personal antipathy between Elton and Plumb was very real and very powerful.
Superficially they were not dissimilar. They were both short, bald and rather plain men (Elton was once memorably described as looking like “a moustachioed grape”); both were muscular and mesomorphic; both were thickset and bespectacled; both were driven by powerful ambition; both were enormously gifted; both gathered about them an impressive number of able pupils; both were massively productive; both were effective communicators; both were bullies who believed in the adversarial approach to life and to scholarship; both seemed to generate genuine affection and passionate dislike in roughly equal proportions; both were outsiders who were determined to achieve insider status; and both, of course, began their professional careers as political historians.
Fundamentally, however, they were very different and they actively revelled in those differences.
One was a product of the provincial English working class, the other (Gottfried Ehrenberg before he became Geoffrey Rudolph Elton) was a Jewish refugee from Prague; one flaunted his (then) left wing opinions, the other trumpeted his right wing views; one loved claret, the other loved whiskey; one cherished the English tradition of History as Literature, the other believed passionately in the Germanic tradition of History as a professional technique; one was a bachelor, the other was married; one made no attempt to hide his hedonistic lifestyle, the other made something of a parade of the simple unostentatious life in the Cambridge suburbs; one had held almost every college post and built his life around his college; the other was a Faculty man with apparently few collegiate ambitions; one believed passionately in the value of undergraduate teaching, the other was only really interested in graduates.
I think that it is also quite revealing that the hobbies of the humbly-born Plumb were claret, antique porcelain, old Master paintings and Georgian silver whilst the hobbies of the rather better connected Elton (son of one distinguished scholar and brother of another) were, as his first “Who’s Who” entry proudly proclaimed, “squash racquets, joinery and beer”. The self-images they wished to promote were strikingly different. According to their own accounts, one was bisexual, the other was straight. Also according to their own accounts, one lived a pretty promiscuous life style, the other was faithful to his wife of long standing.
They also heartily disliked each other. Both of them saw the other as a dangerous professional rival. Both dished the dirt with unbecoming relish. For my wife and myself, who could recognise the gifts of both of them, and who could also sympathise with their obvious shortcomings, and who were regular guests at both of their tables, it was difficult not be both amused and yet appalled by the blatant point-scoring in which they both over-indulged. Any disobliging rumour was grist to their respective mills. They sneered at each other’s habits, they sneered at each other’s favourite drinks, they sneered at each other’s work, and they did their best to do down each other’s pupils.
Their at times obsessive preoccupation with each other was much commented on by their contemporary academic colleagues. John Brewer, for example, recalled “a strange experience some time in the mid-70s, when I attended in the course of a week one of Jack’s brilliant dinner parties and a more plodding affair chez Elton (both were well lubricated, but as you can imagine the quality of drink was higher in Christ’s). What was odd was that both said the same thing to me, and asked me the same question. Each expressed a begrudging admiration for the other, and each asked me if I didn’t think that the other was a rather sad person. Elton saw Jack as a frustrated bachelor surrounded by riches, and Jack saw Elton as chained to a shrewish and unattractive wife.”
Whilst they obsessed about each other and continually clashed like two alpha males seeking dominance in their chosen territory, perhaps it is little wonder that Owen Chadwick (with enormous charm, perfect manners, remarkable good looks and excellent Establishment connections – none of which advantages were shared by either Plumb or Elton) should effortlessly out-perform them in collecting the world’s prizes that they both so coveted. Chadwick’s list of honours included a Mastership of a Cambridge college achieved whilst still in his thirties, a named Cambridge Chair, the Cambridge Vice-Chancellorship, the Chancellorship of the University of East Anglia, the Chairmanship of the National Portrait Gallery, the Regius Chair of History at Cambridge, a Knighthood (the title of which, to his great irritation, as a clergyman, he could not use, but which his wife insisting on advertising by using the title of Lady Chadwick), the Presidency of the British Academy, and the Order of Merit – not to mention a Cambridge Blue, a charming and attractive wife and four children. Of that baker’s dozen of achievements, Plumb and Elton could manage only two each.
Chadwick also won in the competition for the quality of his honorary degrees. His rivals must have found it very galling. Indeed I know that they did. But neither of them recognised how much they each contributed to the frustration of their own ambitions by their own character defects. Impartiality and magnanimity were not the first words to leap to everyone’s mind when trying to describe either of them. When contrasted with Owen Chadwick, they seemed to be dangerously combative and excessively committed to their own prejudices and their own pupils. Chadwick’s academic achievements were very real, and he continued to produce excellent work long after his rivals, but, in addition, he was also almost universally liked and greatly admired for his personal qualities. Perhaps even more importantly, it was felt that he could be trusted not to misuse his power and patronage. He could be relied on, it was felt by those who mattered, to use the influence of office fairly. His judgement would be “sound”.
Chadwick’s worldly success must also surely have benefited from his charm of manner. As a young man he was almost impossibly glamorous – not only ridiculously good looking with a lovely wife and a double First in History and then Theology, and a record of a triple Blue in Rugby, who captained Cambridge in his third year and went on to play for England, the Barbarians and the British Lions. He was also ordained in the Church of England and elected to the Mastership of a Cambridge college before the age of forty and into a Cambridge chair very soon afterwards. Little wonder that he was offered two Bishoprics and was seriously considered as a possible Archbishop of Canterbury. When it came to the battle for the Regius chair in Cambridge, his success benefited even more from the absence of any of the glaring shortcomings that so many have detected in the characters of Elton and Plumb. The defects in their personalities did them far more harm than any defects (both real and imaginary) in their research. In many people’s eyes, they were so bitterly opposed to each other and had so divided the Faculty that they had rendered themselves almost unelectable. In so doing, they left the path open for Chadwick to glide seemingly effortlessly to success.
If Chadwick had comparable defects they remained securely hidden – well masked by his courteous charm of manner and effectively disguised by the characteristic discretion of his conduct. There are certainly those (such as the Cambridge historians Harry Porter, Edward Norman and William Frend) who felt that their careers had suffered as a result of Chadwick’s enmity but his smiling face and easy social manner seemed to disarm most criticism. He was certainly much harder to demonise than his two main Cambridge rivals.
Lord Annan diplomatically summed up the Establishment view of the battle for the Regius in 1968 in his book, The Dons: Mentors, Eccentrics and Geniuses published in 1999: “It was an appointment by the Crown which was resented by a number of aspirants who had excellent claims; but Chadwick’s exceptional character, so devoid of partisan spirit, and his steady publication of books that arose from patient archival research on controversial themes handled without rancour or bias were qualities that not all the other candidates could match”. He did not need to spell out that it was felt by the powers that be that Elton and Plumb most certainly could not match those qualities.
Their mutual dislike drove them to exaggerate the differences in their work. But if academic rivalry and personal antipathy intensified the divide, the differences remained very real. In the 1960s they appeared to be of major significance in deciding the future of modern English History in Cambridge. Whilst Owen Chadwick moved serenely and seemingly unstoppably onwards and upwards, gathering in his remarkable
