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THE MAN WHO WAS MUGGERIDGED BY REALITY

12:00 AM, Jun 17, 1996 • By JOSEPH EPSTEIN
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I saw an example of Muggeridge's television handiwork one day in 1970 on Michigan Avenue in Chicago in front of the Chicago Tribune Building, where he was stopping Chicagoans on their lunch hour to ask how they thought Wilson would do in the general election. The chief replies were "Wilson who?" and " What election?" The answer was Harold Wilson, and the election was the British one forthcoming. This was Muggeridge's little way of making plain to his countrymen that they were now quite nicely out of it, thank you very much.


What sort of man found delight in such occupations? In his two-volume autobiography, Muggeridge doesn't give us much help with this question. Chronicles of Wasted Time is the title he gave to the first volume; and he retained it as the subtitle to his second. In these books he recounted his socialist upbringing, his education, his travels, his life in journalism, but, smooth as the overall performance is, something is missing at the center. The first volume begins with a chapter titled "A Part in Search of a Play" and the second volume closes with the interment of the ashes of the Webbs in Westminster Abbey, which, in Muggeridge's reading, meant the end of the empty dream of socialism as heaven here on earth. The second volume was published in 1974; its author had 17 years yet to live. The autobiography ends on the words: "Another way had to be found and explored."


Richard Ingrams's biography Muggeridge (HarperCollins, $ 27.50) takes up the meaning of those words. It is an excellent book, a model of the kind of biographical study that is less and less nowadays written but to which biography needs to return. At a perfect length of 264 pages, it seeks portraiture through understanding, not, as biographies in our day increasingly do, definitiveness through exhausting detail. Ingrams knew and admired Muggeridge, but admired him with full knowledge of his weaknesses and flaws. He deals in revelation without being interested in scandal. His selection of details seems proportionate and artistically correct. Finishing his book, one feels that one doesn't need to know more than he has chosen to tell.


Ingrams writes, really, as a friend. He has written about Malcolm Muggeridge before in God's Apology, a charming little volume about three friends: Muggeridge, the journalist Hugh Kingsmill, and the popular biographer Hesketh Pearson. (The title comes from a remark of Kingsmill's: " Friends are God's apology for relations," or relatives.) In that book, Ingrams notes that "there is a fourth friend involved, too -- myself." He goes on to explain that through his friendship with Malcolm Muggeridge "I have been able to enjoy a kind of posthumous friendship with Kingsmill and Pearson and from talking to him come to cherish certain books which, had I not known him, would perhaps have meant little to me."


Ingrams had first met Muggeridge in 1963, when the former was one of the editors of Private Eye, a magazine of no-holds-barred English satire of which Muggeridge was one of the guiding saints. In the introduction to God's Apology, he says Muggeridge "is the only person I know in whose company I have never experienced one moment of boredom. At the same time I owe to him several insights into the nature of power and ambition which have influenced my feelings about the political world in a profound way." As for the three friends -- Muggeridge, Kingsmill, Pearson -- Ingrams writes that all three had "in common a number of admirable and to me endearing characteristics -- a love of England and English literature; a dislike of intellectuals; a deep suspicion of all institutions and any form of collective activity; and a shared sense of humor with no traces in it of snobbery, nor any of the class consciousness which has vitiated so much modern writing."


From Ingrams's lucid account one is able to make out without any great difficulty the figure in Muggeridge's carpet. Muggeridge's father, whom he greatly loved, was a Fabian socialist. Religion was no part of the young Malcolm's upbringing. He was pleased to have avoided public schools -- and hence many of the snobberies and rich sexual complications that pop up in all those English memoirs about Eton and Winchester days -- and when he went to Cambridge it was to read for a natural sciences degree. He was brought up oddly detached and remained that way through much of his life. Ingrams remarks on Muggeridge never having had any real interest in possessions, nor being an altogether happy hedonist -- though on this score he was an ardent skirt chaser and a fairly heavy boozer. As a young man, his pattern was to be one in which the fires of initial enthusiasm were quickly banked by boredom and disillusionment.


Muggeridge was quite without ambition: money, power, acceptance in the highest social circles never seemed much to stir him. Even among men who should have been his political enemies -- the old Stalinist Claud Cockburn is a notable example -- he could show great and genuine friendliness. He was, in Ingrams's words, "incapable of a grudge against anyone," and that included Hesketh Pearson, who had a brief affair with his wife.


Nothing Muggeridge ever did, Ingrams claims, was based on calculation. He seemed not to give a damn about career. Certainly, he was ready to pitch everything away at any time for an amusing line. Even though he knew he was on thin ice at the BBC, he didn't in the least mind, after a discussion about Orwell's 1984, remarking before turning over the microphone, "And now back to Big Brother." Once, when meeting Khrushchev on a journalistic trip to Russia, the then-Soviet leader told him to write the truth. "Such," replied Muggeridge, "is my constant endeavor." He was undauntable.


Yet despite all the success that came his way -- by his 50s, a high income and international fame were his -- -he was never satisfied for long. All his days he suffered stomach troubles, becoming toward the end of his life a vegetarian. All his days, too, beginning with his years at Cambridge, he felt a pull toward religion. As early as 1934, the writer Lettice Cooper predicted he would become a Roman Catholic, which he did -- but in 1982, fully 48 years later. Ingrams speculates that Muggeridge's encounter with Mother Teresa, whose work he did so much to publicize in a BBC documentary and whose simplicity and dignity and devotion humbled him, brought him over to the church, under whose last rites he died.


A great many people were put off by the spectacle of the publicly devout Malcolm Muggeridge. "St. Mugg" was the way he was often referred to. Before his religious phase, he believed men were fools for not understanding the silly irrelevance of their lives; now he thought men fools for not understanding a being greater than they. Preaching, in his last years, seemed to come very naturally to him. It wasn't all that easy to take from such an old sinner. Hypocrisy was the common charge. In other words, Muggeridge had had very good innings as a general catouser; but now that he could no longer hold up the bat, the rest of us were to retire along with him to contemplate the magnificence of the Lord. La Rochefoucauld was called in as a witness for the prosecution: "We do not so much desert our appetites as they desert us."


Yet what Richard Ingrams's excellent book makes altogether persuasive is that Malcolm Muggeridge's conversion was no last-minute inspiration, an effort to pull his own badly singed chestnuts out of the fire. Everything in his life the early socialism, the boredom, the disillusionment, the rather squalid pleasures, the lifelong detachment -- was building up to his religious conversion. This biography turns out in the end to be a much more amusing Pilgrim's Progress. As for the Pilgrim himself, our man Muggeridge, he gave much delight to his readers while he lived, and there is much to be thankful for in that. Whether the trajectory described by his life -- from socialism to religion, in by no means easy steps -- provides the edification he hoped it might is another, much murkier, yet finally quite serious question.


EDITOR-NOTE:


Joseph Epstein, author of our June 3 cover story on American arts policy, is editor of the American Scholar.



By Joseph Epstein