b i o g r a p h y & l e t t e r s to her brutish, elderly husband for the 13 years of their marriage, but when he died of a ‘neglected head-cold’, bequeathing everything to a feeble-minded son by a previous relationship and leaving her unprovided for, she acted with commendable acuity by attaching herself to her late husband’s second-in-command. He and all his officers then petitioned her to take charge of their army, which suggests she had a lot more than just allure to commend her. ‘Beneath the muslin lurked stays of steel’, writes Keay, and there is no doubt that Farzana was steely in her resolve and ruthless if need be. Two of her slave girls accused of setting fire to her Delhi town house and making off with some property were caught, whipped until senseless and then buried alive in a pit outside her tent. But the fact is that Farzana played what few cards she held with Machiavellian skill. She went on to become a minor but significant political force in northern India, confidante of the Mogul emperor, ruler of a small but remarkably progressive principality, and, after some cunningly executed twists and turns, faithful ally of the new power in the land, the East India Company. She was also, by some accounts, a witch.
It is a complicated tale but a good one, well told by an author with a lightness of touch that makes it a delight to read. Julia and John Keay were partners in history and biography for over three decades, and one of their joint strengths was their ability to set down sometimes unpalatable facts without the bias that mars much of South Asian historiography today. Another was their shared affection for the Indian subcontinent and its fascinating, vexatious past and present. Alas, that partnership is now ended, since Julia Keay never lived to see this book into print. I can do no better than to quote from the closing lines of William Dalrymple’s characteristically engaging introduction: ‘This book, about an amazing woman, now stands as a fitting memorial to another. Julia will be greatly missed, and this book shows what an enjoyable writer we have lost.’ r l e s l i e m i t c h e l l
Wit and Whiggery One Hundred Letters from Hugh Trevor-Roper Edited by Richard Davenport-Hines & Adam Sisman
(Oxford University Press 447pp £25)
For Hugh Trevor-Roper the writing of a letter was part entertainment, part lecture and part therapy. He was clear that ‘if one never writes real letters one can never acquire the art of expressing one’s self, and at times it is such a relief to do so’. It was a form that allowed people to write of serious things inconsequentially and of inconsequential things seriously. For the scholar, normally constrained by the bounds of evidence, there was ‘the pleasure of total vacancy’. He hoped that he would not be judged by his letters, because, in them, he had felt ‘licensed to be free and irresponsible’. What better way, then, to celebrate the centenary of Trevor-Roper’s birth than to treat the reading public to a hundred of his letters? Here he is, off-guard, intimate, giving full rein to an amused view of life.
The older he became and the more history he read and wrote, the more he became convinced that, although there were very general rules that governed human behaviour, beneath them was a rich and infinite jumble which might loosely be called la comédie humaine. As he himself put it, ‘I used to think that historical events always had deep economic causes: I now believe that pure farce covers a far greater field of history, and that Gibbon is a more reliable guide to that subject than Marx.’ The role of the historian, as far as the evidence allowed, was to record the triumphs and failures of humankind, dignifying the account with style and wit. Great historians, he insisted, ‘all had style … It goes with the character, as the bouquet goes with the wine.’ Letters and books had to be crafted productions, satisfyingly honed and polished.
Of course, given the extraordinary experiences of his life, Trevor-Roper’s eye had a fascinating galère of characters on which to fix its gaze. Academic life in his day allowed space for the eccentric and time to pursue controversy and vendettas. If a letter wanted a little colour, there was always an opportunity to tweak the oh-so-tweakable tail of Leslie Rowse. The appointment to a major chair or university office was matter for a ten-page letter describing the assembling of votes, electors being struck down by heart attacks in medias res and final victory or defeat. Above all, the fellows of Peterhouse provided endless copy.
The Trevor-Ropers: domestic bliss
As master of that college, Trevor-Roper’s blood pressure was regulated by daily humiliations and triumphs. His historical colleagues, in particular, were ‘a gaggle of muddle-headed muffaroos bumbling and fumbling after each other in broken circles’. When offered an audience with John Paul II, Trevor-Roper was hugely amused to discover that the pope only wanted to discuss the politics of Peterhouse.
A good letter writer must appreciate the colour in villains as well as saints, and Trevor-Roper had no qualms in admitting f e b r u a r y 2 0 1 4 | Literary Review 13
