Imperial Vanities
by Brian Thompson
I enjoyed reading this book, and the reasons why I did are
really the only things I can say in its favour: it deals with people and places
known to me or that I am interested in, it is full of interesting details, and
it is written in lively, elegant prose, the kind you can read aloud without
tripping over sonic infelicities.
But what are the imperial vanities of the title? The retold exploits of Charles George Gordon and Samuel Baker and the rise and catastrophic fall of Samuel’s brother Valentine? All these are highly specific to the gentlemen in question, and sprang from personal rather than imperial vanity. Or does the title refer to the vanity of attempting to colonize and Britannicize such unfriendly and unpromising parts of the world as Sudan and Ceylon? The Gordon debacle did not prevent the United Kingdom from taking and ruling Sudan in the end, and as for Ceylon, it was already firmly in British hands by the time Baker commenced his experiment at Nuwara Eliya. Balaclava was certainly a vain mismatch of cavalry against artillery, but why is that specifically imperial? True, it was one empire against another. But the Charge of the Light Brigade was what launched Valentine Baker’s career.
Still, it was fun reading about Sam Baker’s intrepid blunderings about the world and his implausible but undeniable successes, especially since, as a Sri Lankan, I know the scene of his early triumphs and disasters, Nuwara Eliya, pretty well. By the way, Brian Thompson consistently misspells the name of this well-known Sri Lankan town and occasionally refers to it familarly as ‘Newara’, which nobody ever does or has done. I must say I was quite disappointed at the number of errors I found in his chapters dealing with Ceylon. Adam’s Peak is not the highest point on the island. That’s the summit of Pidurutalagala – as Thompson actually tells us, quoting Baker himself, only ten pages later. The Matale rebellion only began a ‘tax revolt’ and it wasn’t a case so much of ‘protesters’ ‘executed’ as of rebellious mobs gunned down, though it is true that some of the leaders of the revolt were later hanged. Thompson tells us it all took place in 1849, which is also wrong. He mentions the ‘Bishop of Ceylon’ when he means the Bishop of Colombo. The last is a trivial error, yet, taken together with the rest, it makes me wonder whether the only research on Ceylon Thompson did was in the Bakers’ own books and letters. I also wonder how many mistakes he’s made about people and places with which I am not so familiar.
That description covers most of the other scenes in this globetrotting book – I’ve never been to Africa, the Crimea or Central Europe, to name but a few of the places it visits – so I have reason to worry. And it isn’t as if the events of the narrative don’t occasionally sound far-fetched. Imagine buying your wife at a slave market, as Sam Baker did, or taking her off into darkest Africa to find the source of the Nile, as he also did. The entire life of Valentine Baker, the dashing cavalry officer and erstwhile royal favourite whose story forms the spine of the book, is so cartoonishly heroic it seems almost absurd. But it isn’t the mind-boggling facts that bother me; it’s the mundane fallacies.
Thompson gives most time to and is clearly most interested in ‘Val’, a much more conventional imperial figure than Sir Samuel, who never really comes clear in the book. He works quite hard to make Gordon seem ridiculous, which with the man’s visions and eccentricities and religious mania should not be difficult to do, but somehow the resulting portrait is one of tragic, anachronistic nobility. A purblind, egotistical, thanatophilic nobility, but noble still.
Indeed, the disappointments of this book are almost made up for by one remarkable paragraph. It comes near the end of the book. Gordon, almost in disgrace, is returning to Sudan under the orders of the Imperial government, understanding his mission to be that of evacuating the British presence in the country (such as it is). Nobody, least of all himself, expects him to return.
But what are the imperial vanities of the title? The retold exploits of Charles George Gordon and Samuel Baker and the rise and catastrophic fall of Samuel’s brother Valentine? All these are highly specific to the gentlemen in question, and sprang from personal rather than imperial vanity. Or does the title refer to the vanity of attempting to colonize and Britannicize such unfriendly and unpromising parts of the world as Sudan and Ceylon? The Gordon debacle did not prevent the United Kingdom from taking and ruling Sudan in the end, and as for Ceylon, it was already firmly in British hands by the time Baker commenced his experiment at Nuwara Eliya. Balaclava was certainly a vain mismatch of cavalry against artillery, but why is that specifically imperial? True, it was one empire against another. But the Charge of the Light Brigade was what launched Valentine Baker’s career.
Still, it was fun reading about Sam Baker’s intrepid blunderings about the world and his implausible but undeniable successes, especially since, as a Sri Lankan, I know the scene of his early triumphs and disasters, Nuwara Eliya, pretty well. By the way, Brian Thompson consistently misspells the name of this well-known Sri Lankan town and occasionally refers to it familarly as ‘Newara’, which nobody ever does or has done. I must say I was quite disappointed at the number of errors I found in his chapters dealing with Ceylon. Adam’s Peak is not the highest point on the island. That’s the summit of Pidurutalagala – as Thompson actually tells us, quoting Baker himself, only ten pages later. The Matale rebellion only began a ‘tax revolt’ and it wasn’t a case so much of ‘protesters’ ‘executed’ as of rebellious mobs gunned down, though it is true that some of the leaders of the revolt were later hanged. Thompson tells us it all took place in 1849, which is also wrong. He mentions the ‘Bishop of Ceylon’ when he means the Bishop of Colombo. The last is a trivial error, yet, taken together with the rest, it makes me wonder whether the only research on Ceylon Thompson did was in the Bakers’ own books and letters. I also wonder how many mistakes he’s made about people and places with which I am not so familiar.
That description covers most of the other scenes in this globetrotting book – I’ve never been to Africa, the Crimea or Central Europe, to name but a few of the places it visits – so I have reason to worry. And it isn’t as if the events of the narrative don’t occasionally sound far-fetched. Imagine buying your wife at a slave market, as Sam Baker did, or taking her off into darkest Africa to find the source of the Nile, as he also did. The entire life of Valentine Baker, the dashing cavalry officer and erstwhile royal favourite whose story forms the spine of the book, is so cartoonishly heroic it seems almost absurd. But it isn’t the mind-boggling facts that bother me; it’s the mundane fallacies.
Thompson gives most time to and is clearly most interested in ‘Val’, a much more conventional imperial figure than Sir Samuel, who never really comes clear in the book. He works quite hard to make Gordon seem ridiculous, which with the man’s visions and eccentricities and religious mania should not be difficult to do, but somehow the resulting portrait is one of tragic, anachronistic nobility. A purblind, egotistical, thanatophilic nobility, but noble still.
Indeed, the disappointments of this book are almost made up for by one remarkable paragraph. It comes near the end of the book. Gordon, almost in disgrace, is returning to Sudan under the orders of the Imperial government, understanding his mission to be that of evacuating the British presence in the country (such as it is). Nobody, least of all himself, expects him to return.
Death, which Gordon had flirted with all his life, was now about to take a hand... The ministers asked him when he would leave: he said by the evening train. When they turned up at Charing Cross, with the additional presence of the Duke of Cambridge, Gordon was entirely without luggage save for a small satchel. Lord Granville purchased his ticket. At the last moment Gordon’s nephew dashed on to the platform with a tin case containing a dress uniform. The Duke of Cambridge played the part of a footman by opening the carriage door. Only Wolseley had the presence of mind to ask the Saviour of the Sudan if he had any money. He didn’t. Wolseley emptied his pocket book hastily and handed over his gold watch. The guard blew his whistle, the commander-in-chief of the British Army slammed the door and the train steamed out.
Well then. Vanity in the Ecclesiastes sense, perhaps. Enjoy, but, caveat lector.
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