City and Suburban
By JOHN BETJEMAN THIS week I went straight from St. Cuthbert's, Philbeach Gardens, round the corner to the Motor Show. One lives by contrasts. St. Cuthbert's is vast, impressive, glowing with marble, rich with carving, without one square inch of undecorated space. Rich, ritualistic aunts of a long-dead West Kensington have given their devotion, their jewels and silver and gold to adorn the building. They have given their religious paintings, too, which are let into the carved walls. The huge lectern by Bainbridge Reynolds in a nouveau-Viking style amazes one with its beaten copper and ironwork and leather- work. This great church is certainly more memorable than the Motor Show. Besides that, it is, soaked in prayer, which the Motor Show is not.
THE NEW /ESTHETIC
At the show r only saw three salesmen with handlebar moustaches. The fashion must be declining. On the other hand, a little Ford car coloured cream had golden tyres, emulating Lady Docker and, I thought; distinctly effeminate. Most people, particularly the women, seemed to be collecting free brochures. I did not hear anyone order a car. All I heard were remarks like 'A complete break with tradition'—and this was said not by a precious old wsthete like me, but by a tough, middle-aged egg in a trilby and mackintosh. An even tougher man talked about 'glorious lines' and 'eau de nil,' and he was certainly no interior decorator. I think aesthetic appreciation in Britain has turned from buildings and scenery to the lines and furnishings of motor-cars. It is by no means dead.
LOOK THY LAST The Central Electricity Board, which never consults any voluntary or official body concerned with the preservation of what is left of our scenery, is to erect a power station at BradWell, in Essex, and another at Berkeley, in Gloucester- shire. Both districts have easily injured skylines which the immense btilk of a power station, however much arted and tarted up by architects, will ruin for ever, changing the whole characters of the districts for miles around. Take your last look at the elms and little hills and wide estuaries of eastern Essex. Have your last unimpaired glance at the clustering ancientness of Berkeley Castle.
CULTURE FOR FOREIGN STUDENTS Last Sunday I succumbed, not for the first time, to that shocking form of self-indulgence, reading my verse aloud to an audience. It was in part of the Royal Festival Hall. a sort of ante-room with accommodation for small audiences for unpopular things like poetry. The audience was marvellous. and I strutted about like a peacock, eaten up with my own compositions and thrilled by an unwonted sense of oratorical power. Shall I go on the halls, I thought? Or stand for Par- liament? Suddenly my balloon was pricked. There in the middle of the second row was a man reading a book. Well, I thought, perhaps he's following the verses in the book itself. He must be a very keen student of my work. I went on reciting with more animation still, and looked again and saw that he was not reading my book, but some sort of travel pamphlet with photographs. In the interval I hurried down to the bar and was waylaid by a young lady asking for an autograph. She was accompanied by the pamphlet-reader. I made some pleasant remark to him, only to find that he was a Turk who did not understand a word of English. Why had he been brought? British Council'?
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