Long life
Simple pleasures
Nigel Nicolson
There is no doubt that if I were a Bosni- an Muslim, left homeless and penniless in a refugee camp, and a family in Velden, Aus- tria, offered to take me in, I would regard It as a greater blessing than Prince Jefri of Brunei must now feel on adding to his other houses and possessions the former Playboy Club in Park Lane and four special Jaguars costing £450,000 each. True luxury is not self-indulgence but a sudden change of miserable circumstances for a better.
I have been fortunate in that I have never faced starvation, prison, extreme Penury or pain, and the two moments when I have been in greatest physical distress were short-lived and paradoxically both on holiday. Walking through the Norwegian fjord country in 1956 I found the path blocked by a landslide and had to climb 2,000 feet to get round it. Night fell when I was still in desolate country far from the hotel where my wife was waiting for me. I tried to ford a torrent in the darkness, failed, and sat soaking on the bank where I was found at 3 a.m. by a search-party which she had organised. Our reunion, the mug of coffee and the hot bath combined to make a moment of exhilaration compara- ble to that which music-lovers must experi- ence at the climax of an opera.
The second incident was somewhat simi- lar. Sailing round the Ionian islands, I asked my friends to put me ashore on the southern beach of Ithaca from where I would walk the 15 miles to the northern tip and there they would meet me in the evening. All went well until I climbed the mountain beyond the island's wasp-waist and found myself in the midday heat snared by the clutching thorns of the maquis. I was like a gladiator caught in my opponent's net, still strong but helpless. How I suffered that day! Eventually I burst through to a track which led down to the bay where our boat lay at anchor and I swam out to it. The refreshing water and proximity of welcome made it a moment of unforgettable delight.
These may sound small incidents to trea- sure among the most memorable of a life- time. My ordeals, after all, were minor and very temporary. But in trying to define lux- ury I cite them as illustrations of the truth that nothing is more pleasurable than relief from anxiety, like waking from a night- mare. Raw luxury can be self-defeating. I would dislike nothing more than a footman standing behind my chair, a Jeeves asking which tie I wish to wear today, a game- keeper bothering me about partridges. Think of the misery of Consuelo Vander- bilt dining silently at Blenheim while her husband, the Duke, read the newspaper, and the prospect of having Edward VII to stay for six days, and then ask yourself whether you envy luxury.
I have never stayed in a five-star hotel, and do not want to. Twice this year I have risen to four-star (the Europa in Venice, the Sheraton in Los Angeles) and each time felt guilty for buying things I did not want, like exotic toiletries, 14 towels and piped music. A hotel room may have twice the comforts of the best guest-room but half the luxury. My home life is rich in small pleasures, but a week of subsisting on cornflakes and banana sandwiches ampli- fies the enjoyment of a good meal cooked by someone else. Reserve, I say, the capaci- ty to appreciate treats like a new car when you have only one or being promoted unex- pectedly from cabin class to club. Early one morning I escaped from an evil-smelling hotel in Monrovia, Liberia, and swam alone in the Atlantic breakers. Now that was luxury, free.
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