Patrick O'Brian

by Nikolai Tolstoy

  Although Patrick enjoyed the skill and predictable income generated by translation work, ideally he preferred to alternate it with creative writing. Since there was now no immediate call for a sequel to H.M.S. Surprise, he contemplated undertaking a biography of Lady Craven or Queeney Thrale. He had long possessed copies of Lady Craven’s successive memoirs,[1] and conducted research into her life when preparing his anthology A Book of Voyages in 1945. The lady enjoyed an adventurous life, divorcing her husband after bearing him seven children, after which she married the Margrave of Anspach, and travelled across Europe as far afield as the Crimea and Turkey. Hesther Maria Thrale, known as ‘Queeney’ to Dr Johnson and other friends, married Admiral Lord Keith in 1808.[fn1] Both ladies were strong characters who led adventurous lives, but Richard Scott Simon feared that neither was well enough known to appeal to Patrick’s American publisher. The project was dropped, but the redoubtable Queeney featured mem orably as Jack Aubrey’s friend and mentor.

  Meanwhile in December my mother received distressing news from England. Her father, who was now eighty-nine, had become seriously ill and was clearly failing. At the end of January she and Patrick drove across France to England, where they stayed at her parents’ home in Somerset. In the local cottage hospital she found her father sadly changed from the upright athletic figure she had known all her life. He had grown a beard, spent much of the time sleeping, and suffered long lapses when he had difficulty in understanding his predicament. However, he recognized his daughter, and was to her intense pleasure plainly happy to see her. She visited him every day, cooked for her mother and Patrick, and looked after the house.

  Howard Wicksteed died on 19 February 1973, much loved and missed by all his family. At my last visit he murmured: ‘Remember me to those who love me.’ In my mother’s case her natural distress was intensified in consequence of difficulties in their relationship rooted in the disgrace of her elopement with Patrick. These were sadly never entirely effaced with time, as might in other circumstances have transpired. Patrick’s awkward demeanour in my grandparents’ presence irritated my grandfather, who belonged firmly to a generation that detested any sign of self-consciousness. My mother tended to compensate for her sense of exclusion by at times seeking too ostentatiously to establish herself as a presence in the household. From her diaries and letters I know that she felt woundingly excluded from her parents’ affection. It was a tragic situation, arising from mutual misunderstanding and profound differences in character and upbringing.

  This prickly relationship might have been better smoothed out, and even overcome, but for the deep-rooted jealousy of her brother Binkie. I believe this resentment originated in their childhood days in Devonshire. My mother had been exceptionally beautiful, outgoing, and popular, whereas Binkie was shy and gauche, not very clever, and detested his time at boarding school. In later life he made no secret of his dislike for Patrick (although not in his presence), and I had frequent occasion to note the insidious persistence with which he presented my mother and Patrick in a bad light to his parents.

  It is unpleasant to record these family differences, nor would I do so but for the lasting ill effects they exerted in differing ways on my mother and Patrick. Indeed, had it not been for Binkie’s persistent undermining of her relationship with her parents, I believe it likely that not only would my mother have been an altogether happier person, but a more cordial relationship between her parents and Patrick might have gone far towards endowing the latter with a self-confidence which had been grievously damaged during his grim childhood and isolated adolescence. My overriding impression is that his own resentment sprang less from his partial ostracism (he was so overawed by my grandfather when in his presence that he tended to accept him as a sort of natural force), than from indignation at what he regarded as unkind treatment of his wife by those to whom she should have been closest. As my wife Georgina and I were living nearby, we were fortunately able to see much of Patrick and my mother during this sad time.

  A week before my grandfather’s death we called at my grandparents’ cottage to find my parents in a state of high excitement. Patrick gleefully explained that he had just heard from his literary agent Richard Scott Simon, who reported that his US publishers, Putnam, wished to commission him to write a biography of Picasso. For this they were offering the very substantial advance of $20–30,000.

  Negotiations continued over the next three months. By April Putnam’s had settled on $20,000 for approximately 200,000 words. Richard Scott Simon managed to persuade them to retract their initial insistence on acquiring UK rights, and a month later Collins in Britain agreed to a further advance of £4,000. Patrick was overjoyed. William Targ at Putnam’s expressed his confidence in his ability to produce a book of lasting worth, and like almost every author Patrick was flattered and encouraged by the handsome advances. He was a longstanding admirer of Picasso’s achievement, and felt confident that, although he must clearly face volumes of research, he was capable of producing a fuller and more penetrating work than any that had so far appeared.

  Patrick possessed a keen appreciation of the visual arts, and in his semi-autobiographical novel Richard Temple his protagonist features as painter rather than writer. As biographers will, he developed a degree of identification with the subject of his work. Picasso had risen from relatively humble origins (although this was not the case with Patrick, the unhappy circumstances of his childhood had imbued him with a tincture of irrational shame about his family origins), to achieve the highest artistic success imaginable. Picasso’s work had endured obscurantist abuse, but a potent mixture of innate talent, unstinted industry and overriding confidence in his abilities led to his becoming arguably the most admired and successful artist of the century.

  At the time Patrick obtained his contract Picasso was plainly nearing the end of his days, and William Targ at Putnam made it clear that he did not expect Patrick to interview him. As it happened, the painter died in the very week that Putnam and Collins began to draw up their contracts.

  Despite the acute sense of loss my mother endured at the passing of her father, combined with unhappiness arising from her brother’s intrigues, it was with high hopes and a sense of the beginning of a bright new phase in their lives that she and Patrick returned to Collioure. Not only had he been assigned a task which filled him with enthusiasm, but the generous advances meant that he could pursue his researches as thoroughly as he wished. (In the event he expressed his belief that he could have written a much better book had he been allowed three years rather than two in which to complete it, but this probably reflects more the perfectionism of the professional writer than strongly felt regret.)

  Meanwhile a dramatic change occurred in my own life, in which Patrick took sympathetic – indeed, enthusiastic – interest. After leaving Trinity College Dublin in 1961 I had taught at a succession of preparatory schools in London. My ambition since childhood had been to become a writer, with my interest firmly focused on history. During the holidays I had managed to write and publish two books, but with my marriage to Georgina and realization that time was passing by without any notable literary achievement to my name, I decided with her unhesitating support to take the plunge. I would abandon my teaching career entirely, and retire to some country retreat in order to apply myself full-time to literary work. A modest inheritance had unexpectedly come my way from my great-aunt Maroussia, and we set about seeking the ideal writer’s cottage.

  I was at the time only dimly aware of the circumstances in which Patrick and my mother had moved to Wales after the War. However, with hindsight I can see that our adventurous step, which was understandably regarded with misgiving by members of both our families, would have aroused nostalgic enthusiasm in Patrick. For when it soon became apparent that we could not afford any property in the West Country, the friendly Chaplain at Canford School (where I was teaching at the time) informed us one day that houses were very much cheaper in Wales than south of the Bristol Channel. When we received p
articulars of a house in the Forest of Dean seemingly ideal for our choice, Patrick eagerly suggested his accompanying us to view it.

  I vividly recall his excitement as he insisted from time to time on taking the wheel of our trusty Morris Traveller (bought for £100 the day before our wedding) on the journey to our destination. He drove at frightening and erratic speed, being particularly delighted with the Severn Bridge. As we wound through the wooded defiles of the Forest of Dean his boyish enthusiasm soared with every mile. The estate agent’s description of the house seemed to accord with our fondest dreaming. According to the particulars it was an elegant dwelling set behind wrought-iron gates at the end of its drive, while at the rear the property extended to an acre or more of hillside. Glowing emphasis was laid on what was described as ‘the 18th-century wing’.

  For some reason the agent was unable to arrange the viewing of the house at the time of our arrival, so we asked whether it was possible to view it without them. ‘Oh no,’ came the answer over the telephone: ‘the main gates are locked, and it would be difficult to see the house from the road.’ Despite this we decided to explore, and it was then we learned how great may be the disparity between an estate agent’s description and harsh reality. The drive proved to be a stretch of gravel about 10 yards long, separating a rickety iron gate from the front door, while the ‘18th-century wing’ was a dilapidated penthouse attached to the side of the house, bearing the inscription ‘1718’ painted suspiciously brightly in whitewash above its solitary window. From what we could glimpse through the cobweb-festooned windows, the water supply comprised a solitary tap dripping over an old sink. The ‘extensive grounds’ at the rear, which we had excitedly discussed during our journey (with Patrick proffering much practical advice about conversion into a smallholding), turned out to be an almost perpendicular scree dominated by a gigantic electricity pylon. The disappointment would have been upsetting, but for Patrick’s infectious glee on discovering the reality of the eighteenth-century wing and attendant manorial splendours.

  Soon after this little adventure he and my mother returned home. Driving back across France they diverted from their route to visit Avignon, where a major exhibition of Picasso’s works was being held in the Palace of the Popes. Annoyingly for Patrick, it was being filmed at the time, and he found the great chapel cluttered with screens and cameras, while the film crew was shouting and scurrying about. At least the display of drawings in the sacristy could be viewed in peace. After careful examination, Patrick came away troubled by intimations he saw of the extent to which old age had begun to erode the artist’s extraordinary sexual and creative vitality. However, soon after leaving the palace it dawned on him that ‘this was a marvellous performance for Picasso at ninety’, who in defiance of his advanced years had been energetically planning a further show at the same site.

  Ever prone to alarming accidents, my mother hurt herself badly in May. As Patrick explained to Richard Ollard: ‘Mary has seen fit to break a rib, and we are all very indifferent.’ Fortunately, she recovered in time to accompany him next month on an exciting expedition.

  For the first time in his career Patrick was flush with money and faced with the prospect of an inspiring project, into which he threw himself with unbounded enthusiasm. He decided to begin by visiting the United States, which housed many of Picasso’s finest paintings. This would also provide him with an opportunity to meet his publisher William Targ and US literary agent John Cushman. Despite an apparent bygone mysterious visit (alluded to in the last chapter), Patrick had always regarded America as an exotic land not altogether real, and an amused Cushman wrote to reassure him that: ‘I doubt if you will find any grits available in New York – even in the South restaurant grapes ain’t worth the eating – and squirrel may be equally difficult to find.’

  In the second half of June he and my mother flew to New York, where they were hospitably entertained by Cushman and Targ. For Patrick the highlight of his visit was provided by hours spent in the Museum of Modern Art, where he gazed with particular rapture at the celebrated mural Guernica. They also visited Philadelphia to view several of Picasso’s other major works, and returned home well satisfied with their trip. Patrick wrote enthusiastically to Targ after their return that ‘we still talk about your charming high-perched nest and of the splendid (and to us wildly exotic) dinner that you gave us in the [Greenwich] Village’.

  Apart from my mother’s setback, life generally appeared to be taking an increasingly propitious course. In August H.M.S. Surprise was published in Britain to generally enthusiastic reviews. Initially Patrick had made enquiries regarding the possibility of hiring a research worker to investigate material on Picasso for him in London, but now wisely thought better of the idea. There was much to be done, but he realized that only he could know what precisely was needed. He wrote to Richard Scott Simon on 23 August: ‘I shall be in London on September 7 if our aged 2cv does not burst between here and Le Havre.’

  In London he and my mother stayed at their familiar Challoner Club in Knightsbridge, where he spent his days working in libraries and viewing art galleries, while the evenings were passed with visits to Richard Scott Simon, the Ollards, and other friends. Not long before this Georgina and I had finally purchased the home of our dreams, an old Welsh longhouse in the romantic setting of a wooded valley in Montgomeryshire. We were settling into our first home of our own and my career as an author, when Patrick and my mother arrived to inspect the household. It must have reminded them vividly of their very similar situation at the same time of year in 1945, when they arrived in their own wild Welsh refuge in Cwm Croesor. Patrick eagerly inspected the house and grassy area around, citing advice from Cobbett’s Cottage Economy and expressing infectious optimism for our future.

  In January 1974 he travelled to Barcelona, in order to inspect locations where Picasso had lived and painted in his youth, and viewed the collection in the Museo Picasso. His main purpose, however, was to interview Maurizio Torra-Balari, a long-term friend of Picasso. The meeting began with some difficulty, as the old gentleman proved to be deaf and at first suspicious of Patrick’s motive in writing his book. However, he unbent sufficiently to provide valuable insights into the painter’s character. Jacqueline Hutin, Picasso’s second wife, was ‘a good devoted soul, utterly destroyed by P’. Picasso himself was ‘a monster of egoism (but not to be attacked by anyone else)’: i.e. other than Señor Torra-Balari. The painter:

  did not speak Catalan, had no Andalou accent, was highly cultivated, read much (by night) including history, geography, literature, liked children up to the age of about 12, dreaded death (saw it in his big room at Mougins)[fn2] would not make a will, though urged by TB, was near with his sous [i.e. stingy] … impossible that he should be uncultivated vu [seeing that] his father was a professeur de lycée.

  On his return home Patrick at once began writing the first chapter of his book. Before his visit to Barcelona he had noted in his diary: ‘My feelings for P vary: a certain antipathy arising (most recently)’, and now Señor Torra-Balari’s frank account appeared to confirm this initial low estimate of the artist’s personal character. However, he could suspend judgement, since for the present all his energies were devoted to providing an exhaustive account of Catalan history, geography and social life, the impact of the Catholic Church on the Spanish Weltanschauung, the origins (factual and legendary) of Picasso’s family, reflections on the psychological relationship between father and son – and finally all that he had discovered about his early childhood. This was Patrick’s first book to require such extensive research, and he is far from being the only author in such circumstances to begin by amassing a vast amount of material which readers would find hard to digest.

  He worked hard to complete the chapter, which after my mother’s typing was despatched to London on the eve of their departure for a second more ambitious journey of investigation in Spain. Not long before he had been much distressed to learn of a disaster striking our newly established home in W
ales, which had so excited his nostalgic enthusiasm during his visit at the time of our installation. A workman misguidedly passed the metal chimney-pipe of a stove through a beam in the wall, and one night when we were out the house was burned to the ground. ‘The horrible news of poor Nikolai’s house burning down’, and a day later: ‘A brave letter from N: says everything is burnt.’ Generous as always, Patrick sent us a handsome cheque, and he and my mother provided us with much consolation during the difficult time that followed.

  In March they set out on an extensive expedition to Spain, in search of places and people associated with Picasso. In Barcelona he returned to the Museo Picasso, where he found his perceptions of the master’s painting refined and modified. ‘I did see with new eyes, many of the things I have been writing about; & I must modify my remarks about religion.’

  Patrick was fortunate, and his notes are the more valuable, in that Spain at the time of his visits was physically little changed from the days when Picasso lived and worked there. He visited the Llotja art school where Picasso studied ‘and looked again at Merced 3 [where the artist lived], which has a battered, effaced coat of arms over the door. Four storeys & perhaps an attic, facing other houses of the same height across the street 4–5 yards wide.’

  Much of the next day was spent driving south to visit the village of Horta de Sant Joan, where in 1898 Picasso stayed at the invitation of his kindly friend Manuel Pallarès, at first to recuperate from a severe bout of scarlet fever. This was the first time the artist had lived in the countryside, and his experiences of the unchanged way of life among the peasantry were to influence him for the rest of his life – an experience curiously paralleling Patrick’s years of rural isolation in Wales, and subsequent affinity with the fishermen and peasants of Collioure. In later years Picasso declared: ‘Everything I know I learned in Pallarès’ village.’ It was there that he acquired (contrary to the claim of Torra-Balari) his fluent Catalan, and Patrick’s description of Horta itself and the time Picasso spent there is one of the more evocative in his biography.