DIARY
DEBORAH DEVONSHIRE Isuppose our friends are as honest as the next lot, but it is odd how books disappear. Not the fat and heavy biographies of politi- cians in two volumes which no one could read in bed (or out of it), but the attractive ones you pick up over a weekend and don't have time to finish. They vanish like sum- mer snow and although I sometimes search every room in our huge house I never find the missing loved one. So I have resorted to selfishness, gathering irreplaceable volumes in my room where it is unlikely that anyone would bag one, even from the pile on the floor. Perhaps my unstealables would not appeal to everyone. Fowls and Geese and How to Keep Them (1935, 1/6d and worth every penny); Book by Lady Clodagh Anson and Another Book by the same author — classic descriptions of Anglo- Irish life before the Great War; nice, thin 1930s Betjemans, Continual Dew and Mount Zion; the real Oxford Book of English Verse on india paper; the poems chosen by that professor whose name is a mixture of duvet and sofa, Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch; What Shall We Have Today? by Marcel X. Boulestin (what did X. stand for?), and The Life of Ronald Knox given to me by good, kind Evelyn Waugh, who knew I can hardly read, so mercifully the pages have no words on them. They are all blank. A book which would disappear by next Monday if left in a visitor's room is A Late Beginner, Priscilla Napier's autobiography. Brought up in Egypt and seeing the pyra- mids black against the sunset from her nursery window, she asked, 'What are they for, Nanny?"Tombs, dear. Where's your other sock?' You can't do better than that and I do not want to lose it. The works of George Ewart Evans are next to The Secret Orchard of Roger Ackerley by Diana Petrie, White Mischief, The Prince, the Showgirl and Me, The Day of Reckoning, Rio Grande's Last Race and books with pages covered in Print, dash it, by E. Waugh, P. Leigh Fer- mor and J. Lees Milne. Most precious is The Last Train to Memphis: The Rise of Elvis Presley. If that goes I give up.
Last week I went into the garden to look at something the hot weather has brought out. While I was staring at it and thinking of nothing in particular, there was a rush of wings and a murderous sparrow- hawk dived from nowhere and caught a blue tit which let out a small bird's version of a scream. The hawk, usually so precise in its fatal sweep, somehow entangled itself between a rose hedge and a yew hedge where my ancient spaniel was happily mousing. His reaction was to grab the hawk, thinking, I suppose, that it was that bird of very little brain, a pheasant. I nearly got to them, but, alas, the old dog realised his mistake after a vicious nip from the hooked beak, and the hawk extricated itself. It flew away to catch and pluck while still alive its daily ration of three songbirds plus a racing pigeon or two, so precious to their owners. Parliament has decreed that these hateful creatures are 'protected'. If the spaniel had hung on would he have been sent to prison for killing it? I must ask our policeman. It never ceases to surprise me that the same people who enjoy watch- ing the violent and often revolting wild life films of birds and animals disembowelling one another on the telly are against fox- hunting and for hawks and the other disem- bowellers. The Great British Public is very contrary. So are our legislators.
Ihave been in America and enjoyed myself enormously, but I find the language is getting difficult. An advertisement in the Wall Street Journal reads: 'Need a hand when figuring out where to open a Roth IRA?' I certainly would, and I bet you would too. Advertising an expensive raffle: `See Jackie O's necklace in person at the following locations. . . . ' President Clin- ton's little local difficulty had just hit the press and produced some memorable stuff: `Miss Lewinsky lied and lied again and thought her credibility was being ques- tioned.' Ms Goldberg, Linda Tripp's liter- ary agent, was quoted as saying: 'I told her to sleep on it. This is not something that ladies do, to tape each other.' I agree with Ms Goldberg, but I know I'm old-fash- ioned.
The purpose of my visit was to give some talks. I boldly spoke on Hardwick Hall to a delightful audience in Los Ange- les, who politely listened to the story of that extraordinary house. Afterwards I met some of the audience to answer their ques- tions. One asked if there are facilities at Hardwick Hall. Not sure what she meant, I said 'No', in case she arrives in the summer hoping for massage, pools and hairdressers. Many were keen students of books written by my sisters Nancy and Jessica and wished to know more about the Hons Cupboard. A sad-looking lady asked me if I had been denied education. Afraid so, I said. 'And your father, Lord Rheenstein. . .
No one told me how pretty the country is around Los Angeles. The steep valleys and immaculate gardens are very attractive but you never see anyone about. I won- dered about the right to roam and if one could go for a walk through the prickly scrub on the hillsides. No one knew. Per- haps no one has tried. I was dumbfounded by the 200-acre garden at the Huntington Library. Closely planted cactuses from the desert are within shouting distance of a val- ley thick with camellias as shiny-leaved as those which grow in the mists of Ireland. How is that done? In Pasadena there is an English tea-room run by expatriates, called Rose Tree Cottage. So popular is it that you must book for the twice-daily teas where you sit surrounded by Derby china, Marmite, marmalade and pictures of Wind- sor Castle. What impressed me most about the new Getty Museum was not so much the building, its situation or the wonders to be seen there, but the unforgettable sight of John Walsh, the director, holding open a swinging door for ages while a torrent of people of all shapes, sizes and colours poured through, ignorant of his identity. He must be the reason for the wonderful atmosphere which hits you as soon as you enter the tram to go up the mountain. It is all the more surprising for a brand-new building. Other museum directors, please note.
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