Abraham Pais: 'Subtle is the Lord...' (1982)

Edition: Oxford University Press, 1982
Review number: 63


Subtle is the Lord... (the Einstein quote finishes "...but he is not malicious") is an excellent biography of Albert Einstein written by an eminent physicist. A fair knowledge of physics is necessary to read this, but reading a biography of Einstein which doesn't convey the work that he did is much less interesting to those who have such a knowledge.

Pais is not uncritical of Einstein. A major theme of his book is to answer the question of why, after the major achievements of special and general relativity and his quantum mechanics papers, Einstein produced so little work of permanent value in the second half of his working life. In fact, Pais suggests that the very aspects of Einstein's character which made the earlier breakthroughs possible meant that his work became more divorced from the mainstream of twentieth century theoretical physics as time went on.

Subtle is the Lord is rather less interested in the non-physics related activities of Albert Einstein, though considerable space is given to his pacifism and Zionism. There are other biographies which concentrate on these matters, and are much more interested in Einstein's private life. Pais' work is where to come for a definitive description of the way in which Einstein's work and life fitted together.

Brian Bates: The Way of Wyrd (1983)

Edition: Arrow, 1986
Review number: 62



This book arose from an academic look at "shamanism" in pre-Christian, Anglo-Saxony England. Bates looks at this culture through the eyes of an outsider, Wat Brand, a priest sent to learn how the shamans work so that the church can combat them as they move into the area (I think) now covered by the New Forest. He receives an education in the way of the Wyrd (the principle governing the pagan world-view) from the shaman Wulf.

It's an interesting education, forcing Brand to question many of the assumptions of his own world-view. He is a convincing medieval Christian, which is more than many historical novelists seem to be able to manage.

The problems with the book lie with the world-view of the author. Wulf is given all the advantages; throughout his is assumed to be the correct, insightful way to live a life. Bates is clearly sympathetic to the shamanic and antipathetic to Christianity; and the introduction of many elements from different shamanic cultures means that Wulf is putting forward a strongly New Age perspective. (A quick glance at the bibliography will show just how wide these borrowings are; they are principally North American and Asian, and some of them come from studies on the use of drugs in ritual which I believe have since been discredited.) The author deserves some credit for making the pagan culture more vicious than the standard wishy-washy New Age rubbish, but he certainly doesn't give the church a fair deal.

George Bernard Shaw: Plays Pleasant (1898)

Contents: Arms and the Man (first performed 1894), Candida (1900), The Man of Destiny (1897), You Never Can Tell (1905)
Edition: Penguin, 1953
Review number: 61

As the introduction makes clear, this collection is intended as a companion piece to Shaw's Plays Unpleasant collection. Not having read the earlier collection, I'm not quite sure what makes a play pleasant or unpleasant; I guess that it's to do with whether it is trying to impart a non-dramatic message. The four short plays here are not really anything other than fun comedies; there is a hint of a social message here and there (particularly in Candida and You Never Can Tell), but it is incidental to the plays themselves.

The play I liked best from the collection, and the best known of them, is Arms and the Man. This is set in Bulgaria, then an exotic barely civilised location, during a war with Serbia. The main characters are a rich Bulgarian family, the Petkoffs. The spoiled daughter of this family, Raina, is engaged to the dashing young soldier Sergius Saranoff, currently at the front. As Raina is going to bed, a young man in Serbian uniform climbs into her bedroom through the window. She is initially scornful of his cowardice, but she sheilds him when Bulgarian troops arrive to find him. She calls him her "chocolate cream soldier", because he avidly eats her sweets. It is perhaps surprising to read in the introduction that Shaw was criticised for portraying a soldier in an unheroic light; attitudes were so different before the First World War.

Candida is about a man who is a genuine Christian and a genuine Socialist, James Morrell. He and his wife, Candida, are a couple who attract those around them; his preaching and public speaking draws hundreds, and she finds herself the idol of the lovesick young poet, Eugene. Neither of them understands the attraction they, or their spouse, have for others; that is their tragedy. The contrast is made between them with their ideals and Candida's father, Burgess, who is a most unpleasant capitalist only interested in the welfare of his dependents because he can make it pay.

Man of Destiny is virtually a two-hander; the other characters are tiny by comparison with the leads. The main character is Napoleon Bonaparte in his youth, as a young general in the French Republican army invading Italy - his first great success. He is at an inn in northern Italy, awaiting the arrival of dispatches. The lieutenant carrying them arrives, but they have been stolen from him on the way by a youth; he recognises a mysterious lady (whose identity we never discover) as the youth. Napoleon protects her, denying the possibility that she can be the same person. The play develops into a battle of wits between him and her.

The final play, You Never Can Tell, is a fairly straightforward comedy. The Clandon family have been living in Madeira, after Mrs Clandon felt forced to leave England following attacks on her feminist views. Returning to this country with her three children (Gloria, a young woman after her mother's heart; Philip and Dolly, who are young enough not to have quite outgrown their childishness), the family meet up with a Mr Crampton, landlord of a dentist who falls in love with Gloria, and who turns out to be Mrs Clandon's abandoned husband and father of the three children.

Ann Granger: A Word After Dying (1996)

Edition: Headline, 1996
Review number: 60

One of the Mitchell and Markby series of crime novels. In A Word After Dying, the romance between Alan Markby and Meredith Mitchell has finally reached the point where they feel comfortable going on holiday together. They go to stay in a cottage belonging to Alan's sister and her family; needless to say, they begin to get involved in the death of an old woman in the small village.

The old woman, Olivia Smeaton, seems to have died perfectly naturally from a fall, but Wynne Carter, a retired investigative reporter who lives next to the cottage, has a feeling that something was wrong. As Meredith begins to investigate and pressurise a reluctant Alan into joining in, they quickly discover that the village is not the tranquil place it appears to be. Meredith begins to investigate a local coven, and soon a murder takes place.

If you enjoy the gentle tone of this series, they are all winners; this has one of the harder puzzles to solve (I didn't work it out). The books are all fairly similar, which is a criticism of most series, particularly in the detection genre.

Ngaio Marsh: A Surfeit of Lampreys (1941)

Edition: Collins
Review number: 59

This is one of my least favourite Ngaio Marsh novels. The crime is puzzling enough and the solution typically ingenious, and Roderick Alleyn is his usual urbane self; the problem is that I find it impossible to have any sympathy for the family at the centre of the story, the Lampreys.

The Lampreys are an upper class family always suffering from financial crises, yet unable to work or to save because of their frivolous background. Marsh keeps on emphasising the point that all who meet them cannot help but love them, because of their charm; this didn't come across to me at all. Returning to England following some years in New Zealand, they invite the head of the family to their London flat, where they hope to charm him into giving them some money. Following a grotesque set of charades and planned supposedly charming and spontaneous appeals from the various members of the family, he has a furious row with Lord Henry and leaves, only to be brutally murdered in the lift on the way down.

Under suspicion, the Lampreys show themselves at their worst, speaking French to discuss the crime in front of the PC they patronisingly assume won't be able to understand; the identical twin sons refusing to admit to which of them went down in the lift with the victim; lying about the refusal to give the money to them and so on.

The inability of the Lampreys to do anything of any use to anyone, their total parasitism on the "lower classes", and the way in which everyone looks on their egotism as charming because they are from the aristocracy - these all amount to good arguments for a socialistic view of the class system. I'm fairly sure Marsh didn't mean it that way, and it probably felt different at the time (though if I were reading this during the war and had experienced the hardship of the Depression I don't think I'd have felt very charitable towards them). It's difficult to read it without projecting 1990s attitudes, but I do hope we have moved on.

Michael Innes: Hamlet, Revenge! (1931)

Edition: Gollancz
Review number: 58

This is a much earlier Appleby novel than the two Michael Innes books I had read previously, and much more in the detective fiction mould than the thriller mould of Operation Pax. In fact, the background to Hamlet, Revenge! is about as archetypal as you can get: an amateur dramatic performance of Hamlet during a country house house-party at which the actor playing a character who is killed (in this case Polonius) is actually murdered.

Everything is on a rather large scale; the amateur dramatic performance includes as Hamlet the greatest professional actor of the day, Melville Clay; the country house is at Scamnum Court, modelled on Blenheim Palace and seat of the Duke of Horton; Polonius is not killed by a sword stroke from Hamlet but is killed by a gunshot at the moment when his stage death would happen; and the fact that Polonius is played by Lord Auldearn, a major political figure currently co-ordinating some top secret defence work means that an espionage thread can be worked into the plot. The murderer has also been rather cheeky, by sending warning messages in apparently easily traced ways, and by taking apparently reckless risks.

I enjoyed John Appleby's unravelling of the plot greatly, and will be reading more to fill in his career from this early novel to the late ones like Silence Observed.

Jack Westrup: An Introduction to Musical History (1955)

Edition: Hutchinson University Library
Review number: 57

This book is not an introduction in the sense of a basic textbook of musical history, but an attempt to look at musical history and its methods to help students evaluate and understand both musical history texts and source materials of various kinds.

Jack Westrup looks at what the source materials can tell us, with a brief look at the development of notation, and develops an attack on many early attempts at musical history (particularly that of Burney) for their biased and subjective approach to the subject. His criticisms are not solely reserved for past writers; he takes modern historians to task for merely repeating statements from earlier work (particularly for making judgements where they clearly didn't listen to sufficient music themselves), and for taking at face value statements in musical memoirs. (He quickly shows that Berlioz's memoirs, to take one example, are more concerned with presenting the Berlioz as a particular kind of artist in a Philistine environment than with the truth.)

The second half of the book consists of brief examinations of some major themes in musical history, and the particular pitfalls that can be fallen into by the careless historian; these themes include the role of the church and patronage, both areas where the statements of composers and chroniclers are particularly likely to contain inaccuracies for political reasons.

A very thought-provoking book, which will influence the way in which I read musical history.