The countryside’s eternal youth

I once witnessed a rarer spectacle than Halley’s Comet. I heard Ted Heath tell a funny story. It related to the mid-fifties. Le grand épicier, then chief whip, found himself bear-leading Field Marshal Montgomery on a visit to a racecourse. Pol Roger, a horse belonging to Churchill, was expected to win. The principles of betting were explained to Montgomery, who declared he would wager sixpence on Winston’s horse. Intakes of breath all round. Someone suggested sixpence would not quite do. Monty then agreed to hazard half a crown.

There was only one problem. The nag did not oblige. In the face of defeat, some losers would have taken the war to the bookies — and become compulsive gamblers. Not the Field Marshal. From the way he moaned for the rest of the afternoon, it might have been assumed he was condemned to a penurious old age. If he had not been a great man, there would have been plenty of volunteers to fish for a half-crown and shove it at him, saying: ‘Take that and shut up.’

I remembered that story the other afternoon as we drank Polly Roger at Glyndebourne, before a performance of La traviata. I cannot make up my mind about that entertaining work. As I have never seen a musical I may not be entitled to an opinion, but I have always assumed that, on an intellectual level, a lot of Italian opera is not far above the best musicals. The death of Violetta ought to make one’s eyes scent onions. Perhaps mine eyes have become old and leathery and cynical, but they stayed dry. I could not help feeling she was being an unconscionable time a-dying. Come on, girl: get on with it.