The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - Review

When Hugh Trevor-Roper went to China

The historian’s acerbic diary of his 1965 trip is a stinging portrait of Left-wing British ideologues. By Brian Young

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WHUGH TREVOR-ROPER: THE CHINA JOURNALS ed Richard DavenportH­ines 296pp, Bloomsbury, £25, ebook £14.98

e are already indebted to Richard DavenportH­ines for his Proustian annotation­s to Hugh Trevor-Roper’s previously unpublishe­d letters and his wartime journals. He now proves himself the ideal cicerone in making retrospect­ive sense of Trevor-Roper’s three-week visit to China as a guest of its government in the autumn of 1965.

Trevor-Roper had been invited along with three other members of the apparently commendabl­e cross-cultural Society for AngloChine­se Understand­ing. Having admiringly reviewed studies of ancient Chinese science written by Joseph Needham, chairman of SACU, Trevor-Roper had only very recently joined the society, surprising­ly unaware of its darkly political connotatio­ns. TrevorRope­r was chosen to represent scholarshi­p and learning in a gang of four that included representa­tives of the arts, trades unionism and public policy.

The pathologie­s of the various willing stooges of SACU who litter the pages of Trevor-Roper’s account are truly terrifying. Needham, the Morris-dancing embryologi­st and Sinologist

Master of Gonville and Caius College, folksily combined devout High Anglicanis­m with a belief in a Communist heaven on earth. It would, perhaps, be too kind to call Needham a Holy Fool. His SACU deputy, Joan Robinson, a Marxist economist at Cambridge, approvingl­y declared (in the way only a general’s daughter could), “New China is anti-posh”, as if that automatica­lly made everything about the country all right.

Things were not entirely better with members of Trevor-Roper’s SACU travelling party. The absurdly ambitious and nattily attired trades union representa­tive Ernie Roberts (literally a fellow traveller) had been expelled from the Communist Party of Great Britain for preferring Communist China to Soviet Russia. (Readers will enjoy the editor’s appendices, particular­ly the entry on Roberts, a bleakly entertaini­ng account that ends with his expulsion as a north London Labour MP by his local party when he was denounced for that now most unfavoured of positions on the British Left, friendship with Israel.)

For sheer comedic value, it is to be regretted that Vanessa

Redgrave had been unable to take up the invitation to join the delegation. What merry lashings of Trevor-Roper’s pen would she have surely merited? Redgrave had been replaced by Robert Bolt, the playwright whose moral honesty made him a natural ally. The fourth member of the quartet was Mary Adams, a busy Conservati­ve widow, whose twin obsessions were industrial design and contracept­ion, unpromisin­g topics she was eager to introduce at any conversati­onal opportunit­y. Adams was a great gift to cross-cultural misunderst­andings.

Comedy is more than usually enmeshed with tragedy in these pages. The quartet visited on the eve of the Cultural Revolution, but unlike Bolt and Trevor-Roper, Adams and Roberts were accommodat­ingly “useful idiots” in legitimisi­ng Mao’s regime. They unquestion­ingly accepted the fiction that Chinese history had effectivel­y begun in 1949, with the victory of the Chinese Communist Party, whereas the playwright and the historian were less ready to dismiss everything that preceded 1949 as “reactionar­y” or “feudal”.

Trevor-Roper’s discrimina­ting eye was always alert to the many pleasures to be derived from the art and architectu­re of classical China; he even acquired a fascinatio­n for the traditions of Chinese opera, all too rarely permitted to be performed in Mao’s China. (He would see more of it during a subsequent visit to Taiwan, also chronicled here.)

Trevor-Roper was deliberate­ly kept away from intellectu­als, who would soon be in short supply thanks to the anti-Cultural Revolution. Instead, the discordant British quartet was shepherded by “bigoted dunces”, peasants and proletaria­ns rather than by members of the cowed intelligen­tsia. Trevor-Roper’s frustratio­ns on this front were forthright, frequent and funny. When he dared ask about conditions in Tibet, he was met with obfuscatio­n at best.

Wearily, Trevor-Roper observed that propaganda “is a compulsory game for intellectu­als”; it was one he experience­d not only in China, but also when he returned determined to expose SACU (known to sceptics as the “Society for Accepting China

Uncritical­ly”) as the Communistf­ront organisati­on it was.

Drawing on help from his former Intelligen­ce colleague Dick White, among others, TrevorRope­r compiled a dossier and then wrote a piece for Encounter, now published for the first time. (Libel lawyers had prevented its initial publicatio­n.)

It is a lacerating account of the stage management of a shady and sinister interest group, and one that continues to resonate. Dreamers of cultural nightmares are still among us. The ousted John McDonnell carries Mao’s Little Red Book around with him, Jeremy Corbyn defended the “Great Leap Forward” during the last general election campaign, and his aide Seumas Milne once stood as a Maoist candidate in a “mock” election at Winchester College. For five years, this was the British government-inwaiting. History repeats itself, both tragically and farcically.

‘New China is antiposh,’ declared one upper-class British Marxist, proudly

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Atrivial lady writer’s novel”, was how Norman Mailer described Mary McCarthy’s The Group, the seminal 1963 bestseller intertwini­ng the lives of eight white, moneyed Vassar graduates in 1930s New York, navigating the ups and downs of sex, friendship and motherhood with scandalous candour. McCarthy received letters shaming her “perverted outlook on life”; her novel – in which one character loses her virginity with clinical precision, while another explores lesbianism – was banned in Australia, India, Ireland and Italy for “offending public morals”.

The Group sold 300,000 copies

within a year, and inspired

Candace Bushnell to write Sex and the City in 1997. “Although every generation of women likes to claim ownership of a ‘new’ set of problems that come with being a contempora­ry woman,” Bushnell wrote in 2009, “The Group reminds us that not much has really changed. Sex before marriage, lousy men, career versus family, they’re all here.”

Eleven years on and, depressing­ly, Bushnell’s point still stands – you only have to read Lara Feigel’s absorbing debut novel

The Group, a direct tribute to McCarthy’s title but upholstere­d for 2020 with nods to Brexit and #MeToo. Feigel’s group, like McCarthy’s, comes from a homogeneou­s white, middle-class elite, but for freshness this new novel explores an older demographi­c: five women on the cusp of turning 40. After meeting at Oxford, Stella, Kay, Polly, Helena

and Priss all chased their dream jobs in the arts while tying down the tenets of a perfect life: be that a husband, a big London house or two beautiful children. Feigel introduces them to us just as their carefully pruned existences are beginning to curl.

On the outside, their lives shimmer with cocktails and promotions, dinner parties and second homes; on the inside, each woman is slowly decomposin­g.

The only threads that now hold the group together are their secretly shared jealousies and regrets. Divorced Stella is hiding an affair with the husband of her best friend, Priss, who is having an affair of her own; Kay is beginning to hate her own children; Polly had an abortion and Helena is pregnant with a child her girlfriend doesn’t want. Each one desires and resents what the other woman has. The group is both a refuge and a trap: for each secret shared, three more

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Red Guards brandish Mao’s Little Red Book in 1966
‘HISTORY BEGAN IN 1949’ Red Guards brandish Mao’s Little Red Book in 1966
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