Johann Hari, the excellent political commentator for The Independent who has argued forcefully and on the right side with regard to the totalitarian nightmare-states of Baathist Iraq and North Korea, turns his attention to, of all people, Agatha Christie (published in The Independent on Sunday; link via Andrew Sullivan).
It's one of the strangest amalgams of literary criticism and political theory I've ever seen; I wonder if Hari is being serious. I could understand, though not agree with, an argument that Christie is a writer unfairly dismissed by literary critics. But Hari goes further: he maintains that Agatha Christie is 'a radical conservative thinker'. To say he's wrong would be like saying the Beckhams aren't shy of publicity. He vastly overstates Christie's literary merit, he infers a Burkean sub-text in her novels that isn't there, and - irony of ironies - he overlooks a 20th-century detective novelist who was both an outstanding writer of English prose and genuinely a radical conservative thinker.
On the literary question, Hari laments:
The verdict of the late novelist Anthony Burgess accurately summarises the English intelligentsia's view of Christie. "She put people off reading the higher art of detection – from the Moonstone to Gaudy Night – by setting a lower standard and making it somehow canonical," he wrote in the 1980s. "If she was the queen of the whodunit, she used her royal rank to condone flimsy characterisation, plentiful cliché, implausibility, and verbal vacuity… All we have [in her novels] is an abstract puzzle minimally clothed in the garments of upper middle-class morality."
In fact every point Burgess makes is accurate, deadly and definitive, but he understates the case. It isn't just that the books are 'abstract puzzles': they're puzzles that are always cleared up and resolved, with life then continuing in the village or household in exactly the way that it did before, minus one or more characters. Hari's following observation is thus quite bizarre:
[Christie's] work conforms to Burkean conservatism in every respect: justice rarely comes from the state. Rather, it arises from within civil society – a private detective, a clever old spinster. Indeed, what is Miss Marple but the perfect embodiment of Burke’s thought? She has almost infinite wisdom because she has lived so very long (by the later novels, she is barely able to move and, by some calculations, over 100). She has slowly - like parliament and all traditional bodies, according to Burke – accrued "the wisdom of the ages", and this is the key to her success. From her solitary spot in a small English village, she has learned everything about human nature. Wisdom resides, in Christie and Burke’s worlds, in the very old and the very ordinary.
So far from conforming to Burkean conservatism, Christie's world evidences no sense of sin. It's not the the organic whole of Burke, but an anaesthetised experience of the type that Burke dissected in his Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and the Beautiful (1757). At that time religion was being purged of the concept of the supernatural, and the sense of awe and terror was being translated to a purely aesthetic experience in art and on the stage: a 'secure' terror, enjoyed from the point of view of a spectator rather than a participant, and oddly similar to the appeal of Agatha Christie today.
The lack of disorderliness in Christie's novels - everything returning to how it was before - renders them not just implausible, as Burgess states, but facile. Yet all Hari can cite in Christie's defence is her popularity:
There seems to be no limit to English academics' haughty contempt for Christie... It would be easy to join in this sneering – but for one problem. How, if Christie wrote such rubbish, can we explain the fact that her works have resonated even at the farthest extremes of geography and history?
Unfortunately Hari noticeably doesn't ask where, of all environments, her novels 'resonate'. The answer is that Agatha Christie is the staple literary diet of hospital patients, especially elderly ones with a sense of their own mortality. The reason lies in this absence of disruption: the novels are, as the literary critic W.W.Robson has said (or 'sneered', if Hari prefers), 'reassuring tragedies'.
This explanation - the appetite for reassurance - is not the one Hari comes up with:
The Christie recorded by history seems likeable, dry and clever: but this cannot account for the fact that she is the best-selling author in human history after the team who complied the Bible. The obvious explanation is her capacity for finding every possible permutation of the conventional detective story twist: indeed, she was so successful in this pursuit that almost nobody tries in the genre any more. To give just a few examples: she created mysteries where the narrator was the murderer (Roger Ackroyd), the entire cast were the murderers (Murder on the Orient Express), nobody was the murderer (it was suicide in Elephants Never Forget), and even where Poirot was the murderer (the extraordinary Curtain, Poirot’s final appearance).
It may be the obvious explanation to Hari, but it's not true. Christie tried very few permutations. Someone will certainly correct me on this, but I cannot think of a single instance where the murderer was one of the innumerable domestic staff that have walk-on parts in her books. I can't think of any such character even with a significant role, let alone the central one. The books are not a coherent expression of conservative instinct, they're just unimaginative - bounded by mediocrity as much as by social and ethnic snobbery.
Yet, for all the implausibility of Hari's thesis, he's not so far wrong in the territory he examines: he's just got the wrong writer. Burkean conservatism is represented not by Miss Marple, but by G.K.Chesterton's fictional detective Father Brown. Whereas Agatha Christie's world is one without sin, Father Brown's ability to solve crimes depends on his insight into the human soul. Nowhere is this more obvious than in 'The Secret Garden', the second story in The Innocence of Father Brown. The murderer is the Chief of Police (so much for Christie's original permutations), Aristide Valentin, whose crime is motivated by philosophical rationalism, the wish to break 'the superstition of the Cross'. Rather than confess to Father Brown, Valentin commits suicide:
A touch and a glance showed [Father Brown] that there was a small box of pills at Valentin's elbow, and that Valentin was dead in his chair; and on the blind face of the suicide was more than the pride of Cato [i.e. it was the pride of Satan].
Throughout his novels, Chesterton has a belief in the wisdom of tradition as a restraining force. In The Napoleon of Notting Hill, he depicts a London organised once again by its ancient boroughs. The attempt to imbue the citizens of these boroughs with a civic patriotism has the disastrous consequence that London then becomes a bear-pit for contending leaders seeking territory and glory. I know of few better parables that stand in judgement of the constitutional tinkering of New Labour. Moreover Chesterton, in contrast to the snobbery that Christie's world exemplifies, was highly partial to a romanticised notion of the wisdom of the common man. The crowd is portrayed with instinctive sympathy in Chesterton, whereas in his contemporaries (Conrad, for example) it is a source of discontent and anarchy.
The parallels between Burke and Chesterton are close, and if the modern Conservative Party were more aware of its antecedents it might do a better job of opposition. The aggrandising tendencies of New Labour would be judged harshly by a Burkean. Burke believed:
A nation is not an idea only of local extent and individual momentary aggregation, but it is an idea of continuity which extends in time as well as in numbers and in space.
A government that can abolish the post of Lord Chancellor by prime ministerial fiat after a couple of weeks' consideration is not going to get things right. It doesn't have this notion of:
... a partnership not only between those who are living, but between those who are living, those who are dead, and those who are to be born.
(Both of these quotations are from Burke's Speech on Representation, 1782.)
Consider in this context G.K. Chesterton's invocation (whether conscious or not, and I suspect not) of the same sentiment, but invoking the notion of democracy:
Tradition may be defined as an extension of the franchise. Tradition means giving votes to the most obscure of all classes, our ancestors. It is the democracy of the dead. Tradition refuses to submit to the small and arrogant oligarchy of those who merely happen to be walking about. All democrats object to men being disqualified by the accident of birth; tradition objects to their being disqualified by the accident of death. Democracy tells us not to neglect a good man’s opinion, even if he is our groom; tradition asks us not to neglect a good man’s opinion, even if he is our father. I, at any rate, cannot separate the two ideas of democracy and tradition; it seems evident to me that they are the same idea. (Orthodoxy, 1911)
For all his humanity and philosophical insight, Chesterton's social views were usually wrong, and sometimes disastrously so (he was afflicted with the fashionable literary antisemitism of his time, as Hari notes Christie also was). His economic views - he opposed capitalism and favoued Distributism - demonstrated only a woeful inability to understand what a price mechanism was for and what only it could do. But he and his fictional detective were truly exponents of a Burkean conservatism that is an integral and wise part of the political tradition of the English-speaking world.
Hari's discovery of the political philosophy of the grande dame of English crime fiction will meanwhile take its place alongside the unfairly neglected Rawlsian liberalism of Judith Krantz and the logical positivism of Jeffrey Archer.