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Class Notes
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
Concordia
Merchant Taylors’ School