Hugh Trevor-Roper: the Biography

This is an excellent biography, if of a faintly old-fashioned sort. Although he eventually became a life peer as Lord Dacre of Glanton, the historian Hugh Trevor-Roper was never really a public figure, the high point of his fame, or notoriety, occurring during the Hitler Diaries controversy in 1983, of which he became the most prominent casualty. Yet through carefully developed contacts - he ran Harold Mac­millan's campaign to become chancellor of Oxford University in 1960, the then prime minister having laid the groundwork for that success by earlier nominating him to be Regius Professor of Modern History in 1957 - he contrived for many years to be a peripheral figure hovering at the side of the political stage. To
undergraduates at Christ Church in my day, he was certainly the most glamorous member of the college's governing body, his grey Bentley parked on the corner of Tom quad, or even sometimes Peckwater, serving as a reminder that the way of the academic need not necessarily be steep or hard.

From the moment of the publication of his world bestseller, The Last Days of Hitler, in 1947, Trevor-Roper found himself blessed with more than his fair share of this world's goods. And that became true socially as well as financially when, in 1954, at the age of 40, he married the 47-year-old daughter of Earl Haig, Lady Alexandra Howard-Johnston. It does not appear to have been a particularly happy or fulfilled marriage - in Sisman's words, Xandra (as she was always called) "expected more" from the relationship than she ever got - but at least it lasted until her death at the age of 90 in 1997, her husband following her to the grave six years later at the age of 89.

In his latter years of widowerhood, Trevor-Roper became a somewhat sombre and solitary figure whom I would occasionally see and talk to at the bar of the Garrick Club in London. By then, his eyesight going and his hearing failing, he had lost all the capacity to intimidate that he had possessed at Oxford. He had also been through a good many storms - not just the row over the forged Hitler Diaries, which he recklessly authenticated on a flying visit to Zurich, but the five-year period he spent as a beleaguered master of Peterhouse, Cambridge, besieged by his own senior common room.

This was an appointment he rashly took up on the grounds that it would give him a six-year extension of his working life. As Regius Professor, he would have had to retire at 67, whereas at Peterhouse he could go on until he was at least 73. But it was to prove another unhappy chapter in his career, the mere two dozen fellows of Peterhouse having elected him in the belief that he was, like them, a High Tory, only to discover when it was already too late that he was much more like an unreconstructed Whig.

Yet the real failure of Trevor-Roper's career lay not in any of the positions he held, but rather in his inability to produce the great book that was expected of him. As a young research don at Merton, he published in 1940 a perfectly respectable, if anti-clerical, life of Charles I's occupant of the see of Canterbury, William Laud. But in academic terms, that was really it. Although he published 16 books in all - and there were four posthumous volumes of letters, essays and that kind of thing - Trevor-Roper, unlike Macaulay, Trevelyan or even A J P Taylor, left no lasting imprint as a historian. Rather, he was a superbly gifted journalist and reviewer, seldom altogether fastidious over what he would turn his hand to, from the Kennedy assassination to the Eichmann trial.

It so happens that I had some small experience of that. In the autumn of 1963, I was working for John Freeman, then editor of the New Statesman. To my astonishment, I received an indirect approach from the Regius Professor of Modern History at the University of Oxford, inquiring whether the paper might be interested in letting him review a much-trailed paperback by Randolph Churchill entitled The Fight for the Tory Leadership (covering the events of the previous October when Alec Douglas-Home had emerged as Harold Macmillan's hand-picked choice to be his successor when he stood down as prime minister). I was, to put it mildly, a bit taken aback: I was not, after all, the paper's literary editor, merely its 29-year-old political columnist who just happened to have been at Christ Church in Trevor-Roper's day. But, having consulted Freeman, who, I am sure, also referred the matter to Karl Miller, the then literary editor, I was authorised to send a message back that such a review would, indeed, be acceptable.

Yet when it came in (very professionally in good time), there was, I'm afraid, consternation all round. For it turned out to be a "rave", not just of the book, but of Macmillan's highly questionable role in the whole story. His conduct ("scrupulous and honourable") was even expressly compared to that of the British press ("which has emerged with uniform discredit"). The Regius Professor ended by placing a laurel wreath on Randolph Churchill's brow ("He has set out to state the facts"). We resolved that there was nothing for it but to bite the bullet and publish the review, only to discover that the half had not been told us. For the Spectator that same day carried the then editor and former Tory party chairman Iain Macleod's excoriating review of the same book in which not only the author, but Macmillan himself, were torn limb from limb.

It was hardly the NS's finest hour; but then nor was it the Regius Professor's. It was bad enough at Oxford to be known as the creation of Macmillan, but now he looked like his creature as well. From that time on, though I got to know him only in old age, I always regarded Trevor-Roper with a measure of reserve; there seemed to me to be no alternative to the view that, as a scholar, he was liable to fall short of the highest objective standards, not perhaps guilty of any mortal sin, but consistently susceptible to the more venal ones.

Beautifully written and admiringly presented though it is, there is nothing in Sisman's narrative to cause me to want to alter that view. The subject of this biography may have had all the potential to be an academic idol, but at the base of the statue there were always feet of social-climbing clay. Which must be why, when I think of him even today, the vision that most often comes to mind is of him standing in Peckwater quad, blowing a hunting horn and urging on the young bloods of Christ Church to bay for ever more broken glass.

Hugh Trevor-Roper: the Biography
Adam Sisman
Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 648pp, £25

Anthony Howard was editor of the New Statesman from 1972-78

This article first appeared in the 19 July 2010 issue of the New Statesman, Godless Britain

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Bohemian rhapsody: Jeanette Winterson’s “cover version” of The Winter’s Tale

 Jeanette Winterson's The Gap of Time is full of metaphorical riches.

Shakespeare – that magpie plunderer of other people’s plots and characters – would undoubtedly have approved. The Hogarth Shakespeare project invites prominent contemporary writers to rework his plays in novelistic form and this is Jeanette Winterson’s reimagining of The Winter’s Tale. Like the original, it shuttles disturbingly between worlds, cultures and emotional registers. It has never been an easy play, for all its apparent focus on reconciliation, and Winterson handles the gear-changes with skill, moving between the offices of Sicilia, a London-based asset-stripping company, and New Bohemia, a New Orleans-like American urban landscape (with interludes in both a virtual and a real Paris).

Her Leontes is a hedge-fund speculator, Polixenes a visionary designer of screen games (the presence of this world echoes the unsettling semi-magic of Shakespeare’s plot). They have a brief and uncomfortable history as teenage lovers at school and Polixenes – Xeno – has also slept with MiMi (Hermione), the French-American singer who eventually marries Leo.

The story unfolds very much as in the play (though Winterson cannot quite reproduce the effect of Shakespeare’s best-known deadpan stage direction), with Leo using advanced surveillance technology to spy on Xeno and MiMi, and Perdita being spirited away across the Atlantic to the US, where her guardian, Tony, is mugged and killed and she is left in the “baby hatch” of a local hospital – to be found by Shep and his son and brought up in their affectionate, chaotic African-American household. Perdita falls in love with Zel, the estranged son of Xeno, discovers her parentage, returns to London and meets Leo; Leo’s PA, Pauline, has kept in contact across the years with MiMi, a recluse in Paris, and persuades her to return secretly to give a surprise performance at the Roundhouse, when Leo is in the audience, and – well, as in the play, the ending is both definitive and enormously unsettling. “So we leave them now, in the theatre, with the music. I was sitting at the back, waiting to see what would happen.”

That last touch, bringing the author into the narrative in the same apparently arbitrary way we find in a text such as Dostoevsky’s Demons – as a “real” but imperfect witness – gently underlines the personal importance of the play to this particular author. Winterson is explicit about the resonance of this drama for an adopted child and one of the finest passages in the book is a two-page meditation on losing and finding: a process she speculates began with the primordial moment of the moon’s separation from the earth, a lost partner, “pale, lonely, watchful, present, unsocial, inspired. Earth’s autistic twin.”

It is the deep foundation of all the stories of lost paradises and voyages away from home. As the moon controls the tides, balances the earth’s motion by its gravitational pull, so the sense of what is lost pervades every serious, every heart-involving moment of our lives. It is a beautifully worked conceit, a fertile metaphor. The story of a child lost and found is a way of sounding the depths of human imagination, as if all our longing and emotional pain were a consequence of some buried sense of being separated from a home that we can’t ever ­remember. If tragedy is the attempt to tell the story of loss without collapse, all story­telling has some dimension of the tragic, reaching for what is for ever separated by the “gap of time”.

Winterson’s text is full of metaphorical riches. She writes with acute visual sensibility (from the first pages, with their description of a hailstorm in a city street) and this is one of the book’s best things. There are also plenty of incidental felicities: Xeno is designing a game in which time can be arrested, put on hold, accelerated, and so on, and the narrative exhibits something of this shuttling and mixing – most effectively in the 130-page pause between the moment when Milo (Shakespeare’s Mamilius, Leo’s and MiMi’s son) slips away from his father at an airport and the fatal accident that follows. In the play, Mamilius’s death is a disturbing silence behind the rest of the drama, never alluded to, never healed or reconciled; here, Milo’s absence in this long “gap of time” sustains a pedal of unease that has rather the same effect and the revelation of his death, picking up the narrative exactly where it had broken off, is both unsurprising and shocking.

Recurrent motifs are handled with subtlety, especially the theme of “falling”; a song of MiMi’s alludes to Gérard de Nerval’s image of an angel falling into the gap between houses in Paris, not being able to fly away without destroying the street and withering into death. The convergence and crucial difference between falling and failing, falling in love and the “fall” of the human race – all these are woven together hauntingly, reflecting, perhaps, Shakespeare’s exploration in the play of Leontes’s terror of the physical, of the final fall into time and flesh that unreserved love represents.

A book of considerable beauty, then, if not without its problems. MiMi somehow lacks the full angry dignity of Hermione and Leo is a bit too much of a caricature of the heartless, hyper-masculine City trader. His psychoanalyst is a cartoon figure and Pauline’s Yiddish folksiness – although flagged in the text as consciously exaggerated – is a bit overdone.

How a contemporary version can fully handle the pitch of the uncanny in Shakespeare’s final scene, with the “reanimation” of Hermione, is anyone’s guess (the Bible is not wrong to associate the earliest story of the resurrection with terror as much as joy). Winterson does a valiant job and passes seamlessly into a moving and intensely suggestive ending but I was not quite convinced on first reading that her reanimation had done justice to the original.

However, weigh against this the real success of the New Bohemia scenes as a thoroughly convincing modern “pastoral” and the equally successful use of Xeno’s creation of virtual worlds in his games as a way of underlining Shakespeare’s strong hints in the play that art, with its aura of transgression, excess, forbidden magic, and so on, may be our only route to nature. Dream, surprise and new creation are what tell us what is actually there, if only we could see. Winterson’s fiction is a fine invitation into this deeply Shakespearean vision of imagination as the best kind of truth-telling.

Rowan Williams is a New Statesman contributing writer. His most recent book is “The Edge of Words: God and the Habits of Language” (Bloomsbury). The Gap of Time by Jeanette Winterson is published by Vintage (320pp, £16.99)

Rowan Williams is an Anglican prelate, theologian and poet, who was Archbishop of Canterbury from 2002 to 2012. He writes on books for the New Statesman

This article first appeared in the 01 October 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The Tory tide