HUNGRY GERALD

It was the Edwardian dandy, Max Beerbohm (“The incomparable Max” as George Bernard Shaw dubbed him), who wrote: “Strawberries picked from a sunny, dew kissed meadow never taste as good as those bought at the greengrocer.” HG has always loved Max’s talents as a theater critic, essayist, novelist and caricaturist. His prose is elegance personified. He was very much an urban (and urbane) man. Loved London though he spent much of his life in a tiny house perched on an Italian coastal hilltop. Of course, his comment about berries, though cynically amusing, is totally wrong. HG thought about incomparable Max yesterday. A strange day on Prince Edward Island. Short bursts of rain and then breezy, briny calm. Perfect for strolling on the paths cut through neighboring land generously contributed to a nature conservancy by HG/BSK’s kind neighbors, Chuck and Gloria P. The bushes are adorned with blueberries and raspberries, Accompanied by Toby, The Wonder Dog, HG strolled and munched. The raspberries HG picked were, like Max, incomparable. Full of juice and pungent sweetness. (BSK and EM had been blueberry picking the day before. Kind souls, they left the raspberries for HG). The fickle weather patterns provided both a spectacular, best ever sunset but an early evening rainbow. The sight enthralled the family as they dined on clams Posillipo (quahogs steamed with tomatoes, olive oil, garlic and hot pepper flakes) and South Lake scallops, seared briefly and then mixed with fresh garden greens. While eating the succulent bivalves, HG thought about a comment of Beerbohm’s on dining in restaurants: “A restaurant dinner always tastes better when someone else is paying.”

Does anyone read the works of Max Beerbohm anymore? Or look (with amusement) at his brilliant caricatures? HG has been a lifelong fan of this adroit and elegant personality, an English dandy of the Edwardian era. Dead for some 57 years, his prose (described as “lapidary” by one critic) still sparkles. As rain lashed Prince Edward Island, HG found solace sipping locally distilled pastis from the Myriad View Distillery and reading Mainly On the Air, a collection of Sir Max’s BBC radio broadcasts and essays. What is magical about this collection is that Beerbohm writes about forgotten writers, obscure playwrights, antique music hall songs and performers and makes HG smile in remembrance of a life HG never lived. There are wonderful archaic phrases and English words that have withered from disuse. Max makes them live again. George Bernard Shaw called him “The Incomparable Max.” Very apt. Beerbohm, during his lifetime, published many books of prose, fiction and dramatic criticism as well as volumes of caricatures. A nice introduction to his work and character is the charming book, Portrait of Max, by S.N. Behrman, a collection of articles Behrman did for The New Yorker Magazine.

The great English caricaturist, theater critic, wit and prose master, Max Beerbohm (known as The Incomparable Max) once made this cynical observation: “Why do strawberries picked in a fresh, dewy meadow never taste as good as strawberries purchased at a greengrocer?”

Funny stuff, Mr.Incomparable. But, not true. HG thought about the English dandy as he strolled to HG’s beachfront on a path lined with raspberry bushes. HG’s progress was slow due to many nibbles of drenchingly sweet, juicy berries plucked off the bushes. Delight.