Then back to the Armory for the Inaugural Ball. This time no traffic jam and we arrived without difficulty. All the seating at floor level had been removed and a vast dancing floor put in its place. Shown to the president’s box again, where we sat until someone said there was drink and a telly in a room at the back. So we made off there and saw Mrs David Bruce, a friend of Nancy [Mitford]’s, rather beautiful and probably coming to London with her husband as ambassador. Without any warning, the president suddenly walked into the room and was taken off to a television interview next door. Meanwhile we watched his inaugural speech again on the telly.
Back to the presidential box to watch the dancing, which didn’t happen because everyone stood looking up at the box, waiting for Jack to appear. When he did he got terrific applause. He didn’t go down to the dance floor but talked to various people along his row. Wherever he goes he is like a queen bee, surrounded by photographers, detectives, nexts of kin and worshippers. By this time, we were sitting in the topmost tier just below the roof. As Jack came back along the first row, fenced in as usual by humans, he saw us, broke away and climbed over seven rows of seats to say goodbye, to the utter astonishment of the people sitting either side of us. A photographer who had got, as he thought, a very bad place and who had been grumbling, was now able to take the closest close-up of all.
I told Jack about Unity [Mitford]’s letter of twenty-one years ago saying how he was going to have a terrific future. I also asked him if he knew Harold Macmillan and he said he was going to see him soon. We said how we were loving everything that had been arranged for us, to which he replied that we’d stuck it well. He and Jackie then left. We waited till some of the crush had dispersed and thought we’d leave too. Andrew went out into the bitter night to look for the chauffeur – no sign of him. Eventually he was found, the car had broken and there we were with no hope of getting home. After an hour and a half the chauffeur suggested we take Labour leader Mr Gaitskell’s car and send it back for him. By a miracle we saw Gaitskell among the 10,000 people there and thankfully squashed into his car, me sitting on a drunken lady who answered ‘balls’ to everything I said.
Saturday 21 January
We went to the Senate the next day, taken by a new senator’s wife who had lunched at the embassy. Hideous place; they each have a desk and chair, like in school. Andrew went into the Chamber (they have a reciprocal agreement with members of certain foreign governments) and two senators immediately launched into speeches of welcome. I was sweating in case he would make one back but he only bowed. Good old Andrew.
The upshot of the whole outing is two new bodies to worship – Sir Harold Caccia and Jack Kennedy. I’ve written him a letter beginning ‘My Dear Jack’. I do hope I won’t have my head cut off for impertinence. One of the comical things was that Andrew had some secrets from Harold Macmillan to tell the ambassador and nothing was said until we all went to bed on the last night, when I heard them talking in the passage outside my room for hours. I can see that’s the way things are done in high life, very odd.
President Kennedy’s Funeral, 1963
President Kennedy was murdered in Texas on 22 November 1963 and his funeral was held in Washington three days later. Andrew and I were offered places in the plane chartered for HRH Prince Philip, who was representing the Queen, to attend the funeral. Also on board were the Prime Minister, Sir Alec Douglas-Home, and Lady Home; the Leader of the Opposition, Harold Wilson; the PM’s private secretaries, Sir Philip de Zulueta and Sir Timothy Bligh; Prince Philip’s valet and three girl secretaries, two of whom had stayed with us at Bolton Abbey and Chatsworth when working for Harold Macmillan. After the funeral, I made the following notes.
Sunday 24 November
Left Chatsworth with Andrew at 12.40 to drive to London airport. Found Mr Wilson in the VIP lounge. Talked to Marie-Louise de Zulueta, who had come to see her husband off. The PM and his wife arrived soon afterwards. Prince Philip arrived exactly on time. We got into the plane at 4.50 and took off at 5.10. There were headwinds of 140 mph that slowed us up and the flight took nine hours.
It was a huge Boeing 707. There were 150 empty seats behind us – something I have never seen before. Prince Philip called us up to his seats in front and asked Mr Wilson to join him for dinner. I sat next to Wilson with the Prince opposite, and Andrew sat with the Douglas-Homes on the other side of the aisle.
My lot started talking about aeroplanes (a safe subject, I suppose) in such an incredible, almost technical, way that it was quite impossible to listen to them and I found my mind wandering. Wilson had such dirty fingernails it put me off dinner. I wished I was with Andrew and the Homes but kept thinking how extremely odd the company and that I ought to be interested, but it was impossible to be so. Wilson has a level, grating voice and podgy face with a too small nose. After dinner tried to sleep a bit.
When below was all lights on the east coast of America, the sad reason for the journey hit me again and I dreaded arriving. We were met by a ‘mobile lounge’, a vast bus-like thing with room for many more people than we were. Our ambassador, David Ormsby Gore, and his wife, Sissie, looking red-eyed and worn out, the secretary of state, Dean Rusk, whose face was puffed up, and some others welcomed us on the tarmac and joined us on the bus.
At the terminal were the Commonwealth ambassadors, including nice George Laking from New Zealand with whom I’d had tea on my last visit. Television cameras and lights, then a procession of about six cars with police sirens at front and rear. Twenty-two miles into Washington and no stopping at red lights. It was a strange feeling arriving at the embassy. We had a drink and short talk in the drawing room before, thankfully, going to bed.
David said that Bobby Kennedy was taking the brunt; not only was he bitterly sad himself and having to deal with arrangements that were chaotic because of everything being at such short notice, but also he was the one person who could comfort Jackie. He said that General de Gaulle was the only head of state who had demanded to see Jackie, so she said she would see them all. Jack’s belongings have already been removed from his office and bedroom and the White House has taken on a deserted look.
Sissie said that Mass at the White House for friends and the Catholics who worked there was the most tragic thing she ever saw – everyone crumpled with grief.
Monday 25 November
Prince Philip, the prime minister and David left for St Matthew’s Cathedral before we did, as they were to walk in the procession from the White House. Andrew and I, Sissie, and Prince Philip’s ADC left at about 11 a.m. Brilliant sunshine, frosty day with bright blue sky. We arrived at the Cathedral without a hitch. It is not very big and has only about 2,000 seats. We were all seated separately as the pews reserved for friends were already full. I was on an aisle, having arrived late, and the people already in the pew moved up for me. Prince Philip seemed very far towards the back of the church. Apparently he had no seat and the Douglas-Homes had moved to make room for him.
When I could bring myself to look round, I saw Jayne Wrightsman and behind her Fifi Fell, as beautiful as ever. There was no music for a long time. I never saw so many sad faces and when Jack’s great friends came in – Bill Walton, Chuck Spalding, Evelyn Lincoln, Charles Bartlett, Arthur Schlesinger, MacGeorge Bundy – it was too much. Then the family arrived with Jack’s two little children. Rose Kennedy looking small and hunched and Bobby too. Eunice, Jean and Pat with no veils but wearing black-lace mantillas, their faces set and staring and so so sad.
The coffin was carried by eight soldiers. It was impossible to believe that the vital, fascinating and clever person was shut up in that box. Quite impossible.
The service, luckily, was incomprehensible and the cardinal faced the altar most of the time. No agonising hymns, so it seemed far away and impersonal. There was Communion in the middle and quite a lot of people besides the family went up to the altar. On our way into the church, the Scotch pipers had played very fidgety music, as had the military band. We heard afterwards that it was be
cause they do not do a slow march here, so it does not sound nearly as solemn as in England.
On the way out of the church, the overseas visitors stopped several times and for a full minute General de Gaulle stood next to me. He has the strangest appearance I ever saw – very tall, yet collapsed somehow and a long ugly nose. Haile Selassie looked fine – small and beautiful. The rest looked as they do in their photographs.
Our car arrived wonderfully quickly and we followed the procession to the cemetery. When it began to go at a slow pace, the secret service men – who were guarding Prince Philip, Alec Douglas-Home, De Gaulle and the Canadian prime minister, Lester Pearson – all got out and walked three-a-side of each car. There were crowds all the way for the three miles to the cemetery, which is on the side of a hill and beautiful. We arrived just as the last part of the service had begun. Aeroplanes flew overhead, including the president’s plane that we’d seen at Lincolnshire airport in June when Jack came to Chatsworth. Prince Philip was jostled to the back again, behind a lot of soldiers, so he was not among the foreign visitors when they came away from the grave. The Russians were completely enclosed by secret service people. I saw Colonel Glenn and that ghastly Queen of Greece with her dangling earrings, and many famous faces mixed up with police and hangers-on, who were all ambling about in the bright sun waiting for cars. Jackie looked tragic, with tears glistening on her veil, and Rose so very pathetic. The Kennedys are so good when things are going well but they are not equipped for tragedy.
We drove back to the embassy through thinning crowds. There was a great sense of sorrow and emptiness everywhere. We drank a lot of tea. I was very tired, as were all – we had left at 11.00 and got back about 4.00. Andrew went up to change and pack. Prince Philip went to Lyndon Johnson’s reception at the White House. We watched it on television and, as usual, De Gaulle hogged the limelight. He arrived late so there was much speculation as to where he was and, when he did arrive, all was focused on him. The TV commentator was not too nice about Prince Philip or Sir Alec. Andrew and the Prince left for New York in an air-force jet and then on to London on a scheduled flight, Mr Wilson in tow.
The Canadians came for dinner – Ambassador Charles Ritchie with his talkative wife, Lester Pearson and his wife and their foreign secretary, Paul Martin, who had to go to the lav in the middle of dinner. David and Sissie looked slightly better, I thought. The very fact of having to have people in the house is probably a good thing; having to go on with ordinary life, though the outlook here is very bleak for them. They came and talked for ages in my room. Very, very sad, but we talked about other things. I wonder so much what David will do. No doubt he will have to stick out another year as ambassador here, which must be an awful prospect. It will be very difficult working with the new administration – no intimacy, no shared memories and no jokes.
Tuesday 26 November
The prime minister went to see Lyndon Johnson and came back saying he was friendly, tried to make a good impression and said that he would carry out Jack’s foreign policy, etc. David said the White House was completely changed. Jackie had wanted to move by today but has put it off till Friday.
I went over to Eunice and found her perfectly extraordinary, laughing almost as if the thing had never happened, yet talking about everything in the past tense. We walked round her house about twelve times. How awful to live in a place where you can’t go for a proper walk. Horses and dogs everywhere and one little boy aged about three. Bill Walton came for lunch, so nice, and both were wonderfully cheerful and talking about a memorial for Jack and what it should be. They suggested a long street from the White House to the Capitol, paved in different colours and with graded heights so people could see processions etc.
It seems Jackie has been extraordinary, planning everything with Bobby to do with the funeral. She was even laughing about going to see Johnson as the widder woman with lowered eyes and asking him to carry on various things Jack had been interested in. She is going to live in Georgetown it seems.
I left with Bill, having telephoned Bobby who said I could go and see him. His house is near the road and had a few sloppy policemen outside it. A man opened the door in his shirtsleeves. Jack’s special assistant, Kenny O’Donnell, was there. Bobby and Ethel have built on a big drawing room, a lovely room, where there was a cot for the new baby. Ethel came in looking about seventeen – it’s impossible to believe she has eight children. She’s so terribly nice and good. I love her. Then Bobby arrived in a dressing gown which did not reach his knees and all hairy like an animal from top to bottom, but a v. lovable face and stout legs. I did not stay long. The house was in turmoil, telephones going everywhere.
Back to the embassy. Much chatting with Elizabeth Home, who is cast in the same mould as Dorothy Macmillan – a large reassuring body and great niceness pervading all. Johnny Walker, director of the Washington National Gallery, and his Scottish wife came for drinks. Then the Russian ambassador, Anastas Mikoyan, suddenly turned up with interpreters. An odd roomful.
For dinner came Joe and Susan Mary Alsop, Ted Sorensen – Jack’s special counsellor – and his girlfriend and Bill Walton. Sorensen scarcely spoke all evening. Sissie says he is one of the worst affected of all. I sat next to the prime minister. He says his brother, William Douglas-Home, has written a play about a peer who gives up his title to become PM. What a surprise. Had a talk with Joe Alsop after dinner about Mollie Salisbury and Pamela Egremont and their different roles in life. Everyone left quite early and we went to bed because of the early start. Somehow the atmosphere has lifted a bit but I would not stay here for anything and long to get out of it.
Wednesday 27 November
Called at 6.45. Quick breakfast downstairs with everyone. Sissie and David came to the airport in an overheated mobile lounge and suddenly the atmosphere was like that at our arrival. Did not say much. Felt David so overwhelmed again with pent-up emotion. He kissed me goodbye – something he has never done before. I feel a strong bond with him. He loved Jack so much and saw the funniness better than anyone.
I do not know what I remember most about these strange two days, which is all it was though it seemed like three months. Perhaps it was three-year-old John Kennedy leaving the church, touching the flag on the coffin and being led away by some huge man, followed by a sobbing nanny; or General de Gaulle standing just by me as he waited for the heads of state to leave the church; or Prince Philip’s stern blue look as he stood in the same place while tears poured down my face; or Dean Rusk all crumpled when he came to meet our PM; or Chuck Spalding and Bill Walton as they arrived at church; or Fifi Fell’s beautiful face in a trance at the end; or David and Sissie, blotchy and thin – I came away feeling so terribly sorry for them that words were impossible. The light has gone out for so many people and for David and Sissie it has been a hammer blow.
Besides the secretaries, there were only the Douglas-Homes, Liberal leader Jo Grimond and me in the PM’s vast chartered plane on the way home. Went across the aisle to talk to Mr Grimond, who is charming and woolly and hopeless but sees the point, very quick. The four of us had lunch together. It was dark outside because of the time change. Any strain there may have been soon wore off. We had a friendly talk as politicians do with people of opposing convictions, yet there sat the man, Grimond, who is probably going to do-in any chance Home has of getting back at the next election. Sir Alec’s sweet string vest showed through his shirt. He has a strange, saintly streak, so quiet and calm and good. When Elizabeth Home and Jo Grimond were talking, the PM said he had wanted to make David OG foreign secretary but Rab Butler had said he wouldn’t serve unless he was given the job. Home evidently has a tremendous regard for David. His patience is extraordinary.
About half an hour before we were due into London, a message came to say there was fog and that we would have to land at Prestwick or Manchester. I said do let’s go to Manchester and all come to Chatsworth for the night. They politely said they must get back to London whatever happened. In the end we made for
Manchester. I repeated my invitation and sent messages for cars to meet us.
We arrived at Chatsworth at about 11 p.m., after what seemed an endless journey. House floodlit. Dennis, Bryson and Henry standing at the door. It all looked warm and welcoming. The only sad thing was no flowers in the rooms. Jo Grimond, Harold Evans – the PM’s public relations adviser – Timothy Bligh and Philip de Zulueta all turned up. Sir Alec said if he crept into bed and lay very still we would not have to change the sheets for Princess Margaret who was coming the next day.
I so wished they could have stayed the weekend but they were called at 6.30 and to catch the 7.24 train. They arrived and left in the dark.
‘The Treasure Houses Of Britain’ Exhibition In Washington
On 31 October 1985, I was lucky enough to go to the National Gallery of Art in Washington for the private opening of ‘The Treasure Houses of Britain: 500 Years of Private Patronage and Art Collecting’. It was the culmination of nearly five years of planning for the organisers. The director of the gallery, J. Carter Brown, is a young man of great energy and knowledge, both directed at the success of his gallery. He has a love of England and English things and has long been fascinated by what he has seen in houses here.
In summer 1981, Carter Brown and his wife stayed at Chatsworth for a weekend and later he told me that the idea for the exhibition came to him then. He wrote to Andrew soon afterwards to enlist his support and no doubt also wrote to many other owners, most of whom were willing to lend. One of the difficulties was the timing. Nearly all the houses are open for six or seven months of the year and could not spare their best things during that time, so Carter Brown was limited to the winter months for his show.
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