A Bradford town garden, late 19th century. (Photo: Garden Museum, London)
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Hardy blooms: the British urge to garden, against all odds

Green fingerdom throughout the ages in the face of wars, poverty and social upheaval.

The Gardens of the British Working Class
Margaret Willes
Yale University Press, 413pp, £25

A Green and Pleasant Land: How England's Gardeners Fought the Second World War
Ursula Buchan
Windmill Books, 368pp, £9.99

Many books and articles written to feed the insatiable maw of gardening literature are worth not a single leaf of the rainforest. These two books, however, have something refreshingly new to say. “Refreshing” is perhaps a moot word, as both are essentially about deprivation, and the human compulsion to create gardens – however pitiful, insignificant or bizarre – that blaze defiantly in the face of poverty, war and all the odds. The other common currency is continuity: roses and root vegetables were planted as assiduously five centuries ago as they are today; the medieval “weeder woman” segues into the 1940s Land Girl; Thomas Tusser (1524-80), the author of A Hundreth Good Pointes of Husbandrie, prefigures the first celebrity gardeners of the 20th century, C H Middleton and Percy Thrower.

Margaret Willes used to be the publisher for the National Trust and, having burrowed into its archives in Cirencester and Swindon, I am tempted to guess that the weight of material contained both there and in its country-house libraries helped equip her to tackle, in The Gardens of the British Working Class, a vast and relatively unexplored subject. She has succeeded in letting the individual voices of the underdogs of the gardening fraternity shout or whisper tellingly through its pages.

She begins by describing the precepts and practices of the 16th to 18th centuries. Although this first quarter of the book is richly packed, the information and quotations here may well be familiar to readers with a taste for garden history, and a case might be made for taking as the starting point instead the birth pangs of the Industrial Revolution, with all the repercussions that rural despoliation and urban overcrowding, vastly increased pollution and a newfangled poverty were to have on working-class life.

In her epilogue, Willes refers to the “consistency of the threads” running through the book. The threads may be consistent but they also occasionally get tangled. Allotments quite rightly feature strongly, but they crop up (pun regrettably intended) in several chapters, which can be confusing. And does the work of gardening professionals – head gardeners, market gardeners and nurserymen – really belong in a book about working-class gardens?

Such carping aside, the material assembled is remarkable in its depth and range, and is packed with economic, social, horticultural and literary insights. (Hands up, whoever knows the difference between burgage plots and guinea gardens.) Above all, the gamut of green spaces – window boxes, rural back and urban front plots, allotments, public parks and model villages – is explored in meticulous detail.

The 19th century, the meat of this book, threw up remarkable differences in gardening fortunes around the country. In 1844 the social historian William Howitt discovered “upwards of 5,000 gardens in Nottingham, the bulk of which are occupied by the working class . . . These lie on various sides of the town, in expanses of many acres in a place . . . In the winter they have rather a desolate aspect, with their naked trees and hedges, and all their little summer-houses exposed, damp-looking and forlorn; but, in spring and summer, they look exceedingly well.”

Contrast this with a childhood memory of gardens near the Regent’s Canal in London:

The back yards were all alike . . . and contained a back-to-back water closet . . . Every year Father planted a few geraniums and blue lobelia plants, but with the soot, lack of sun and cinder ash in the soil they lingered to a premature death . . . If a tuft of grass appeared in the crevices of stone and clinker [Mother] would tend it as if it was a lily . . . It reminded her, she said, “of the country”.

I hadn’t realised that by the 19th century the florist societies – gatherings of horticultural “twitchers” avid to grow the stripiest tulip, the most fragrant hyacinth, the showiest dahlia – were by no means confined to the upper classes. Tradesmen and “mechanics” loved them, too. Willes relates the story of John Hufton, a Derbyshire stocking-maker in the 1850s whose carnations, mulched with decaying leaves and “willowdust”, were famed far and wide. When the time came to show them, he would walk to Nottingham, “carrying a dozen pots in wooden boxes hanging from a yoke, like a milkmaid with her pails”.

The Oxfordshire stonemason Charles Snow springs from the page as the prototype of the hard-grafting working-class gardener of the 1880s:

. . . he would get up at four on a summer morning, work in his garden for an hour, and then set off [to work] . . . Every day he noted the weather, usually followed by short notes, written in pencil, of his gardening activities . . . When in work, almost all his wages were given over to Mrs Snow, and the rest spent on things for the garden and occasionally on beer.

Hyacinths and tulip bulbs mark him out as a florist enthusiast, and he filled his plot with vegetables, herbs, fruit and flowers, together with a few ducks.

What emerges most strongly is the no-nonsense resilience of the period. One story concerns a lady living near Nottingham who spent much of her time visiting “the poorer classes”. On a visit to one home, she found that the coverlet was missing from the bed.

Her immediate reaction was that it had been pawned, but the wife revealed it had gone to keep the frost out of the greenhouse. “And please ma’am, we don’t want it and we’re quite hot in bed.”

Photographs of prize-winning window boxes and luxuriance coaxed out of compacted urban rubble say it all, the working-class way. The Garden journal (first published in 1871) declared its intention to promote “pure horticulture of the natural, or English, school, free from rigid formalities, meretricious ornaments, gypsum, powdered bricks, cockle-shells and bottle-ends”. Twenty years on, the proud owners of a small London garden are photographed standing beside a rigidly formal wavy flowerbed, fringed by sempervivums that look remarkably like the despised cockleshells.

Gnomes and statues abounded, and as soon as seeds became cheaper and more widely available the gaudiest bedding plants testified to a yearning for colour. This was at a time when the cottage garden, launched when perennials and hardy annuals were the only plants available to working-class gardeners, was making a mannerly and nostalgic comeback higher up the pecking order.

As the story moves on through the First World War to the eve of the Second, Willes begins to overlap with Ursula Buchan. A Green and Pleasant Land, part chronological and part thematic, spans the two decades between the alarms and uncertainties of the phoney war and the dreary deprivations of the postwar period. Equally well-researched, it is a work to be read for pleasure as well as enlightenment – Buchan has 15 books and three literary prizes under her belt, and it shows. This one, now out in paperback, would make a fine offering for anyone who remembers the years of rationing and the at times wanton destruction of gardens and parks in the name of the war effort.

Topics range from the role of the Women’s Institute and research stations, government and media education and morale-boosting (the nanny state in full cry) to prisoners’ gardens, livestock and cooking recipes. How curious to reflect that between September 1940 and April 1945, during which weather forecasts were banned from the airwaves, about 12 million pounds of fruit was being preserved by busy rural women.

Heroes and heroines emerge – Lady Denman of the Women’s Land Army and the WI, Lord Woolton of the ministry of food. Despite the overlap between these books, there are interesting anomalies: Willes doesn’t mention either Denman or Woolton, while Buchan eschews one of Willes’s most arresting wartime photographs, of an Anderson shelter whose roof has been planted with vegetables. It just goes to show what a vast pool there was for the two authors to fish in.

Katherine Lambert is a gardening writer. Her latest book is “Gardens of Cornwall” (Frances Lincoln, £16.99)

This article first appeared in the 19 March 2014 issue of the New Statesman, Russia's Revenge

MARK GERSON
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It's unfashionable to call someone a "genius" – but William Empson was one

Father than denying the contradictoriness of being human, Empson revelled in it, as The Face of Buddha reveals.

William Empson was a genius. Describing anyone in this way is distinctly unfashionable nowadays, because it suggests a level of achievement to which most of humanity cannot aspire. There is nothing you can do to acquire genius. Either you have it or, like the rest of us, you don’t – a state of affairs that cannot be remedied. The very idea smacks of elitism, one of the worst sins in the contemporary moral lexicon. But if talk of genius has come close to being banned in polite society, it is hard to know how else to describe Empson’s astonishing originality of mind.

One of the most influential 20th-century literary critics and the author of two seminal books on language, he was extremely receptive to new thinking and at the same time combative in defending his views. He was a poet of the first rank, whose spare and often cryptic verse was immediately understood and admired by Ludwig Wittgenstein. Incomparably more thoughtful than anything produced by the dull atheist prophets of our own day, his book Milton’s God (1961), in which he compares the Christian God to a commandant at Belsen, must be one of the fiercest assaults on monotheism ever published. And as a socialist who revered the British monarchy, he had a political outlook that was refreshingly non-standard.

Empson’s originality was not confined to his writing. He led a highly adventurous life. Expelled from his research fellowship and his name deleted from the records of his Cambridge college in 1929 when one of the porters found condoms in his rooms, he lost any prospect of a position in British academic life. For a time, he considered becoming a journalist or a civil servant. Instead his tutor I A Richards encouraged him to apply for posts in east Asia, and in 1931 he took up a position at a teacher training college in Japan. For some years he taught in China – mostly from memory, owing to a lack of books, and sleeping on a blackboard when his university was forced to move to Kunming during the Japanese siege of Beijing. By the late Thirties he was well known in London literary circles (written when he was only 22, his best-known book, Seven Types of Ambiguity, was published in 1930 and a collection of poems appeared in 1934) but just scraping a living from reviewing and a small private income. During the Second World War he worked at the BBC alongside George Orwell and Louis MacNeice.

He returned to China in 1947 to teach in Beijing, living through the stormy years just before and after Mao came to power and leaving only when the regime’s ideological demands became intolerably repressive. He continued his academic career, first at Kenyon College in Ohio, briefly at Gresham College in London, and finally at the University of Sheffield, where he was appointed head of the English department in 1953 and remained until his retirement in 1972, but always disdained academic jargon, writing in a light, glancing, conversational style.

Inordinately fond of drink and famously bohemian in appearance (T S Eliot, who admired his mind and enjoyed his company, commented on Empson’s scruffiness), he lived in a state of eccentric disorder that the poet Robert Lowell described as having “a weird, sordid nobility”. He was actively bisexual, marrying the South African-born sculptor Hetta Crouse, equally ­free-spirited, and with whom he enjoyed an open relationship that was sometimes turbulent yet never without affection. His later years were less eventful, though rarely free from controversy. In 1979 he was knighted, and awarded an honorary fellowship by the college that half a century earlier had struck his name from the books. He died in 1984.

The publishing history of this book is as extraordinary as the work itself. “The real story of The Face of the Buddha,” the cultural historian Rupert Arrowsmith writes in his richly learned introduction, “began in the ancient Japanese city of Nara, where, in the spring of 1932, the beauty of a particular set of Japanese sculptures struck Empson with revelatory force.” He was “bowled over” by three statues, including the Kudara Kannon, a 7th-century piece in the Horyuji temple representing the Bodhisattva of Mercy, which fascinated him because the left and right profiles of the statue seemed to have asymmetrical expressions: “The puzzlement and good humour of the face are all on the left, also the maternity and the rueful but amiable smile. The right is the divinity; a birdlike innocence and wakefulness; unchanging in irony, unresting in good works; not interested in humanity, or for that matter in itself . . . a wonderfully subtle and tender work.” Gripped by what the art historian Partha Mitter describes as a “magnificent obsession”, Empson travelled far and wide in the years that followed, visiting south-east Asia, China, Ceylon, Burma and India and ending up in the Ajanta caves, the fountainhead of Mahayana Buddhist art. First begun in Japan in 1932, The Face of the Buddha was written and repeatedly revised during these wanderings.

Empson made no copy of the manuscript and in a succession of mishaps it was lost for nearly 60 years. The story of its disappearance is resonant of the boozy Fitzrovia portrayed in Anthony Powell’s novels. On leaving for his foreign travels in 1947, Empson gave the manuscript to John Davenport, a family friend and literary critic, for safekeeping. The hard-drinking Davenport mislaid it and in 1952 told Empson he had left it in a taxi. Davenport’s memory was befuddled. He had in fact given the text to the Tamil poet and editor M J T Tambimuttu, who must have shelved it among the piles of books that filled the rat-infested flat vividly described in the memoirs of Julian Maclaren-Ross. When Tambimuttu retur­ned to Ceylon in 1949 he passed on Empson’s manuscript to Richard March, a fellow editor of Poetry London, which ­Tambimuttu had founded. March died soon afterwards and his papers mouldered in obscurity until 2003, when they were acquired by the British Museum. Two years later an enterprising curator at the museum, Jamie Anderson, spotted the manuscript and informed the author’s descendants of its rediscovery. Now Oxford University Press has brought out this beautifully illustrated volume, which will be of intense interest not only to devotees of Empson but to anyone interested in culture and religion.

Although a fragment of his analysis appeared in the article “Buddhas with double faces”, published in the Listener in 1936 and reprinted in the present volume, it is only now that we can fully appreciate Empson’s insight into Buddhist art. His deep interest in Buddhism was clear throughout his life. From the indispensable edition of his Complete Poems (Allen Lane, 2000) edited and annotated by his biographer John Haffenden, we learn that, while working in the Far Eastern department of the BBC, Empson wrote the outline of a ballet, The Elephant and the Birds, based on a story from Buddhist scriptures about Gautama in his incarnation as an elephant. His enduring fascination with the Buddha is evident in “The Fire Sermon”, a personal translation of the Buddha’s celebrated speech on the need to turn away from sensuous passions, which Empson used as the epigraph in successive editions of the collected poems. (A different translation is cited in the notes accompanying Eliot’s Waste Land, the longest section of which is also titled “The Fire Sermon”.)

Empson’s attitude to Buddhism, like the images of the Buddha that he so loved, was asymmetrical. He valued the Buddhist view as an alternative to the Western outlook, in which satisfying one’s desires by acting in the world was the principal or only goal in life. At the same time he thought that by asserting the unsatisfactoriness of existence as such – whether earthly or heavenly – Buddhism was more life-negating and, in this regard, even worse than Christianity, which he loathed. Yet he also believed Buddhism, in practice, had been more life-enhancing. Buddhism was a paradox: a seeming contradiction that contained a vital truth.

What Empson admired in Buddhist art was its ability to create an equilibrium from antagonistic human impulses. Writing here about Khmer art, he observes that cobras at Angkor are shown protecting the seated Buddha with their raised hoods. He goes on to speculate that the many-headed cobra is a metaphor for one of the Buddha’s canonical gestures – the raised hand with the palm forward, which means “do not fear”:

It has almost the same shape. To be sure, I have never had to do with a cobra, and perhaps after practical experience the paradox would seem an excessively monstrous one. But the high religions are devoted to contradictions of this sort . . . and the whole point of the snake is that the god has domesticated him as a protector.

It was this combination of opposite qual­ities that attracted Empson. “A good deal of the startling and compelling quality of the Far Eastern Buddha heads comes from combining things that seem incompatible,” he writes, “especially a complete repose or detachment with an active power to help the worshipper.” Art of this kind was not only beautiful, but also ethically valuable, because it was truer to human life. “The chief novelty of this Far Eastern Buddhist sculpture is the use of asymmetry to make the faces more human.”

Using 20th-century examples that illustrate such asymmetry, Empson elaborates in his Listener article:

It seems to be true that the marks of a person’s active experience tend to be stronger on the right, so that the left shows more of his inherent endowment or of the more passive experiences which have not involved the wilful use of facial muscles. All that is assumed here is that the muscles on the right generally respond more readily to the will and that the effects of old experiences pile up. The photograph of Mr Churchill will be enough to show that there is sometimes a contrast of this sort though it seems that in Baudelaire, who led a very different kind of life, the contrast was the other way round. In Mr Churchill the administrator is on the right, and on the left (by which of course I mean the left of the person or statue, which is on your right as you look) are the petulance, the romanticism, the gloomy moral strength and the range of imaginative power.

With such a prolific mind as Empson’s, it is risky to identify any ruling theme, but he returns repeatedly in his writings to the thought that the creativity of art and language comes from their irreducible open-endedness and susceptibility to conflicting interpretations. As he wrote in Seven Types of Ambiguity, “Good poetry is usually written from a background of conflict.” Rather than being an imperfection that must be overcome for the sake of clarity, ambiguity makes language inexhaustibly rich. In The Structure of Complex Words (1948) he showed how even the most straightforward-looking terms were “compacted with doctrines” that left their meaning equivocal. There was no ultimate simplicity concealed by the opacity of language. Thinking and speaking invoked deep structures of meaning which could be made more intelligible. But these structures could not be contained in any single body of ideas. Wittgenstein’s early ambition of reducing language to elem­entary propositions stating simple facts was impossible in principle. Inherently plural in meaning, words enabled different ways of seeing the world.

Empson’s message was not merely intellectual but, once again, ethical. “It may be,” he wrote in Complex Words, “that the human mind can recognise actually in­commensurable values, and that the chief human value is to stand up between them.” The image of the Buddha that he discovered in Nara embodied this incommensurability. Rather than trying to smooth out these clashing values into an oppressive ideal of perfection, as Christianity had done, the Buddhist image fused their conflicts into a paradoxical whole. Instead of erecting a hierarchy of better and worse attitudes in the manner of the “neo-Christians”, as Empson described the pious humanists of his day, the asymmetrical face of the Buddha showed how discordant emotions could be reconciled.

Whether Empson’s account of asymmetry can be anything like a universal theory is doubtful. In support of his theory he cited Darwin’s The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals to show that human emotions were expressed in similar ways in different cultures, and invoked speculation by contemporary psychologists on the contrasting functions of the right and left sides of the brain. But the scientific pretensions of Empson’s observations are less important than the spirit in which he made them. Entering into an initially alien form of art, he found a point of balance between values and emotions whose conflicts are humanly universal. Rather than denying the contradictoriness of the human mind and heart, he gloried in it.

It takes genius to grasp the ambiguities of art and language and to use them as Empson did. But if we can’t emulate his astonishing fertility of mind, we can learn from his insights. Both in his life and in his work he resisted the lure of harmony, which offers to mitigate conflicts of value at the price of simplifying and impoverishing the human world. Instead, Empson searched for value in the ambiguities of life. He found what he was looking for in the double faces of the Buddha described in this lost masterpiece.

John Gray is the New Statesman’s lead book reviewer

The Face of Buddha by William Epson, edited by Rupert Arrowsmith with a preface by Partha Mitter, is published by Oxford University Press (224pp, £30)

John Gray is the New Statesman’s lead book reviewer. His latest book is The Soul of the Marionette: A Short Enquiry into Human Freedom.

This article first appeared in the 23 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Divided Britain