THERE comes a point when if only as an act of charity, every artist's ephemera should be allowed to remain unmolested. As this volume of journals indicates, that stage has now been reached with Anthony Powell.
Agreeable as he may feel about its publication, the book does the nonagenarian author of A Dance to the Music of Time no favours. It is, in truth, a portrait of the artist as an old buffer.
Advanced age may be offered as an excuse for its appearance, but as his intermittently acerbic remarks about other writers indicate, Mr Powell doesn't believe anyone should be immune to criticism. So let us begin by commenting on the sheer tedium and triviality of most of his entries which dwell inordinately on the state of the Powell teeth (dentist Charles Lister pops up regularly on these pages) and eating habits. Possibly there is a connection between these two if so, it remains unexplained but the regular necessity of having a lower plate repaired suggests changes in diet might be helpful.
It is, of course, always interesting to learn what others are eating. Mr Powell's meals, however, are by no means exceptional. "Asparagus boeuf en daube, new potatoes, salad gooseberry fool with strawberries, meringues last two bottles of Chateau Kirwan 71", runs a typical entry informative, yes, but little else. Now and then, his run through the menu is (presumably unintentionally) hilarious, as when he describes as "a specialite de la maison" a pub lunch of prawns in a baked potato.
In fact, Mr Powell often provides unintended amusement. There is, for example, the time when he describes a visitor as having been "mildly rude, in spite of having been given cucumber sandwiches". Then there is the French guest who, departing after yet another mealtime, "left without thanks of any sort, nor did he pull the plug downstairs". Clearly that's one person who won't be asked back to share further Powell gastronomic delights.
Lest this last quotation imply that the author is a man of violent opinion, it should be said that, on the contrary, his instinctive tendency is to opt for understatement. Characteristically, when he comes to consider the fatwah pronounced on Salman Rushdie, Mr Powell remarks that a death sentence "seems going too far on the ayatollah's part". And one social gathering is characterised as a "not uninteresting party", which has the effect of suggesting polite dismissal rather than any great enthusiasm.
That's the consistent tone throughout. It is as though a kind of serviceable good manners obliges the writer to set down fragments of his life without colour or verve. Even when he is made a Companion of Honour by the British government, he uses the opportunity to have a dainty worry over whether artists should accept state honours or not. His eventual conclusion "CH eminently respectable Order (65 members), which most people have never heard 91, those who have know its standing.
What follows on the succeeding pages is a detailed list of people from whom he has received congratulations evidently in this instance quite a substantial circle were intimately aware of the CH's "standing". There is something almost endearingly Pooterish about Mr Powell's careful reporting of who has sent him cards and letters and how he has responded. "I dealt with congrats", opens a great many entries, followed by names with their details in brackets such as "Victor Ross (fan, publisher, Folio Soc.)" and "Evelyn Nightingale (lady putting up notice To Let, by Hughes)", not to overlook the wonderful "Jane Somerset (Duchess of)."
At least here some explanation is given of precisely whom Mr Powell writes. It is customary when publishing a book of this kind to include explanatory footnotes, but after the first handful of pages these cease and the reader is left without assistance when fresh characters are introduced. But what else ought to be expected from these journals which are notable only for their banality? If Mr Powell has continued to keep a diary after 1989, it would be only charitable to dissuade him from sharing this with a wider audience.
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