Diary

It may be art, but this is theft

TRADITIONALLY tolerant towards readers who do not return their books on time, the London Library may now be regretting its easygoing lending policy - no fines, no pack drill - following the discovery that books worth at least pounds 100,000 (according to one dealer, pounds 400,000) have been stolen from its fine art room. Detectives from Scotland Yard's fine arts and antiques squad have been called in to investigate, and the library - which prides itself on its gentlemanly style of service - concedes the theft of the books may have been an inside job.

The losses came to light 11 days ago after an anonymous tip-off from someone describing himself as a friend of the library. The library was yesterday still unsure how many books had disappeared - they were stored in a separate room - but it is believed that at least 40 major books have been stolen. These include Campi Phlegraei, a history of volcanoes on Sicily by Sir William Hamilton, estimated by one book dealer at pounds 90,000, and A History of Monuments of Central America by Frederick Catherwood, valued by the same dealer at pounds 45,000.

An inauspicious start then for librarian Alan Bell, who took over last September. He confirmed there had been no sign of a break- in, agreed there was a possibility that a member of his staff could have been involved, and announced he was 'reviewing and adjusting our security procedures'.

HE MUST have had his reasons, although it's not immediately apparent why an American scholar has spent 15 years counting every word and letter in the Old and New Testaments. For the record, here are his findings: letters - 3,566,480; words - 773,693; verses - 31,102; chapters - 1,189; books - 66. Oh, and the word 'Lord' occurs 1,855 times.

A diplomat, Nott

ASKED what they most remember about Sir John Nott's political career, many will plump not for his role during the Falklands conflict (Defence Secretary) but the manner in which he stormed out of a television interview after being described by Sir Robin Day, perspicuously as it turns out, as 'a transient here-today and, if I may say so, gone-tomorrow politician'.

Twelve years later, Sir John has returned to the fray. Incensed by a recent Jon Snow grilling of Michael Portillo on Channel 4 News, he rang Snow after the programme, opening the conversation, according to Snow, with the gambit 'You are a smug . . . ', followed by a word beginning with 'p' which need not detain us here. This time, however, the story has a happy ending. The two were later spotted making up in what has become a socially acceptable, if repetitive, form of words: 'It was my fault', 'No, no it was mine', etc.

TRUNDLING home across his 8,000-acre Hampshire estate the other day, Lord Montagu of Beaulieu was driving one of the newer models from his private collection of cars, and experiencing some problems with the road. As casually as he could, his passenger remarked upon the number of potholes.

'Why don't you fill them in?' he asked. 'Because,' quipped Lord Montagu, 'it's far cheaper to replace the car.'

Too many notes

ENGLISH opera lovers have a right perhaps to feel more than a little envious of their New York counterparts. London's Royal Opera House is, I gather, inundated with post awaiting processing for the Great Placido Domingo Ballot - he is coming to sing in Bizet's Carmen here in May. To see the great man, his English fans will have to pay pounds 260 for a Grand Tier seat, pounds 187 for a stall, and pounds 45.50 for a seat in the amphitheatre. Now in New York, you could see him - from the stalls - in Verdi's Stiffelio at The Met for a mere pounds 70.

NOTICE over food bar at a pub in north Devon: 'Do not touch this food.'

A DAY LIKE THIS

10 February 1966 Ned Rorem writes to the Sunday Review: 'Truman Capote got two million and his heroes got the rope. This conspicuous irony has not, to my knowledge, been shown in any assessment of In Cold Blood (Capote's 'factual novel' about a brutal murder). That book, for all practical purposes, was completed before the deaths of Smith and Hickock; yet, had they not died, there would have been no book. The author surely realized this, although within his pages it is stated that dollars 50,000 might have saved them - that only the poor must hang. Now, I am suggesting no irresponsibility on the part of Capote other than as a writer: I am less concerned with ethics than with art. Certainly his reportage intrigued and frightened me, and certainly he presented as good a case against capital punishment as Camus or Koestler. But something rang false, or rather didn't ring at all. His claim to an unprecedented art form gives cause to wonder.'