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Class Notes
Obituaries
Denis Ogan
Denis taught Modern Languages at Merchant
Taylors’ from 1952 to 1988, ending his career as
Second Master. He passed away in February
2015. Former pupil and colleague Charles
Watkins read this eulogy at his funeral
« Toute ma vie, je me suis fait une certaine idée de la
France. » It was November 1970, the day after Charles de
Gaulle died: the monitor in course had remained standing at
his place and Brian Rees had nodded to the imposing figure
of the Head of Modern Languages, “Ben” Ogan as we boys
called him at that time – an affectionate nickname that was
devoid of even the gentlest irony. That morning he read us
the opening lines of that famous passage of de Gaulle’s War
Memories: I was in the Sixth Form by then doing French
A-Level, and so was able to follow some of it but by no
means all – not that I was inattentive: the voice held one’s
attention, as did what I later came to realise was the pitch-
perfect pronunciation. It was when I scraped into Arts V A
that I first heard French spoken correctly. Denis didn’t just
articulate the strange sounds perfectly, he seemed almost to
taste them – I was immediately enthralled and never looked
back. As a teacher, he was inspirational in the best sense
of both meanings of that term: not only did he inspire his
pupils with a sense of the foreign culture, its difference but
also its accessibility, he also seemed to extemporize with
no notes and rely on the inspiration of the moment. Years
later, as a colleague after hearing him speak noteless at a
Common Room dinner with extraordinary fluency and wit,
I was let into the secret, initially by Liz, I think: he would
practise in the bath. But back in Sixth Form days, we needless
to say never imagined Ben in the bath. He would appear
in Room 3, striding across the room to the desk: book in
one hand, the other hand out to the side with fist slightly
clenched. And then would begin the day’s prose, or set-book
study. Well do I remember him letting us into the arcane
secrets of correct pronunciation (to pronounce the French
“u” say “oo” then try to say “ee” with your lips in the same
position – it worked and still does!); and also – to our feverish
excitement – revealing the sultry depths of eroticism hiding
between Racine’s alexandrines. But he wasn’t just preparing
us for A-level or Oxbridge, he was preparing us for life:
“Longtemps je me suis couché de bonne heure.” I can still
hear that first sentence of Proust’s In Search of Lost Time
as I heard it for the first time; his utterance of it seemed to
make it resonate with ambiguities, with the timelessness of
time itself. And of course Denis would pronounce “Proust”
« Proust » with phonetic perfection even in the middle of
an English sentence, with a slight pause before – to change
gear, as it were. Because one does change gear; frequently
when speaking a foreign language one can find oneself
adopting the vocal mannerisms of some native speaker
one has subliminally in mind. But for me as often as not it
is Denis who is there as prompter in the wings, still today
as I near retirement. But it wasn’t just future language
teachers he inspired; he inspired many who went into quite
different walks of life with a love of France and the French
language. Peter Stafford, to mention just one contemporary
of mine, has often told me that it was sitting at Denis’ feet
that inspired him to make his life in France and the French
business world after qualifying as an accountant in London;
he wrote to me to express his sadness at the news of Denis’
death. He writes “I can still recall a man of great charm and
kindness, and a superb teacher greatly admired by both
pupils and colleagues.”
Yes, and colleagues too were held in thrall, particularly
the younger generation. But Denis soon revealed himself
to be other than the rather distant figure some might have
imagined him to be. My apprehension on joining the staff had
been somewhat laid to rest by Stephen Higginson who had
been in the same position as me as prodigal pupil returning
to join the languages department in the late sixties. “You’ll
find yourself hanging around the Common Room the first day
or two not daring to go in,” he told me, “but that very soon
wears off and within few days you’ll be calling him Denis and
not Sir – you’ll find many of them different as colleagues, and
you might even get to like some of them!”
Of course Denis was immediately approachable; he was a
man of infinite patience with the failings of the young – boys
and colleagues alike. He always had time in the early days
to help one in one’s first faltering steps in the classroom and
was always ready to give what seemed like genuine sympathy
when one got the run-around from boisterous classes, which
of course one did. “Seemed genuine” because I find it hard to
believe that he ever had discipline problems himself; mind
you it would have served him right – one of his favourite
reminiscences of his own schooldays at City of London during
the war was of getting some unfortunate master to cower
under the desk by imitating the sound of an approaching
doodlebug; when telling this story, he would produce a deep-
chested Oganesque rumble (he claimed it was the whole
class, not just him) quickly followed by an irresistibly funny
imitation of the unfortunate victim, who, he would sheepishly
admit at the end of his story, was probably a shell-shock
victim from the First War. It was an impish side of him one
never suspected as a boy. The cruelty of the schoolboy had
however softened into the good-natured tease, who could
always deflate the pompous with gentle good humour.
His advice to young colleagues was often humorous too,
but above all it was driven by a concern for linguistic and
intellectual rigour as well as plain common sense and an
instinctive distrust of general pedagogical cant. Later in my
career at Merchant Taylors’ I suggested a new communicative
format for an internal exam: “Look,” he said in a rare moment
of slight impatience, “if you want to know whether a boy
knows how to say something in French the best thing to do is
to ask him to translate it”.
A devastating critique, you might think; but his critical
gaze was never inquisitorial and his remarks were never
inspired by malice nor did they show any form of aggression,
even in the quasi-military context of the CCF, in which he
commanded the naval section – or so I learn to my surprise
from Charles Hull who confesses to having shared hipflasks
of something strong with him in the freezing butts at
dreaded Bisley, where apparently Denis resolutely refused
to learn how to use a Bren gun by dint of a show of total
incompetence to the indignation of the Sergeant-Major and
to the huge amusement of bystanders. On this, to me, new
militaristic dimension of Denis’ life at the school, Stephen
Higginson wrote to Sarah, Charlie and me giving us a boy’s
eye view of Denis’ amused indulgence when inspecting his
troops – he concludes:
“There are so many moments which come back - all
reinforce an impression of an extremely civilised man who
cared deeply about many things but who observed life with
an amused detachment which rubbed off, their benefit, on
colleagues and pupils alike. It is a tribute to him that one
could indeed go on for hours…. I won’t, though!”
And so, like Denis, who despite his many talents was a
profoundly modest man, we must know when to fall silent.
Sarah, Charlie, it has been a great privilege to speak of your
father and to say something of what he brought to so many of
us at the school. For my part, all my life, I too have entertained
certain ideas about France, but also about the French
language and people, as well as of how to teach foreign
languages. Very often those ideas, and indeed ideas about
life itself, have owed a great deal to my long acquaintance
with your father, and I feel I can say alongside countless
classmates and colleagues down the years and generations
that we shall miss him, and that we shall long remember him
with gratitude, a smile and above all with great affection.
Charles Watkins OMT (1967-1971), MTS Staff (1978-1985)
... He was a man of infinite
patience with the failings
of the young – boys and
colleagues alike.
Concordia
Merchant Taylors’ School
Summer
2015