Long life
Great celebration
Nigel Nicolson
The ballroom at Grosvenor House is our nearest equivalent to the 18thscentury Assembly Rooms at Bath, York and else- where. It is the perfect stage for conspicu- ous display, whether of beautiful people in beautiful clothes, or to celebrate a great occasion like the National Trust's cente- nary last week.
I first entered it as an ageing debutant. Many of us who served abroad in the sec- ond war had missed the short period between university and real life when days were given up to sport and nights to danc- ing, and we returned as veterans to snatch a few hours of pleasure in places like Grosvenor House, enjoying brief moments of exultation until rejected by the girls whom we most admired.
My next visit to that great room was very different. It was a grand luncheon given for U Thant, the Secretary General of the United Nations. As chairman of the UN Association, I was host. At the start of the luncheon a note was passed to me: 'There are six members of the League of Empire Loyalists present, and they intend to make trouble.' The League was a body of mili- tants who believed that membership of the UN was incompatible with loyalty to the Queen. If they shouted down our guest-of- honour, they would attract the publicity they craved. I consulted Harold Wilson, then Prime Minister, who was sitting on my other side, and suggested that I should announce the presence of the Loyalists, and give them a minute to shout what they had come to shout, hoping that they would then leave U Thant in peace when he rose to speak. Wilson, with an apprehension that I shared, agreed. The Loyalist spokesman, taken aback, uttered some of the imprecations that he had prepared, and then dried up. 'Come on,' I said, 'you have another 30 seconds.' (I had been taught this trick by Michael Foot.) He was unable to fill the gap to any effect, and then sloped out with his disreputable companions, to the derision of the audience.
If this story sounds like boasting, it is intended to be boasting, for it is one of my few political triumphs of which I still feel proud, and I recalled it when I returned to Grosvenor House last Thursday. One looked down from the balconies on 50 cir- cular tables suffused with an aquamarine glow from concealed lighting, so that before the guests took their seats the room had the appearance of a moat covered by floating water-lilies. It was beautiful. A huge backcloth behind the top table depict- ed an imaginary landscape, as if by Rex Whistler but actually by Peter Rice, on which was set a selection of N.T. castles and country-houses. Everything looked most expensive, but British Airways were paying for it and even provided the band. The champagne was Pol Roger.
A critic might have had his view con- firmed that the National Trust is elitist; a friend would reply that elitism in this con- text is a benefit not a crime. Men outnum- bered women four to one (wives were rationed), titles proliferated, the tables were named after many of the finest estates in England and the best speech was made by the young Duke of Westminster, whose ancestor helped found the Trust exactly 100 years ago on this very spot.
And then there was the Prince of Wales. Scarred by a skiing fall, tortured by disclo- sures about his private life, he trails a wisp of suffering and sympathy wherever he goes. But this was an occasion to give him solace. Consider urban architecture, he said; pay attention to nature conservation. We applauded. Two days later his valet betrayed him. How carefree in comparison are the lives of the obscure, even if once a girl walked away from us on the dance- floor, or once we were faced by a bunch of angry loyalists.
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