country house drawing-room — these he frequented when- ever possible, for he was the younger broth- er of a peer. He interviewed me for my post without much enthusiasm. After some time had been spent placing me 'socially', he finally announced that a novel would arrive in October — it was then May — and I was to edit it. After that he said little, but played with some pens. It's lack of a drawing-room, I thought, that's making him so lugubrious.
Once I had started work there, I discov- ered that this Honourable fellow skipped off to a betting shop in the afternoons to see if he could improve his circumstances. Of course he didn't, but then betting is the pessimists' disease. It is indulged in by those who believe that nothing in their condition will ever alter. And indeed, the Honourable fellow can still be seen wan- dering around the clubland of St James's at rather a loose end.
It was in this office, observing the daily habits of the Honourable fellow, that I received my first heavy dose of the English negative. I was 25 and fresh for life's experi- ences, and that early impression made me anxious about the Englishman's capability of preserving a sunny disposition. Alas, the intervening years have shown me that the English — and by that I mean the British nation — have come to revel in gloom and disaster to a near self-destructive degree. How much pleasure there is in that voice on the telephone telling you that an item is no longer available. And how saddening is the distrust shown to anyone who attempts to break out of the gloom-maker's web. 'It'll never come off,' the English enjoy assuring anybody who has an idea that does not fit their own restricted view. Yet they distribute with generosity to each other words bitter with discomfort — phrases that read like a litany of verbal masochism: 'I'm afraid that's life', 'Tell me another', 'Join the club'.
The British press know that there is money in gloom and they delight in it. Sev- enty per cent of the news provided is quite unnecessary for our survival — there is lit- erature for that — and small news stories that are certain to upset are given head- line importance. Inflicted on our stability come billboard splashes like: 'Village of the dead', 'Man crushed to death in tube doors', `Girl raped by three men'. And so it goes on, day after gloomy day.
This mental suicide would have pleased Napoleon. When he called the British a nation of shopkeepers, he was referring to a littleness in the English mind. He used the word toutiquief and not 'corn- mercant' — and therein lies the differ- ence. Someone of Napoleon's heroic vision had no space for pessimists or fal- terers. 'It is better to make the wrong deci- sion with firmness than the right decision with indecision,' he once said. But have we always been a nation of pessimists, or was there a time when British optimism crest- ed the wave? There must have been buoy- ancy and laughter when we were seafaring dogs; at the restoration of King Charles II there was a flourish of music and drama — as the nation opened up again — that showed an optimistic capacity. To build a powerful industrial and territorial empire required grit.
We became complacent. Pride at suc- cess smothered stumblings in the English character. The complacency began in the days of the Regency. All right the French had been routed, but at home there was unemployment and rioting. And what did the court do? The Prince Regent and his friends idled over racecourses, their clothes and the gaming table. They `We just want to check that it's not Princess Diana . . ignored the plight of the Two Nations. Debauchery carries the seeds of pessimism. Beneath the swagger it is saying, 'This is all we are good for.' Then in the reign of Queen Victoria a new triumphant class emerged — the middle class — who were determined to leave their mark. And it was the middle class who created the Empire, not from optimism, but because they want- ed position. In the meantime, the liveliness that could have been the hallmark of our national character was snuffed out by a lot of high-minded, sanctimonious sermonising on respectable behaviour. Thus, as pride at our own perfection swelled, we rejoiced again and again in our insularity. The open mind had gone.
So what might have allowed the lightness of a more Mediterranean outlook never hap- pened. That Restoration vitality — which had put us in touch with the Continent dried up. A suffocating middle-class decency took over and emotional courage and zest went. E.M. Forster, that valiant crusader against English smugness, remarked, 'The Englishman is an incomplete person. Not a cold or an unspiritual one. But undeveloped, incomplete.' Then, when the Empire proved mortal, levelling of class became the answer rather than acknowledging defects of charac- ter. But one thing was sure — we found no cause for optimism as we stared at our shrunken condition.
Trusting only to class levelling, the theo- reticians and politicians ignored the inevitable. It would have been wiser to lis- ten to the novelists. In her virtuoso short story, 'The Disinherited', Elizabeth Bowen struck at the bitterness. Oliver's father has been obliged to sell up. The family estate has gone. Of young Oliver she writes, 'The old order left him stranded, the new offered him no place.' And so, 'Oliver despised the rich and disliked the poor and drank to the bloody extinction of the mid- dle classes.' The levelling was done with the full insensitivity of politicians and it finally provoked restlessness and uncertain- ty all around. But, at the time, the Depres- sion, hunger marches and a crushing death duty tax made just the right stimulants for the already established national gloom. The English lapped it up, like an elixir.
Pessimism was lifted for the second world war, but returned at once with victo- ry. Still telling themselves that equality was the answer, the English let the distinct cul- tures that had once protected each class drift together and disintegrate. Isolation replaced identity — nobody knew their place any more. So the port that continued to circle the tables of the landed now only blurred despair at unwieldy, servantless houses. It was in despair that Lord Newton walked away down the drive of his magnifi- cent mansion — Lyme Park in Cheshire caught the bus, and never returned. The civilising presence that had once reigned from above lost its nerve and went silent. Now, in the other so-called liberated class- es, envy, not contentment, mushroomed. Gone were the sweet days of Bud Flana- gan and Chesney Allen singing, 'Nice peo- ple, with nice manners, but got no money at all'. Everybody wanted what somebody else had got. By refusing to admit to any failings of character, the English let their country fall apart.
But this continuing denial of our hypocrisy, crabbedness and emotional uptightness (seen in superabundance of sexual vice) has provided a lasting plat- form for English pessimism. For what hope can a nation hold if the people will not examine themselves? Which is why the spirit of the nation is no longer impressed by educated talk, but celebrates the argot of the streets. The ultimate accolade today is to be 'streetwise' — to possess 'street cred' — saying that if you cannot make it on the streets you will make it nowhere. And now that we must live with the men- ace of those alleys, we may congratulate ourselves on our discovery of the absolute pessimists' utopia.
Of course, I'm not decrying streets, for streets can be beautiful places. But I do ask whether the finer sentiments can be nurtured there. For those of us who have seen the desperate boys in Trainspotting, the answer must be no. It would seem, too, that the populace do not really want to remain there — but pessimism makes it so. It does not lift up the soul to be halted every 20 yards in central London by cries of, 'Buy the Big Issue. The Big Issue. Come on, give some help to the homeless.' Dick- ens was writing about the same streets and the same poor 150 years ago. But the resurgence of these homeless simply gives a further boost to English gloom.
And yet . . . and yet . . . there are sure- ly untrammelled havens to be found the world over that could act as purgatives for this disease — where the attitude else- where is different. But no, the English will cling to their streets. And there are coun- tries the world over with social problems far more serious than here. But no, the English must make theirs as grim as can be. We need to spin back three centuries and return to a contact with the wide out- side. There was a time when we were great and positive travellers. We got a high not from dope, but from adventure. We have reached, at this moment, the nadir of island claustrophobia.
Islands cover small areas, and if the islanders never stand back, they suffer from diminished sight. While Mohammed Al Fayed may wish to register himself as a full British subject, I take the opposite line. When travelling abroad and asked, as I am, if I might be French or, possibly, Ital- ian, I answer with hesitation, 'Er, no, I'm English,' and then add eagerly, 'But I do have French blood.' And toying with this French ancestry, which came into my veins at about the time of brave Napoleon, makes it easier for me to concur with his wounding criticism. If we were not then, we are now a nation of boutiquiers.
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