There is indeed often an engaging inconsequentiality about the writing, and a certain lack of stringency in the structure is balanced by a similar avoidance of astringency in the comments about individuals. Compliments come naturally to Lord Longford. Almost every book cited is ‘impressive’, ‘invaluable’, ‘brilliant’ or ‘penetrating’ and almost every noble family justifies its nobility. There is, however, sometimes a hint of steel beneath the velvet. He can clothe a rebuke in a compliment with unique skill. When he writes of the Law Lords, ‘We would be honoured if they mingled with us more freely outside the Chamber,’ I take it that he means that he finds them a stand-offish lot.
Equally, I shall never forget the sharpest thing he ever said to me. Anthony Crosland and I had successfully opposed a pet scheme of his in a mid-1960s Cabinet meeting. When it was over he upbraided us in the middle of the road outside 10 Downing Street. I think he was quivering with (probably well-justified) rage, but what he actually said was, ‘I will still write very favourably about you both in my autobiography, but not quite so favourably as I would have done until this morning.’ This did not prevent what he subsequently wrote about me, mostly in his Diary of 1981, being thoroughly agreeable, for he is instinctively a generous man.
On another occasion he made a very successful joke against me in the House of Lords. He was describing the difficulties of resignation, which he had done in 1968, but said that there was the compensation of many people having been kind and sympathetic. Then, following a slight pause, he added: ‘The noble Lord, Lord Jenkins of Hillhead, for instance, told me afterwards that he had very nearly written to me.’ The laughter was convulsive. I joined in it but was, I suppose, mildly discomforted, the more so as the story was true, although omitting the fact that his resignation had been against my early public expenditure cuts as Chancellor, which made it difficult for me to find the right words to put on paper. However, I regarded the joke as well within the bounds of courtesy and even friendship and thought no more about it until I received an agonized letter from Frank Longford. He claimed he had hardly slept at all on the night afterwards, worrying that he had been offensive. He added, very engagingly, that he had succumbed to what had been a temptation throughout his life, that of desiring to amuse at almost any cost. He almost suggested that he might have to go on a pilgrimage of expiation. I wrote back reassuring him that he had not offended me. But a couple of weeks later when there was to be a spouse-comprising dinner given by my wife after a National Trust lecture by Elizabeth Longford, he wrote again to say that, following his offence, I would surely prefer that he did not come. Once more I wrote a letter of reassurance. A few months later he got up in the House of Lords and made the same joke again.
The trouble with most people of Longford’s degree of generalized generosity is that the absence of a sharp edge of criticism makes their speeches and their writings (if they exist) dull. What makes Frank Longford wholly exceptional is that with him this is the reverse of the truth. Across the table, on his feet, or with his pen, he is one of the funniest men that I know. He is also an extremely clever man, although not at all in the ‘too clever by half’ category. He accompanies this by being uninhibited by the fear that people will laugh at him. He does not, perhaps, like being ignored, a fate which he has for many years avoided by a fairly wide margin, but he is quite indifferent to being mocked. This is an essential ingredient of his being a great Anglo/Irish eccentric, and relentless crusader for his chosen causes, as well as a most prolific author. It does not guarantee that the causes or the subjects will always be chosen with perfect discrimination, but they will certainly be pursued with a unique combination of courage, zest and wit.
François Mitterrand
This piece was a 1990 European review of Le Président, by Franz-Olivier Giesbert (Editions du Seuil).
Franz-Olivier Giesbert, now editor-in-chief of Le Figaro, wrote a life of François Mitterrand, the aspiring French politician, in 1977. Now, thirteen years later, he has produced this second book, Le Président, on Mitterrand the successful statesman, who on grounds of impact on the political life of France and longevity in office, must stand an unchallenged second among the four presidents of the Fifth Republic.
Mitterrand presumably liked the first book, for he has collaborated a good deal with the production of the second. This suggests either a considerable tolerance on Mitterrand’s part or an indifference to whether he is portrayed as amiable (which Giesbert certainly does not do), provided he is treated with a reluctant respect and admiration as an extraordinary political animal (which Giesbert equally certainly does do).