DIARY
MARY SOAMES In the 15 years we have lived in Kensing- ton, Christopher and I have become great- ly attached to our particular 'village'. My dog (the Tudor Hound, Jubilee) and I are great walkers, and we have splendid parks within our paws'-reach: the nearest and our favourite is Kensington Gardens. It is a round-the-seasons place of delight for all sorts and conditions of men, women, chil- dren, dogs and squirrels (the latter surely being among the best fed in the world, and probably the fittest, as they are constantly chased — though never to my knowledge caught — by ever-optimistic dogs). Kens- ington Palace gives a human, domestic atmosphere to the over 200 acres of the Gardens, which were private to the Palace until Victoria opened them to her subjects.
In front of the east façade of this country-house-palace where she was born and lived until her marriage, is an enchant- ing statue of the Queen. It is high on the list of my favourite statues: executed by her daughter Princess Louise to mark Vic- toria's Golden Jubilee in 1887, I know few statues with such a presence. The then venerable Queen is shown as a young woman: crowned, bunned and sceptred, she looks away across the Round Pond, her head slightly turned to the right, Her Majesty's gaze thus evading a fully frontal confrontation — albeit at a distance with that mass of bronze muscle, which I categorically nominate my most un- favourite statue, G. F. Watts' Physical Energy', the original of which forms part of the Rhodes Monument on Table Moun- tain. The large nude rider on his elephant- sized horse shades his eyes from the setting sun, and seems on the look-out for his dis- tant Sovereign. I suppose the statue is meant to represent one of the qualities necessary for pioneers and empire- builders; but I must point out that both the over-muscled man and beast in one respect belie their description: to employ an ex- pression (taught me by my children, of course), it's all a load of Nato (in this con- text — No Action Talk Only). The equine has been ruthlessly castrated; and the rider whose masculinity so repellently vaunts it- self, is either a hermaphrodite, or was set on by the same vet as his mount. (I can reassure you, kind reader — I did not scale the massy bronze heights personally to car- ry out this somewhat pointless, not to say unseemly, piece of research: a taller com- panion confirmed my suspicions.) Of all the advice given to lovers in recent times, I rate the most foolish: 'Love means not ever having to say you're sorry': the heroine's touching conviction in Erich Segal's Love Story. Needless to say, I have blubbed my way happily through both book and film, but I fear this best-seller may have disseminated a foolish fallacy, and led astray a generation of lovers. It surpasses my understanding how a union of love can possibly survive without the wil- lingness (and the capacity) on both sides to say: 'Sorry'. From my earliest years I recall my father's belief in and practice of the Biblical injunction: 'Let not the sun go down upon your wrath': which, I suggest, is a more helpful counsel to those who seek to build a long and loving relationship.
W hat a great treat is the `Artist's Eye' exhibition now at the National Gallery the 'chooser' this time being Lucien Freud. Whoever thought of this device please take a bow — and more . . . more, please. Last winter it was 'Director's Choice', and showed 38 pictures chosen by Sir Michael Levey, the retiring Director, his favourites from among the pictures acquired for the National Gallery during his 13-year tenure. The artists, however, through whose eyes we may from time to time be permitted to look, can range for their choice over the whole collection. It is of course enormous- ly gratifying — at least for this gallery-goer it is — to see several of one's own favourites on view: and pleasurable and instructive to have hitherto unknown-to- one gems pointed out. Among my favourites in Lucien Freud's chosen 28 is magical 'Miss Cecily Alexander' by Whist- ler: I once met Miss Alexander as a very old lady: she said the sittings (or rather, standings) had been infinitely wearisome — and indeed there is a trace of despera- tion on that ravishing, childish face.
Another of my choices is Vuillard's `Mme Andre Wormser and her children'. This family group in their elegant salon distills the essence of the civilised life of the intellectual French haute bourgeoisie in the Twenties. The picture was the gift of the late Oliver Wormser, one-time Gov- ernor of the Banque de France — the young boy in the picture: my husband and I knew him as a man of infinite charm, sub- tlety and distinction. He joined General de Gaulle in London in the war, and shared our ups and downs: the picture is his tri- bute to England — a graceful and moving token of gratitude and admiration. My `new discovery', thanks to Mr Freud, is Cezanne's marvellous picture of his father.
Here is a nice distinction: France is now in `L'an II de la Cohabitation', with a Socialist President and a right-wing Prime Minister. Francois Mitterrand has main- tained to date a Sphinx-like mystery as to his intentions in the next Presidential elec- tions due in 1988. A little while ago, he drew a fine distinction when replying to a supporter who was urging him to stand for re-election: le vous entends, je ne vous dis pas que je vous &mite.'
Ido implore those pew-people (my newspeak — yuk) who still may moan ab- out the Alternative Service Book that they now cease their lamentations, and en- deavour with a good will to make the best of — not so much a bad job as just a middling one. The pew-person has gone quietly: yes I do actually recognise the dif- ference between Cranmer and ASB-speak, but I understand the other arguments and anyhow, I am not prepared to spend what is left to me of in-church-time kicking against liturgical pricks. One notices, in- cidentally, that the most vociferous objec- tors to the new liturgy are the occasional attendees. Of course, those of us old enough to have been reared on the old Bible and Prayer Books are greatly blessed — and it is those matchless words engraved in our memories from childhood that will come to our succour between the stirrup and the ground. Our generation of Angli- can churchgoers is doomed to a continuing malaise in our religious life — but just im- agine the trauma endured by those who lived through the weathercock changes in the reigns of Henry VIII, Edward VI, Bloody Mary and Elizabeth I, jolted from the 'murmuration' of the Mass in Latin to the vemancular, then back to Latin, and then English again: with stiff penalties, moreover, for non-compliance.
Ipersonally, simply cannot `get' the new Lord's Prayer; nor can I reconcile myself to addressing my Creator and Redeemer as `you' — so I don't. But I see in the news- papers that a move is on to get the 'old' Lord's Prayer (which has a universality all of its own) reinstated. A real case of 'If you can't beat 'em — join 'em'!
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