1996
Sassoon: the Worlds of Philip And Sybil
by Peter Stansky
Describing these two shining stars from the East who arrived in this country apparently by divine providence, Peter Stansky has quoted from their many friends. Luckily the people who knew the Sassoons were famous themselves, so their thoughts are in diaries and memoirs from before the First World War until Sybil’s death, aged ninety-six, in 1989.
Their ancestors were devout Jews from Baghdad who settled in Bombay, traders who dealt in opium and skins. Six Sassoon brothers arrived in England in 1858 and immediately made their mark. Abdullah, soon to be Albert, was the first Jew to receive an honorary Freedom of the City of London and was made a baronet in 1880 as reward for good works. Albert’s son, Edward, married Aline de Rothschild and so the fortunes of the two great Jewish families were joined and, in due course, came to their children: Philip, born in 1888, and Sybil, six years younger. Their exotic background stayed with them for all to see and enjoy. They were at the core of what used to be called ‘society’ and set a standard of luxury and elegance slightly foreign to the old English families, who delighted in glimpses of a glamorous way of life which they did not go in for themselves.
Philip went to Eton. When his house was on fire he poured a bucket of eau de cologne on the floor of his room. Osbert Sitwell was his fag so presumably had to clean up the mess. In 1912, he became the youngest MP (aged twenty-four) winning Hythe, a seat he held for twenty-seven years. He was ADC to General Haig from 1915. Eyebrows were raised about a man of his age being safely on the staff while his contemporaries of promise were cannon fodder. After the war he passed, apparently effortlessly, as parliamentary private secretary to Haig’s loathed Lloyd George, a chameleon-like feat. He served both masters loyally.
At Trent Park north of London, at Port Lympne overlooking Romney Marsh in Kent and at 25 Park Lane, he lavishly entertained politicians of all persuasions, the royal family, writers, actors, musicians and artists, from Charlie Chaplin to the Prince of Wales – via the Sitwells, John Singer Sargent, T. E. Lawrence, Lytton Strachey and Noël Coward – to Mr and Mrs Baldwin and Lloyd George and his mistress. All were delighted to luxuriate in his company and eat his superb food, surrounded by works of art shown to me later by Sybil with the words, ‘These were my brother Philip’s things, they are the best of their kind.’
In 1924, his love of beauty led him to reface the sombre-looking Trent Park with rose-coloured bricks from the demolished Devonshire House, and to people it with statues from Stowe. At Lympne he took his guests up for a spin in his own aeroplane, to the fish market in Folkestone (in his constituency) where the fishmongers crowded round him; then polo, followed by a swim in the sea and a memorable dinner. His energy was frenetic.
The red-headed radical Labour MP Ellen Wilkinson recorded his arrival in the House of Commons, with ‘that fascinating lisp of his’, and continued, ‘If he would tuck up his legs and sit on the Big Table behind the Mace, with one finely carved hand on each brass box, he would make an appropriate Eastern altar-piece.’ In the 1930s, his service in the air ministry was dear to his heart, since he was himself an aviator. It was followed by the perfect appointment for him – the Office of Works.
Philip, the perfectionist, loved life and made the most of his glittering opportunities. In Rome he had audiences with the Pope, Mussolini and the King; he preferred the exquisitely dressed Pope’s ‘white flannel and sapphire’. His Holiness ‘kept me over an hour and rocked with laughter…so thankful to be with a heathen & not to talk Shop’. But in spite of the trappings, Philip, described so often as ‘oriental’, remained an exotic outsider – solitary in his invited crowd.
His adored Sybil (‘she is the most charming person in the world. I love her so much. I can never marry, she sets me too dizzy a standard’) must have made the stuffy ‘society’ of 1913 sit up when she married Lord Rocksavage to become mistress (and saviour) of Houghton Hall, from 1919 until her death.
In both world wars Sybil held high office in the Wrens. Years later I watched her, well over eighty, pulling on miserably thin blue gumboots for a day’s shooting on the frozen Norfolk plough. ‘Naval issue,’ she said, proudly. She was the best woman shot I ever saw, as easily in tune with the Houghton keepers as with the aesthetes of Kensington Palace Gardens, the Cholmondeleys’ London house. Her fifty-five-year marriage to the handsome Rock Cholmondeley, Lord Great Chamberlain, was a total success. She had a parade of would-be lovers, including Sir William Orpen (‘Old Orps’ as she called him), but Rock, her children and Houghton were the solid background of this fascinating creature who spread her aura over all lucky enough to know her.
If you want to escape from war, sex and shopping, join Philip and Sybil on their magic carpet and read this book.
April 2003
Animal Portraits
I wish James Lynch, a living Somerset artist whose work I love, would turn his attention to poultry. His three gouache pigs – a Gloucester Old Spot, a Middle White with fat cheeks and squashed snout, and a sleeping Tamworth – have been joined more recently by a Hereford bull in my bedroom at Bolton Abbey in Yorkshire.
Dog paintings are now high fashion. There is a goodly number at Chatsworth as the Bachelor (6th) Duke of Devonshire adored his dogs and had several of them painted, some by Sir Edwin Landseer. These paintings are a continual joy to me. One shows the duke’s Sussex spaniel, Tawney, by the Colosseum in Rome – said by his owner to be Tawney’s favourite resort.
I have added to my collection by buying at Bonhams’ ‘Dogs in Art’ sale, which takes place every January. Some of these pictures are in our Devonshire Arms Hotel at Bolton Abbey, where one of the sitting rooms is called the Dog Lounge. There is a pair of eager old-fashioned fox terriers, their studded leather collars giving away their date. The regulars seem to like them as much as I do.
I am a sucker for a sheep or a Shire horse. I remember Shires at work when I was a child. The smell of the leather harness mixed with that of sweat and new hay, and the feel of their coarse manes and tails, are such a part of my childhood that I delight in their likenesses now. I came across the crudely painted portraits of two turn-of-the-century beauties: Ditchford Princess and Lockinge Bay Leaf, with their irresistible manes and forms, standing four-square in their Warwickshire yard, a feathered leg at each corner.
And then there’s the work of Lucy Kemp-Welch. Carthorses with hemp halters and huge, patient heads – these are all that the heart could desire. Lucy’s illustrations for Black Beauty are extraordinarily moving, taking me back to being read aloud to and having to stop the reader when the tears came. I was lucky enough to get her watercolour, In Double Harness, which shows Black Beauty and his friend Ginger, every detail of the harness shining in pre-Great War perfection. In the same gallery hung its companion, It Was Ginger – the chestnut, her head hung low after long hours between the shafts of a hansom cab, has just been recognised by her old companion Black Beauty. Much as I would have loved to have both watercolours, It Was Ginger would have had to be kept out of sight, it is so sad. I wonder if anyone had the courage to buy it.
Pictures of sheep by Millet and Rosa Bonheur, which have been given to me as presents, complete my bedroom farmyard. A cheerful party to wake up to.
Surrounding myself with these things is a way of expressing my long-standing love of the subjects. Fancies change with the years but I am still delighted by them. The regrets are always for the opportunities that were missed.
February 1992
Motorways
In Derbyshire’s bleak midwinter it is a comfort to come indoors for good at 4 p.m., out of the half light and off the sodden grass, knowing that – chickens fed and dogs, alas, dead – I need not go out again till morning. Staring into the fire and wondering what next, I read a masterly review of a best-selling book on commas (name too difficult to remember). It set off thoughts of words and how oddly they are used or misused.
Motorways, part of everyday life
for car owners and lorry drivers, have a language of their own, invented by whom I do not know. Such roads are wider and faster (until bunged up) than little roads, but it would be easier, especially for foreigners, if their vocabulary were the same.
The part you drive on is called the ‘carriageway’. This is a misnomer because carriages are not allowed to use it. Nevertheless, carriageway is repeated ad infinitum down the length of the three-car-wide tarmac. Roadworks are part of the fun of a long drive, making little diversions from the dull old slog. After you have wriggled sideways, guided by cones standing shoulder to shoulder, and faced oncoming traffic uncomfortably close for several miles, you are ordered to ‘rejoin the carriageway’.
You begin to wonder if you will meet a four-in-hand, the coachman sitting high up in his many-tiered cape, top-hatted men travelling outside and crinolined ladies inside. At the service station there is a special place allocated to them clearly signed ‘Coaches Only’. Four fresh horses await the express coach to take it to the next stage. They are put to as in a scene painted by James Pollard, a barking terrier prancing round their feet in the atmosphere of excitement as the horses are changed in double-quick time, like the tyres on a Formula One car at a pit stop. Perhaps a phaeton will appear, one of those C-spring creations of delicate beauty, or a pair of Norfolk Trotters drawing a shooting brake. Black Beauty and Ginger trot past Junction 29, followed by Victorias and hansom cabs. Hackneys and Cleveland Bays are recognised as the elite of draught animals, while honest vanners pull vehicles with drop sides that provide all kinds of wares for sale in neighbouring villages. But this is all imagination as carriages are not allowed on the carriageway.
The next words to learn are ‘hard shoulder’. This is an important part of the road, running parallel to the carriageway but a sort of poor relation. It is meant to be a place to stop in an emergency. It is indeed hard but I can’t understand where the shoulder comes in. If it were a soft shoulder you could at least cry on it, which would help when in despair. It is no good leaning on this sort of shoulder as the police will move you on. If you lean long enough you risk being sectioned. Don’t try to sleep there. In spite of notices that crop up frequently saying ‘Tiredness Can Kill – Take a Break’, sleeping is against the rules.
You will be picking up the language quite well by now, but just wait. Suddenly a sign introduces another word, ‘chevrons’, with ‘Watch Your Distance – Keep Two Chevrons Apart’. It is followed by upside-down Vs painted on the road. Chevrons is not a word used every day so you stop on the hard shoulder to get the dictionary from the bowels of the boot in order to know what they are on about. The Shorter Oxford says a chevron is ‘a beam or rafter; especially in plural, the couples of the roof which meet at the ridge; a charge on the escutcheon, consisting of a bar bent like two meeting rafters, thus ; a distinguishing mark on the sleeve of a non-commissioned officer, policeman’.
Those who are not builders by trade may hesitate for a moment or two while they imagine how the beams and rafters of a roof meet. Having assimilated this (not too difficult but it does distract you from keeping your distance), you are then faced with the mysterious language of heraldry. ‘A charge on the escutcheon’ might be crystal clear to the compilers of Burke’s Peerage but rather obscure to the majority of lorry drivers. People over eighty who lived through the war may remember the marks like meeting rafters (or a charge on the escutcheon) worn on the sleeve of a non-commissioned officer – three for a sergeant, two for a corporal and one for a lance corporal – but the vast majority of the population have never seen them.
So that is the language of the motorway. I am thankful there are no hard shoulders or chevrons on the way to Bakewell and that the road is not a carriageway. Should you wish to travel by horse and cart you can.
Memorial Services
Memorial services have swum into fashion. I don’t know why because most of those remembered (with some notable exceptions) did not go into a church after they grew up, except possibly for their first wedding. The reason may be that, as death is against the rules now, the sight of a coffin at a real funeral is too much for the sensitive.
These gatherings used to be arranged only for prime ministers or for men who had spent their lives in public service. Now they happen for every Tom, Dick and Harry, and have spread to Thomasina, Ricardia and Harriet. They cause a lot of anxiety. There is doubt as to whether you should go to the funeral, which is sometimes for family only but is apt to include some friends, or wait for the inevitable memorial, or both. Do you count as a great enough friend to intrude on family-only grief or not?
I have never been to a memorial service that has reminded me of the deceased. They seem to be an exercise in social behaviour, the congregation meeting out of duty in the hopes of pleasing relations rather than from a wish to bring back the memory of the person whose name is on the service sheet. Often as not the officiating clergyman does not know the person but has to carry on as if he did and put on the sad face learned for such occasions at his theological college. The one who did know Harry/Harriet is the unhappy victim chosen by the family to give an address. For weeks this friend has struggled with what to say, how honest to be, or whether he should just deliver a eulogy and leave the intimates to think about what the deceased was really like. If the speaker makes jokes it can be acutely embarrassing. If he does not, there is no relief from the solemnity and he may leave out an important part of his subject’s character.
A grandchild, deeply fond of the departed and overcome by the occasion, the surroundings and the unaccustomed lectern, reads. Watching and listening can be as painful for the congregation as it is for the performer. Sometimes there are several readings. ‘Jabberwocky’ is fashionable just now. The old and deaf can hardly believe what is left of their ears.
Then there is the music. It has been chosen with great care by the nearest and dearest, and includes an anthem, which is a splendid chance for the little boys in the choir to show their skill and sing the high notes before their voices break. The anthem ensures you are in for a lengthy sit. There is no knowing how long it will last. The dangerous word is ‘Alleluia’, which is spun out far longer than you can imagine possible when you see it written down. What is more, it is repeated again and again. ‘Lo’ can rattle on a bit, but ‘O’ is the worst offender. Even when it has dropped its ‘h’ this single letter goes on and on, up high, down low, fast, slow, back to where it started, then up and down once more till you wonder what can ever stop it. In spite of the anthem, the service eventually comes to an end and you meet the family and friends on the steps of the church. ‘That was very beautiful,’ you hear yourself say, when you are thinking of lunch or the train.
Compare it to the burial service of the 1662 Prayer Book in Archbishop Cranmer’s magnificent language, moving and comforting – ‘For we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out’ – and the time-honoured ceremony ending in the churchyard, accompanied by sun, wind, rain or snow – ‘all ye works of the Lord’. We are reminded that golden lads and girls and chimney sweepers, and those of us in between, are not immortal. The coffin is lowered into the grave accompanied by the final farewell, ‘Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.’
Isn’t that good enough? Please, no memorial service.
OFTOF
We constantly read about the organisations that are meant to keep things straight for the benefit of those who use the relevant industries. OFCOM covers communications; OFGEM gas and electricity (but not jewellery); OFWAT, well, water of course; the aptly named OFRAIL; OFT, poetic for the Office of Fair Trading; and OPRA, nothing to do with music, pensions more likely.
Now we come to the latest and most far-reaching of all the OFs – OFTOF. The idea is to ensure that Old Etonians looking for work are seen off before getting to the interview stage. OFTOF will have already succeeded i
n blocking their progress to Oxford or Cambridge. Sometimes, in spite of this obstacle, the lads are accepted for an interview by a prospective employer. Then the pantomime begins.
It is against the rules to ask a prospective employee what colour they are, if they are married, have children or if they are a terrorist, yet it is allowed to ask if they’ve been to school and even to narrow it down and ask which school. Narkover20 is all right, of course, and Fettes, but if the word Eton should slip out, OFTOF is summoned immediately and the candidate is told to push off and on no account to reapply for the job under another name because the ghastly truth will out.
The OFTOF man may himself be a public schoolboy, even an Old Etonian, and be up to all the ruses learnt there. He will also know of the despairing parents who have scraped and saved to pay for their lad to get a good education, have sweated down the M4 for various school celebrations for five years only to realise that OFTOF has the whip hand and there is no hope of the boy finding gainful employment.
February 2004
Since this article was published, the OFTOF officials seem to be slipping as one or two top jobs have been landed by Old Etonians. What next?
Conservative?
How contrary the British people are and how we hate change.
When British Rail was just British Rail it was a joke, like mothers-in-law and piles. Now that it is ‘threatened’ with privatisation, it has suddenly blossomed into a loved institution bordering on heritage. Flowers have appeared on platforms and stations have been repainted as they were in the olden days. One London terminus even has a porter. Suddenly it must no longer be laughed at or, if it is, it must be in the indulgent way of a parent with a favourite child. Snow and autumn leaves on the line are excused as something to do with the environment and therefore sacrosanct.
All in One Basket Page 24