Did You Really Shoot the Television?: A Family Fable. Max Hastings
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circumstances of his brother’s last months. Either the two were no longer close, or Marigold held the purse strings too tightly. In any event, the gulf between the financial circumstances of Basil’s widow in her little West London flat and those of Lewis’s family in a succession of manor houses obviously exacerbated tensions between them.
Having secured Marigold’s hand and fortune, and thereafter produced two children with her, Lewis resumed his old roaming habits. He acquired a tobacco farm in Southern Rhodesia, and spent many of the interwar years there, leaving his offspring and often his wife to amuse themselves as they saw fit. He published a slim volume of poetry, became first president of the Tobacco-Growers’ Association, a member of the Rhodesian parliament and eventually of its cabinet, and indulged a lifestyle that would have commanded the respect of Kenya’s Happy Valley set. The novelist Doris Lessing, who grew up in Rhodesia, encountered Lewis when she was a gawky teenage girl. In her memoirs she left a pen-portrait of him, as MP for Lomagundi in the 1930s, which has always delighted me.
He was famous for his oratory. He was famous for his love affairs, possibly because he wrote poems not unlike Rupert Brooke’s, and a good many were love poems. Very handsome he was, like a lion. He was a dandy, with a suggestion of military swagger, but this was used for dramatic effect. He would stand at ease on his box platform and entertain the farmers and their wives and their children with speeches…garnished with Latin and Greek. The crowd stood about in the red dust, the men in their khaki, the women in their best dresses, the children behind him on the verandah, while the ox wagons went groaning past on their way to the railway tracks, and Major Hastings said – he was talking about Native Policy, but don’t imagine that he disapproved, ‘Volenti non fit injuria – which means, as of course you all know, “No harm is done to him who consents.”’ And everyone laughed…Major Hastings loved his audiences too much to despise them…[He] did it all with just a touch of parody, his smile inviting us all to share with him his style, his bravura. How could wives not fall in love with him? Not to mention daughters. There are men who – with not so much as one second’s impropriety, with no more than a look – perhaps without even intending it, promise a half-grown girl that one day she, too, will be a member of the freemasonry of love.
Lewis blew into London at irregular intervals, towering over the bar of the Savage Club as he captivated Mac with his tales of shooting elephant and lion, of camps in the bush under the stars. A passionate nationalist, pillar of the Empire Society, he foresaw a splendid future for East and Southern Africa, producing food for Britain – this, though his own agricultural ventures in Rhodesia were wholly unprofitable. Lewis’s personal behaviour, not least towards the wife whom he exploited without scruple, may not deserve admiration. The violence of his enthusiasms and enmities could alarm more temperate folk. But he was no line-shooter. He lived as he talked – physically fearless and bent upon draining every cup to the dregs. His son Stephen, who found it hard to relate to him, wrote: ‘He strode in and out of our lives like a whirlwind. As well as weaver birds’ nests he brought exhilaration, suspense and uncertainty. His was a life of stirring and haphazard adventure.’ In Rhodesia in 1973, I met an old Afrikaner who had farmed next door to Lewis forty years earlier. ‘Ach, I never forget Major Hastings,’ he said, in the inimitable accents of the veldt. ‘I used to see him go out to hunt in the morning with his rifle, wearing only a cartridge belt and tennis shoes. He said he felt closer to nature that way.’
By courtesy of Marigold’s money, in England Lewis was able to hunt, fish salmon, shoot pheasants and inhabit country houses appropriate to his acquired status as a country gentleman. His writings and later broadcasting made him modestly well known, but I doubt whether his earnings would have paid his cook’s salary. Lewis didn’t care. He believed that life was for living. Mac spent time with him whenever he could. In 1933 they drove to Germany together, to take a first-hand look at Nazism. Irked by hearing constant renditions of ‘The Horst Wessel Song’, at the famous Femina nightclub in Berlin Lewis insisted upon leading a rousing chorus first of the Cape Mounted Police song, then of ‘The Red Flag’, to the stunned horror of Brownshirts in the audience.
I still possess his heavily annotated copy of the English edition of Hitler’s Mein Kampf. Lewis did not doubt for a moment that it would soon be necessary to fight Hitler. Although approaching sixty in the 1930s, he looked forward eagerly to a second round with the Hun. Meanwhile, Africa remained his happy hunting ground, its peoples his favourite companions. He wrote: ‘When I think of the African it is not as a kind of raw material for sociological experiment, but instead as clear-cut individuals, like Chidota my devoted and ruthless camp boss; Mafuta the dandy; Chiunda the tracker, and my old fighting Swazi and superb ox-driver Hendrik. I remember their separate ways and tricks and quite unquenchable laughter.’
In Rhodesia he kept a cheetah about the house: ‘Zunzu was often a bit of a trial to human visitors. To have a great animal suddenly leap in through the bathroom window was a test of character.’ One overnight guest objected strongly to discovering on awakening what he described as ‘a tiger sitting in my suitcase’. Lewis read a great deal, especially poetry. But he believed that excessive attention to intellectual pursuits dulled the physical senses, which grew more intense if denied books and newspapers. ‘You hear more – you see more things, you see more of them and you see further. That heightened sensibility to external impressions which shepherds have, and gamekeepers and gardeners and hunters – that’s one of the chief rewards. Awareness of movement and growth and seasonable signs, of footprints in the dust, of wind and the stars – these are the things that are blunted by books.’
Although nominally farming in Rhodesia, Lewis contrived to spend many weeks hunting in Mozambique and the Okavango Delta in Bechuanaland, as well as shooting lion and leopard closer to home. For years he was accompanied by his camp boss, Mafuta, a wartime veteran of the King’s African Rifles, ‘who could throw as pretty a salute as any Grenadier. If I hadn’t gone out with my gun-bearer at first light, Mafuta would materialise somehow out of the bush, stand rigidly at attention and deliver himself in his official voice somewhat as follows: “Good morning, n’kosi. Klass has cleaned the shotgun and gone out to get some guinea fowl. The elephants went over the river into the reed-bed last night. The n’tombi has come from the village with some eggs. A hyena has come in the night and taken a buffalo hide. The sugar is finished.” So there you were – all the real news in headlines. But Mafuta always put the good news first and the bad last, which is a much better idea than the one current in Fleet Street.’
One day when Lewis was out on a long trek, at evening he went out alone with a shotgun, in search of an antelope for the pot. After walking for some time, there was a sudden eruption in the bush in front of him. A bushbuck sprang out, he took a long-range snap shot, and was delighted to see the beast drop, apparently stone dead. Leaning his gun against a tree, Lewis walked forward to collect the carcass.
The moment I bent down to handle him, he came to life. I threw myself down, and grabbed him by the throat. The next second his razor-sharp hooves cut clean through my belt, just missing the skin. Many and many a time I had handled calves for branding, but this thing was like a bundle of steel springs. I twisted my legs round him and bore down as hard as I could. My weight at that time was 190 pounds, the bushbuck’s no more than ninety, but it took everything I had to hang on and prevent his hooves ripping me in pieces. At last I managed to shift my grip from the throat to his horns, and with that additional leverage I wriggled him round underneath me until I could reach my knife, and open it with my teeth. All this time the buck was blowing foam in my face, his tongue was lolling out of the corner of his mouth, and he was making the fiercest kind of ram noises. But I got him where I wanted him in the end, drove the knife in and cut his windpipe. For quite some little time I sat down after this struggle covered with blood, mostly the buck’s. Then I tore my tattered shirt into strips, and fastened the antelope’s legs together. I draped the heavy body over my shoulders and started back for the camp. The buck seemed a great deal more than ninety pounds by the time I got there.
At their best, Lewis’s descriptions of his life in the bush achieved a lyricism not unworthy of being compared with those of Karen Blixen or Robert Ruark: ‘The dawn breaks on the wide plain of tawny grass and the scattered clumps of tall ivory palm. It is the air and light and visible world of the First Day, virginal and unblemished…Far ahead of you