It transpired that Brendel, famed for his intellect as well as his phenomenal pianistic skills, had written a number of essays on the composers he admired and played, some in English, and after several meetings at our tiny office, in which Carolyn Fearnside joined, he agreed to our collecting these into a book, along with some new essays and extensions of the existing ones. The result was Musical Thoughts and Afterthoughts. Carolyn, with her excellent German and knowledge of music, was ideally placed to work with the fastidious Brendel, especially since some of the essays had originally been written in German, his native language. The fact that she admired him greatly and had been to all his concerts was a bonus. The book brought us much kudos – the reviews were fabulous and extensive – and we sold a number of editions to major publishers around the world. We collaborated closely with Philips, who were bringing out a boxed set of Brendel’s recordings of Schubert’s sonatas, and launched the book at the Austrian Institute, whose director had approached us and had tuned their grand piano in expectation. They were not disappointed – Brendel asking me whether I thought it would be a courtesy for him to play a little after the usual speeches! In due course, Alfred wrote a second, rather larger book for us, Music Sounded Out, which won several awards. Both are required reading for anyone seriously interested in the piano. I’ve used the word ‘serious’ here, and remarked on Brendel’s intellect, but it would be remiss of me not to mention his love of humour – written, musical and otherwise – and the fact that he wore plasters on his fingers when he played. As he liked to joke, ‘I can only play when I’m plastered.’
Mark Boxer’s Times caricature of a plastered Alfred Brendel.
Alfred’s sense of humour was certainly put to the test when he came to a housewarming party of ours some years ago. He hadn’t answered the invitation, so when he bounded through the door bearing his latest CD as a gift, we were both surprised and delighted. But then I had a moment of panic, since I had unwisely engaged a pianist to play and he was pounding away on our old upright in our very crowded sitting room. From the first notes of the popular songs he was playing I realised it was a mistake, as nobody could hear themselves speak, and Alfred’s sudden appearance made me all the more aware of this. As politely as I could, I suggested that the pianist take a break, have a drink and join the party, which to my relief he did. Some of the guests I knew went to Alfred’s concerts and I asked several of them (including two very well-known writers) if they would like to meet him, but they recoiled in alarm, suddenly tongue-tied and totally awed. It was now some time since Alfred had arrived, and he asked me if there was a quiet room upstairs he could sit in for a while. I led him up to a room where the shelves were full of Carole’s art books, which I thought he’d enjoy. But when Spike Milligan, who’d been swapping stories with Harry Secombe, heard that Alfred was there, he asked to join him, so I took him up and left them to it… and there they remained closeted together for an hour or so. What did they talk about? Did Brendel know who Spike was? Had he even heard of The Goon Show? And what did he make of Spike’s anarchic, off-the-wall humour? I’ve always wondered.
Part of the great privilege of publishing Alfred Brendel was attending all his concerts at the Festival Hall, especially the spellbinding cycles of the Beethoven and Schubert sonatas he undertook – a mammoth endeavour, and for us a real musical education. I am for ever grateful to Nicholas Snowman for the introduction. Very few things have moved me as deeply as Brendel’s performances and recordings of the Schubert sonatas. The audiences at those concerts were like an intellectual Who’s Who, the same instantly recognisable people regularly in their places, queuing for drinks in the interval, waiting afterwards at Brendel’s dressing room door to congratulate him – among them Isaiah Berlin, A. J. P. Taylor, Al Alvarez, Bernard Levin, Stephen Spender, Antonia Fraser, David Sylvester, Hans Keller, and our neighbours, Sir Ernst and Lady Gombrich, to whom we often gave a lift. It felt like a party, the atmosphere electric, the audience always on their feet calling for yet another encore, Brendel gracefully obliging.
Alfred Brendel at the Austrian Institute for the launch of his first book, Musical Thoughts and Afterthoughts.
In February 2018, some eight years after his last concert performance, Carole and I attended a fascinating talk Brendel gave at the Dulwich Picture Gallery entitled ‘My Life in Music’. His commanding presence, erudition and wit brought it all back in an intensely moving way, especially when the talk ended with the playing of a recording by Brendel of the first movement of Schubert’s Impromptu in G Flat major, D899 No. 3, bringing the large audience to its feet, just as he had done at those historic Festival Hall performances.
Other publishers, including George Weidenfeld, as he once more or less intimated to me, have eyed Alfred over the years (just as they did Alan Coren), but he has remained a loyal author and a true friend, from those early Poland Street beginnings right up to the present day.
18
A WRONG NUMBER
As we entered our second year, more and more American-originated titles started to come our way, either via the various US publishers and agents we dealt with or through their British representatives, along with original offerings from those agents too. We didn’t have Amazon or the internet to worry about as we do now, with US-published titles on sale here almost as soon as they appear in the States, with any hot stories being picked up instantly and splashed across the British press, often spoiling any serial deals that might be in the offing.
As a small, tightly knit team, we had the advantage of being able to make decisions and move quickly. Our Hungarian production manager, Susan Schulz, had gently won over a number of printers to her exacting ways and they would call on her regularly. Whenever a manuscript was delayed, or when last-minute corrections or additions were holding things up, she would berate us, proclaiming: ‘There will not be a book!’ At that time, printing in England, especially for colour books, was expensive; Susan was able to draw on her contacts in Hungary to get excellent prices and quality from printers there, which helped immensely with certain titles and put her in a good bargaining position with their British counterparts. That enabled us to handle the definitive, highly illustrated The Gershwin Years, and also Isaac Asimov’s 1,000-page science fiction anthology of the 1930s, Before the Golden Age, both early titles for us. The size of these books seemed to have scared other publishers off, but they were perfect book club titles, and Book Club Associates took goodly quantities of both, underwriting them. Amazon has virtually brought about the demise of book clubs, but in those days they were major outlets.
Fortunately, not all our early books were the size of the Asimov. At the other end of the scale was An Introduction to English Literature by the great South American writer Jorge Louis Borges, who in just eighty-eight quirky but captivating pages provided a wealth of minor information on major subjects not found in the grander literary histories, effortlessly distilling the essence of the works he discussed. Also, of particular importance, there were the three short books by Elie Wiesel we were offered. Each had been published individually in various languages but never before in one volume, which is how we published them. Night, Dawn and The Accident are quite simply masterpieces by an author the New York Times called ‘one of the great writers of his generation’. A survivor of Auschwitz and Buchenwald, Wiesel had already received a number of awards for his writing and was to win a Nobel Prize. Powerful and painfully moving, these semi-autobiographical works – Night especially – bring the Holocaust into terrifyingly close focus. They should be rammed down the throat of any Holocaust denier. I was fortunate enough to meet Wiesel in his flat in New York, and later in London when he came to speak at the Lubavitch Centre. Face to face with him in his living room, I was mesmerised by his haunted, compelling eyes and his soft, urgent voice. When he spoke publicly, as he did in London a year or so later, his voice drew the large audience in so that they felt they were engaged in an intimate conversation with him. He had come through an unimaginable hell but had s
omehow retained his hope and humanity.
There was an awkward moment for Carole at that London meeting when, on being introduced to the director of the Lubavitch Centre, she held out her hand politely in her Continental way, only to see him pull back. So Orthodox are the members of that extreme Jewish sect that they will not touch a woman unless married to her, even to shake her hand, still less dance with her, lest they be tempted. Coming from a completely different cultural background, Carole was both surprised and shocked. (There’s an old Jewish joke about a man who went to his rabbi for some confidential advice. ‘Tell me, Rabbi,’ he said, ‘is it permitted to make love on the floor?’ ‘Absolutely,’ replied the rabbi, ‘why not?’ ‘And in the bath?’ the man continued. ‘Why, of course, what could be more natural,’ replied the rabbi. ‘And standing up?’ the man persisted. ‘No, absolutely not,’ declared the rabbi, shocked and wagging his finger. ‘Could lead to dancing.’)
* * *
When it came to publishing a second volume of Goon Show scripts, Spike felt he was too strongly committed to Frank Cass to be able to snatch it away. However, he suggested that Cass publish it jointly with us, promising a third book if he did so, but not surprisingly Frank rejected his proposal. Once the second book was out of the way, Spike offered me what was in effect a third Goon Show book. This was quite special, however, for as well as a few more scripts, The Book of the Goons, as we called it, contained something unique: the authentic correspondence the three Goons had engaged in over the years, in character and often on specially printed letterheads, sometimes by telegram, and from all over the world. The first cryptic telegram, sent by Harry Secombe to ‘Sergeant Milligan’, contained just the one word: ‘FIRE!’, and led to a whole series of hilarious ‘military’ cables which went back and forth between them. Other communications were more elaborate, especially legal ones from a Mr Henry Crun (Peter Sellers) on the notepaper of his firm, those well-known solicitors ‘Whacklow, Futtle & Crun’.
In addition, we were given drawings by the Goons and a rich harvest of photos taken by Lord Snowdon. Liz Rose was the perfect editor to bring it all together creatively, and the book caused a minor sensation. In this we were helped by the Buckingham Palace press office, as, through Nicholas Soames, a friend of Michael Rivkin, Prince Charles had agreed to attend a private dinner for the Goons at the Dorchester. What Soames had actually said when we met in Michael’s office to discuss it was, ‘Charles will bust his arse to get there.’ Well, I don’t know about that but he certainly agreed to come, on condition that there were no announcements, no photographers and no press, and this we readily agreed to, deciding to have a separate cocktail party at the Dorchester beforehand to launch the book publicly while the Goons were together. Imagine my consternation when, on the morning of the dinner, the phone in our office exploded with the press bombarding us with questions about the supposedly secret dinner. I was alarmed, thinking I might be sent to the Tower or – worse – the Prince would pull out, and I anxiously phoned the Palace press office to proclaim our innocence, only to be told not to worry since they had released the details by mistake. As a result, unable to keep the press at bay, the Palace agreed that there should be a brief photocall, designating one photographer to take pictures for all the papers… and there we were next morning on the front pages, Milligan playing the fool as always, seated and wearing a peaked cap in every photo. It made for imaginative captions.
An early morning surprise: our royal Goon Show dinner makes the Daily Telegraph front page.
Prince Charles, who was accompanied by his private secretary, Squadron Leader Sir David Checketts, had met Peter and Spike on various occasions and was especially friendly with Harry Secombe. But dear, dependable Harry, the anchor I’d been relying on to hold the others in check, was unwell, leaving his daughter Jenny to represent him. HRH had not met Michael Bentine before, and once he’d been formally received and introduced to the various guests (we were about thirty in all) and the promised photocall was over, the Prince sat wide-eyed as the unstoppable Michael took off on one of his fantastic soliloquies, reminiscing about secret wartime aerial missions he’d been involved in (or imagined he’d been involved in – who knows?), from time to time turning to the squadron leader at the end of the table for confirmation, airman to airman. Checketts, as captivated as his boss, nodded sagely.
Spike Milligan has his own special message for our royal guest: ‘Dear Prince – Please send Open University knighthoods to c/o Mrs D. Prolls, Mange Buildings, Tower Hamlets, London.’
Seated on one side of Charles and silent at first, but not to be outdone, Milligan waited his moment, and when there was a pause he suddenly entered the fray, reducing us all to fits of laughter as he recounted hilarious stories of his own wartime experiences, creatively embellished. Meanwhile, on the other side of the Prince, Peter Sellers twitched, getting up and pacing the room as if waiting in the wings to make an entrance. He’d been anxious about the evening from the word go, phoning to say he was bringing a lady friend, and then to say he wasn’t, then getting his secretary to check that it really wasn’t black tie, finally demanding that a car be on standby all evening in case he suddenly wanted to leave. On arriving and seeing there were more people there than he had expected, he asked me who had ‘fucked up’. I explained that I hadn’t wanted to leave out anybody who’d been closely involved with the book or who had made the dinner possible, and he calmed down – a little. In any case, as I told him, the Palace had approved the guest list.
The menu for the Book of the Goons dinner with Prince Charles.
Nevertheless, it was hardly relaxing, but the excellent food and fine wines began to work their magic, and Jenny Secombe came up trumps by producing a humorous poem her absent father had written for the occasion entitled ‘Ballad of a Sick Ned’. I asked Peter if he would read it to us all, which he did in great style, and once he was in actor’s mode he settled down to join in and savour the evening. Harry’s poem, which Jenny, the supreme publicist, had circulated to the press, appeared in next day’s papers. At least Harry had been with us in spirit, if not physically. Later, when the Prince had said his goodbyes and departed and the party had broken up, I found Michael Bentine in the lobby of the hotel having an intense conversation with a journalist from a popular daily, the Mirror I think, who claimed he’d heard from a waiter that the Prince had been telling racist jokes. Absolute malicious nonsense, and Bentine was telling him so in no uncertain terms. It was an insight into the way some of the press sometimes work – flying a ludicrous kite, or fishing. Charles had behaved impeccably, laughing heartily and joining in the general conversation, plainly enjoying every moment, but there’s no story in that. He kindly signed my menu and, looking up at my tie – my BEST tie – he asked whether the patterns on it were ear lobes (after that I saw the tie in a new light, and it was the last time I wore it). Encouraged by his jokey remarks, I was probably only a drink or two away from mentioning that we had my great-uncle Jack the mohel in common. That might really have meant the Tower.
A postscript to the evening: when Peter Sellers died, Prince Charles was formally represented by Michael Bentine at the memorial service held at St Martin-in-the-Field. Soberly dressed in black tie and tails, walking slowly to the front of the church and kneeling solemnly, with his trimmed black beard he looked like a character out of a Russian novel – one that Peter might have enjoyed playing. And when Michael himself was critically ill, Prince Charles, described in the press as ‘a close friend’, visited him in hospital. A touching and unexpected outcome of an evening full of laughter. As for Spike, referring to his promise to give us the third Goon Show book, he wrote in my copy, ‘You see, I remembered.’ He had, and I am grateful. But while I’m on the cheerful subject of memorial services I’m reminded of Spike’s quip when Harry died: that he was glad Harry wouldn’t now be able to sing at his funeral service as he had done at Peter’s. However, Harry had the last laugh, as his family unearthed a recording of him singing ‘Guide me, O thou
great Redeemer’, which was played – to the congregation’s delight – when the time came to say goodbye to Spike. Goons in life and Goons in death.
I had always hoped to get Peter to write an autobiography. Given his colourful and often anguished life and the many women in it, it would have made a fascinating story. Peter was a descendant of the eighteenth-century prizefighter Daniel Mendoza, the first Jewish boxer to become a champion, and he and I had often talked about republishing Mendoza’s memoirs with an introduction by Peter, but we never managed to get even that off the ground, although it would have involved him in relatively little work. The nearest I got was the inscription he wrote in my copy of The Goon Show Scripts: ‘Fred Mendoza, son of Sid Mendoza, and of course P Sellers Esq’.
As far as an autobiography was concerned, the closest I ever came to that was shortly before his death when Carole and I were enjoying a pre-Christmas curry at the Gaylord restaurant in Mortimer Street. Leaning forward, Carole whispered, ‘I’m sure that’s Peter Sellers over there.’ From where I was sitting I could only see that there were two men huddled in conversation, but the voice, the theatrical laugh, were unmistakable. As they left their table and were about to pass ours, Peter saw me and, smiling, stopped to talk, friendlier than he’d ever been, but white as a ghost, as if his face were covered in powder. He introduced us as ‘old friends’ to the man with him, Lord Rothschild, and since he was in such an approachable mood I brought up the question of the book as gently as I could. ‘Phone me in the New Year,’ he said, ‘and we’ll get it going. I think it’s time.’ I had the feeling that it wouldn’t be a question of money, but of working with someone he knew and trusted, but very sadly his frail heart forestalled our intentions, and he died the following February. It was left to others to trawl among the shadows of his life.
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