A Connoisseur of Variety

Like his first “chronicle of wasted time,” which delivered Mr. Muggeridge in a state of disillusionment with nearly everything to the doorstep of the Thirties, The Infernal Grove is a further installment in mirthful woe. As our knight of the doleful countenance approaches middle age he finds himself condemned as a “moral leper” by exassociates on the Left because of his views on the Soviet Union. His satirical novel about Manchester journalism is suppressed on the threat of a libel suit. The opening pages find him working as a high-level propaganda man at the League of Nations, but reflecting on its vanities. Indeed, the completion of its symbolic Palais des Nations, a few years later, would coincide with the Armageddon of 1939: “While Hitler’s armies were actually roaring into Poland from the west . . . the League was in session in its new premises, discussing—the codification of level-crossing signs.”

It is the Muggeridge trademark, this dry chuckle of easy cynicism. At the picaresque autobiography, whizzing from scene to scene, Muggeridge is almost unbeatable. He has been fortunate; his adventures are real adventures. The centerpiece here is an account of his wartime years as a member of British Intelligence, MI-5, in Mozambique and France. His contributions as an agent, which are rendered with verve and wit, were minor but not contemptible.

EY

About the Author

Edwin M. Yoder Jr.

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Like his first “chronicle of wasted time,” which delivered Mr. Muggeridge in a state of disillusionment with nearly everything to the doorstep of the Thirties, The Infernal Grove is a further installment in mirthful woe. As our knight of the doleful countenance approaches middle age he finds himself condemned as a “moral leper” by exassociates on the Left because of his views on the Soviet Union. His satirical novel about Manchester journalism is suppressed on the threat of a libel suit. The opening pages find him working as a high-level propaganda man at the League of Nations, but reflecting on its vanities. Indeed, the completion of its symbolic Palais des Nations, a few years later, would coincide with the Armageddon of 1939: “While Hitler’s armies were actually roaring into Poland from the west . . . the League was in session in its new premises, discussing—the codification of level-crossing signs.”

It is the Muggeridge trademark, this dry chuckle of easy cynicism. At the picaresque autobiography, whizzing from scene to scene, Muggeridge is almost unbeatable. He has been fortunate; his adventures are real adventures. The centerpiece here is an account of his wartime years as a member of British Intelligence, MI-5, in Mozambique and France. His contributions as an agent, which are rendered with verve and wit, were minor but not contemptible.