Spectator's Notebook

Beverley Nichols is the first of a number of guest 'Spectators,' distinguished writers and public figures who will each be invited to contribute the Notebook for a short period.

Selling a picture at Christie's, as I have just discovered, can be, for the owner, a moving eicoerience.

The picture was a Pannini, and since it has hung over my piano for many years, it has been the object of much homage, mostly in the form of Chopin etudes. It was Lot 71 in the catalogue, where it was described as "A C apriccio of Roman Classical Ruins with

, rigures by broken Friezes in the foreground, and Woods beyond." It was also described as "The Property of a Gentleman," which one would like to believe was an accurate appellation. And the reason ,why the gentleman was selling it was because ne — or rather I — had to raise rather a large

,511111 of money for the renewal of the lease of ;_lis cottage. This will expire in the year 2004, °Y when I shall be over 100, so, as they say, it Should "see me out."

The sale began at 10.30, so I got to Christie's at 10.20, walked up the historic staircase and

took a seat at the back. The first thing that struck me was the unexpectedly humdrum

LaPPearance of the audience. There were no

oawk-nosed dealers in fur-collared coats, no sinister adventuresses, glistening with

diamonds. There was not even, if we may be frank, a superfluity of "gentlemen." Most of the bidders looked as though they had drifted ,toto a supermarket, lured by a cheap line in umo.

The callous throng

Then the sale began, arid suddenly there Was tension. The hawk-nosed fraternity emerged and grouped themselves in strategic Positions, and several quite passable adventuresses drifted in, swathed in mink. The auctioneer seemed in a terrible hurry, but his expertise was favinating. An almost imperceptible nod from a hawk-nose and he had advanced by 200 guineas, a flash of a diamond bracelet and we were 500 guineas ahead.

But it was when the Pannini appeared that felt a tug at the heart-strings. At the risk of sounding unbearably whimsical it seemed to be reproaching me. For so many years it had hung in solitude, serenaded by music and now • .. here it was, held aloft in the market place, being stared at by a callous crowd who might not understand it nor treat it kindly.

However, there was no time for whimsy. The reserve was £1,250. In what seemed a few seconds the price went to 2,000 guineas, 2,200, 2,400, 2,600. And then ... bang. Sold. Goodbye Pannini, Exit gentleman in search of a drink. But it was some time before he got ve. For as socn as he reached the bottom of the staircase the alarm bells went off. Had somebody Pinched something? Was it a bomb? We shall never know, We wandered about for half an hour, deafened by the clanging of bells. Meanwhile, upstairs, the auctioneer, with exquisite sangfroid, continued his business With the remaining pictures. As usual, 5,000 guineas, 5,500, 6,000, 7,000 etc etc. Christie's has something in common with the theatre. Whatever happens, it seems, the sale must go on.

High cost of eating

In celebration of the sale — though 'celebration may not be the right word for this rather melancholy occasion — I took an old friend out to lunch, by name Sir Geoffrey Harms

worth. Many years ago we shared a little house in Westminster, where Geoffrey had a small study in the attic where he used to supplement his income by typing articles, at two guineas a time, for a magazine called Everybody's Weekly. This may seem a singular occupation for a nephew of Lord Northcliffe, who presumably would not be interested in such paltry amounts. But Geoffrey, at that time. was obliged to be interested, though his journalistic genius. today, has carried him to more exalted financial spheres.

At the end of luncheon, in a not very grand restaurant, we both delivered ourselves simultaneously of a sentence of seven words that is made at least once a day by the vast majority of the British population. The sen tence, of course, is "I can't think who has the money." This was inspired by the bill. We had potted shrimps — the cheapest item on the menu — a slice of fish with a salad, and two cups of coffee. This banquet, which could scarcely be described as Luctillian, was _

preceded by a couple Of dry martinis and aecompanied by half a carafe of vin rosé.. The bill was just under £15.

Well, I do wonder. .. who has the money? How do they make it, how do they keep it, and how do they spend it? In order to have £15 in my pocket I have to earn at least £24, which means that if I wish to gorge myself in this manner every day on potted shrimps etc — which would almost certainly bring me out in a rash — 1 have to set aside a sum of more than E6,000.

The grand manner

A man's money is as interesting as a man's soul, and usually more so. Since we seem to have drifted into a discussion of money, food, and newspaper proprietors, this might be the moment to mention'that the richest man with whom I ever dined was the legendary William Randolph Hearst. His wealth — and the menu — was symbolised by the manner in which the Metro-Goldwyn dining table — about 100 yards long, with a footman behind each chair — was decorated. Confronting me, as I took my seat, lay a full-sized stag. But not merely a stag. That would have indicated austerity. The stag's posterior was piled over with dead plovers, still wearing their sad plumage, and somebody — though not presumably Mr Hearst in person — had tied scarlet carnations to the antlers, As Mr Hearst rightly reminded us, over the priceless Napoleon brandy, it was Christmas Eve, When a little extravagance was surely called for.

Circus turn

I like this outrageousness. Capitalist system or no capitalist system, there will always be these engaging monsters, flaunting their riches, grinding the faces of the poor, riding hell-bent through the respectable structuras of the Welfare State. Their total expenditure, if distributed to the people (whoever the. ' people ' may be) would possibly add one millionth of one new penny to the income of the old age pensioners. Meanwhile they provide us with a colourful item in the circus of life, and, of course, an invaluable fund of indignation for the leading clown, Mr Wedgwood Benn.

Calender month

Tom Driberg once suggested that the ideal columnist is the man with a Multitude of minor interests rather than the man with a few absorbing passions. Fanatical pacifists, teetotalers or anti-pollutiOnists are apt to become a bore. But the man who is equally excited by harpsichords. home-made wines, triangular Capes, Spanish omelettes, busschedules and cruelty to goldfish, will always command an audience.

If this is true, I am the ideal columnist. Which is a shameless excuse for mentioning that one of my own passions is Cats, and that the Beverley Nichols Cat Calendar is now on sale at reputable stationers. This glittering compendium of highly coloured felines has a curious history. Some twenty years ago, Richard Dimbleby was approached by a small firm of publishers who wanted him to do a Dog Calendar. He agreed, on condition that I should also do a Cat Calendar. We started off from scratch, literally and metaphorically, with a sale of 5,000 copies. Then, as the years 'went by, Richard's dogs began to falter, and finally fell out of the race. But the cats forged ahead. 10,000 copies, 20,000, 30,000, 40,000, 50,000. And if the Japanese come up to expectations . . . (for your information the Japanese have suddenly gone mad about cats, which is one of the few gleams of light on the international horizon) . . . heaven knows where it will stop.

Purrs and claws

Needless to say, I hope that it will never stop, not only for my own sake, but for the sake of mankind in general. We live in an age when we are being wrenched, more and more brutally, from our animal origins. We'are being fed, more and more brutally, into the Machine with a capital ' M.' We are in desperate danger of forgetting that, when all is said and done, we are only animals on two legs. Animals with purrs, and animals with claws. Both of which, in the weeks ahead, I propose to employ to the best of my ability.

Beverley Nichols