29 OCTOBER 1977, Page 5

Notebook

David Owen was surprisingly civil to me at a diplomatic reception at the Spanish Embassy, in spite of the very rude criticisms I have made of his handling of the Rhodesian situation. 'The great thing is to be able to talk without rancour', he said, bestowing upon me the same detente charm which had gone down so well in the Kremlin earlier in the week. I seized the opportunity of asking him why he had used the word 'surrender' — to which Mr Smith and his white fellow-countrymen had taken such Predictably passionate exception — in the very first paragraph of the British settlement proposals. Surely it would have been very much more diplomatic to have used some less emotive phrase like 'handing over power' or 'ceding power' — anything rather than 'surrender' which, to a man like Smith who had served in the war, could hardly fail to sound gratuitously humiliating.

To my surprise, the Foreign Secretary replied that he greatly regretted the use of the offending word, which had slipped in Without him or his officials giving it much thought. Indeed, so little had he been aware of its presence that when questioned about it later, he had actually denied that the White Paper ever contained the word. This would seem to acquit him and his Officials of any conscious desire to rub Mr Smith's nose in the dirt. But to have done so unintentionally is in a way even more unfortunate, since it demonstrates a degree of ignorance about white Rhodesian susceptibilities which bodes ill for the future success of the negotiations. The trouble, of Course, is that Dr Owen is too young to remember Winston Churchill's great 'we shall never surrender' speech; or even the effect on Germany's determination to carry on fighting of the policy of 'unconditional surrender'. For his generation the word means nothing more than what one does to a property title deed, an insurance policy or even a used motor-car.

At the same party I also had an exchange With the Prime Minister, who was even more civil, to the extent of saying how much he had agreed with a recent article of mine As I ought to have guessed, it turned out to be one in which I had poured scorn on Mrs Thatcher's idea of holding a referendum in the event of a Tory government being con fronted by a major trade union. 'Of course You were absolutely right', said Mr Cal laghan. 'If a Prime Minister can't govern Without such gimmicks, then he ought to get out'. I think this view is worth placing on record. Both my London clubs, the Garrick and the Beefsteak, have written to say that they are putting up their subscriptions. But in spite of the mounting expense I think I shall go on belonging, since for a journalist it really is an enormous convenience to be able to rely on running into interesting company without having to lay on anything in advance. Chance often does one proud. The other day, for example, I found myself at the same table with a Regius Professor of History, a High Court Judge, a theatrical knight and a Cabinet Minister. What a lot of planning that would have taken to organise off one's own bat, not to mention the expense. Even more rewarding are those spontaneous club groupings which no one would ever think of arranging on purpose, since in theory they would seem appallingly unpromising. I recall one such dinner at the Beefsteak, when the only other members present were the Duke of Devonshire, A.J.P. Taylor and Sir Arthur Bryant. The evening was a great success. On the other hand, precisely because clubs guarantee good company, they discourage one from making the effort to meet interesting people from outside the membership. It is so much easier to leave it to pot luck. And when one does make the effort, weeks in advance, to invite some senior civil servant to the Garrick for a private lunch, a deux, how frustrating it is to observe an infinitely more rewarding group gathering spontaneously further down the bar, in whose company one would have enjoyed so much more stimulus and pleasure.

Like everybody else I have been watching the BBC's new version of Anna Karenina on television. What a pity it is that there are now no young actors or actresses who seem to be able to capture the aristocratic style. Anna and Vronsky look inescapably sub urban. The older actors, Eric Porter as Karenin himself and Mary Morris as Vror nsky's mother, are fine, but not one of the younger ones looks or sounds at all right. The same was true of the Palliser dramatisation. So far as the young actresses are concerned, their faces are all pert and cute, not to say common, and the young actors look as if the only salon in which they might feel at home would be that of a smart hairdresser. Is this because aristocratic style is now so much out of fashion, so much against the contemporary zeitgeist, that producers cannot — or dare not — even imagine how it used to be? Or is it that the classless society simply does not any longer breed the right features? Drama schools should give this problem some thought, since although there may be no place for ladies and gentlemen in the real world, there is still very much a need for them on the stage.

I lunched the other day at the Dorchester with Sir lain Stewart, who is one of the hotel's non-Arab directors. He told me that the new owners are very popular with the staff, since they have insisted on radical improvements in all the welfare arrangements. The pension fund, in particular, has been greatly improved. This kind of sheikup was the last thing that anyone had expected!

Walking back to Fleet Street through the streets of Mayfair, I was accosted twice quite openly and in full daylight. This has not happened to me for years— not since the Street Offences Act which forced pros. titution into the shadows. Are the police now turning a blind eye because of being too busy with more serious crime? Or is there another explanation?

May I draw to the attention of the media a black South African author, Noni Jabavu, who arrives in London this week on a visit? Her two books, Drawn in Colour and The Ochre People, published by John Murray, were given a rapturous reception by the critics some fifteen years ago. But since then, nobody seems interested. Could this be because Noni is unique among black authors in being of a conservative disposition with little sympathy for the cause of Black power. Indeed, she even rather likes and admires white people. So no producer is going to run after her to get her on the box. What a pity, since it would be lovely to hear a black face saying something fresh and original, instead of all the usual claptrap about exploitation, self-determination and so on.

There is rather a surprising — at any rate to me — passage in the new and final volume of Richard Crossman's Diaries, in which he declares his intention of modelling the New Statesman — whose editorship he had just decided to accept —on the writing of a particular political columnist. Guess which one.

Peregrine Wo rstho me