Curzon’s friends noticed a great difference when they first met him after Mary’s death. He had grown old and gray and inexpressibly sad. To talk of her, which he rarely did, or to come upon her photo suddenly, would bring tears to his eyes; and not long before his own death he told Consuelo Balsan: “I know that Mary will be the first to greet me in Heaven.”
His interest in life was partly renewed when in 1907 he was made Chancellor of Oxford University, and was quickened the following year when he beat Lloyd George in the election for the Rectorship of Glasgow University. Thereafter he made a hobby of buying and restoring ancient buildings, such as Tattershall Castle in Lincolnshire and Bodiam Castle in Sussex, and writing their histories.
Another occupation of the period may be described as curious. At some function in his fiftieth year he caught sight of a lovely and lively woman, and on inquiry learned that her name was Mrs. Elinor Glyn, who wrote novels in which red-hot passion was described in appropriate prose. Her hair, like her style, was colored red, and she provided books for the half-baked, the latest of which, called Three Weeks, was the talk of the hour, being devoured by everyone whose life had no resemblance to that of her passion-pulsating lovers. Curzon was instantly attracted to her and, on finding that Lord Milner was a great admirer of the lady, decided to displace him in her affection, though it appeared that Milner’s feelings, if passionate, were perforce platonic. Three Weeks had been dramatized, with Elinor in the chief part, and Curzon attended a performance, being thrilled to such a degree that he sent her the skin of a tiger he had shot, her emotions having been exhibited as the heroine of the play lay on a hide of that beast. She was clever enough to find out all about him before they met, and soon discovered to her delight that he realized all the attributes of her romantic heroes. Her fiery nature found in him her King of men, and though he was far more cautious he could not resist her appeal, taking the risk of living with her in Paris and asking her to stay with him at Montacute, his Somerset house.
Their love affair lasted for eight and a half years, and when her husband died she expected to marry Curzon, who had already intimated his desire to do so before that event but who now became evasive. The King had made him an earl; it seemed as if he might yet exercise some influence in politics; and when his daughters came of age he would no longer be in command of the money left them in trust by their Leiter grandfather, which meant that he would again have to find a wife with a considerable portion. Such considerations weighed with him far more than the thought of marriage with a woman whose passionate adoration made him feel slightly ridiculous; and just after the two had spent a weekend together at Montacute, she woke up one morning to read an announcement in the paper that her lover was engaged to be married to a rich American woman named Mrs. Duggan. This utterly unexpected blow bereft her of speech, but it did not arrest her pen, and she wrote blistering things about him to a friend. Each of them destroyed the other’s letters, but Curzon retained enough evidence to cause some awkwardness with his future wife.{11}
The outbreak of war in 1914 had not improved his position. He offered his services, which were declined by the Prime Minister, Asquith, and he contented himself with entertaining the King and Queen of the Belgians at Hackwood; but with the formation of the first Coalition Government he accepted the post of Lord Privy Seal, and it was clear that better things would follow. In the early stages of the war he met Grace, the daughter of J. Monroe Hinds, United States Minister in Brazil. Like his first wife, she was exceptionally beautiful, “another Helen” said someone. Her father, after serving in the Civil War, had bought property in Alabama and was part-owner of steamboats and stagecoaches. While serving as Consul in Brazil he married Lucy Triglia of Buenos Aires, and their daughter Grace was born at Decatur after her father’s return to Alabama.
In 1902 Grace married Alfred Duggan, a wealthy Roman Catholic of Anglo-Italian origin, whose family owned vast estates in the Argentine. Most of their married life was spent in England, where for a time Alfred Duggan acted as an honorary attaché to the Argentine Minister. They had three children, two sons and a daughter. On the death of his father Alfred visited the Argentine, where he remained for some time making arrangements for the disposal of the large property left to him. On returning to England he fell ill, and died in the winter of 1915.
Before his death Grace had met Lord Curzon, who had been instantaneously struck by her beauty and had managed to meet her on several occasions. When she became a widow, Curzon “tried to talk of marriage,” but as she was much younger than he and was enjoying her freedom she did not encourage him. Then, one summer day in 1916, he asked her to motor to Bodiam Castle. Stopping the car on the hill going down to the village, he made her climb the bank and enjoy her first view of the Castle through a gap in the trees. “I have that picture in my heart for all time,” she wrote nearly forty years later.
With the eagerness of a boy, he showed her all over the castle and told her of his plans for its restoration. They ate the luncheon they had brought with them at the Castle Inn, and drove on to Winchelsea, where they entered the church and sat in a pew. Aware of her deeply religious nature, he had chosen the spot with care and, in a manner consonant with the atmosphere, he asked her to become his wife. She wished for time to consider his proposal, but in a month or two they became engaged. No announcement could be made until she had broken the news to her mother-in-law, for which purpose she journeyed to the Argentine that autumn. Curzon’s old Oxford friend, Cosmo Lang, Archbishop of York, conducted the ceremony of marriage at Lambeth Palace on January 2, 1917, just after the public announcement that Curzon had become Lord President of the Council and had been appointed to Lloyd George’s War Cabinet. Though fully conscious of his highly emotional nature, Grace was amazed on arriving at the altar “to be met by George with the tears pouring from his eyes.” Unlike most Englishmen, he made no attempt to check his emotions, and a few years after their marriage Sargent’s portrait of his wife produced the same effect as her appearance that morning in the chapel at Lambeth Palace.{12}
She soon became accustomed to his other habits, such as his concern over the appearance of the footmen, which went to the length of parading a number of candidates in the hall of their London house, making them walk up and down to note their carriage, inspecting their hands to see if they were suitable for holding dishes. He insisted on the footmen wearing kneebreeches if the guests numbered fourteen or more, trousers when under that number. He was extremely fussy over food, and used to examine the jam and marmalade that was made every year.
In a sense he had chosen prudently. His new wife was not only beautiful but wealthy, and she made an accomplished and decorative hostess, a valuable asset when, as Minister for Foreign Affairs, a post he held from 1919 to 1924, he was forced to entertain on a large scale both at 1 Carlton House Terrace and at Hackwood. All the social and political leaders of Great Britain, to say nothing of foreign potentates and politicians, went to lunch or dinner at one or other of those places, a party in honor of the Prime Minister, Lloyd George, including the Dominion Premiers, the Salisburys, the Crewes, the Winston Churchills, the Selbournes, Arthur Balfour, John Morley, Lord Bryce, Robert Cecil, “old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all.” There were occasional contretemps, as when the Shah of Persia missed his footing on the last stair and bounced on the floor, or when the Queen of Portugal’s hat caught fire from the butler’s cigarette lighter; but as a rule the elaborate functions went smoothly.
In fact Curzon as a host was a more admirable person than Curzon as a politician. In the sphere of action he was excessively touchy, quickly hurt by fancied slights or criticism, deeply moved by praise and appreciation, and childish in his reaction to trivialities another man would dismiss as negligible. Harold Nicolson gives an amusing account of Curzon’s first appearance at the Foreign Office. Looking up at the stenciled cast-iron beams of the ceiling in his room, he said: “How ghastly, how positively ghastly!” As he partly retained the north-country accent, he pronounced
such words as “ghastly,” “brass,” “glass,” “class” and “ask” with a short “a” as in “mash,” which made his comments sound funnier than they read. Pointing to his writing table, he questioned George Clerk, the Principal Private Secretary, “And what, if I may ask, is that?”
“That, sir, is your writing table.”
“I was not referring to the writing table, Mr. Clerk. I was referring to that object upon its surface.”
“Well, sir, that is your inkstand.”
“My inkstand, Mr. Clerk? I am dumfounded. You assure me that this object is the inkstand of the Secretary of State? It must be replaced immediately. When I was at the Privy Council office I was furnished with an inkstand of crystal and silver. This contraption, if I may say so, is merely brass and glass.”
One story about him, since he enjoyed telling it, was probably invented by himself. On seeing a number of English tommies bathing in the vats of a large brewery behind the lines in Flanders, he said: “Dear me! I had no conception that the lower classes had such white skins.”
Such affectations made him seem different from the average politician, and his opinion of famous contemporaries suggests a superiority of mind that he did not possess. He thought Balfour callous, Birkenhead treacherous, Churchill bad-mannered, Derby incompetent, Lloyd George a cad—such opinions being colored no doubt by their views of him, for he too was at times callous, treacherous, bad-mannered, incompetent and caddish. But with politicians it is nearly always a case of the pot calling the kettle black. They are out for power and position and adopt any means to attain their ends. Curzon was more than usually tricky in transferring his allegiance from one Prime Minister, Asquith, to another, Lloyd George, keeping one foot in each camp in order to sidle easily onto the winning side, and earned the lasting distrust and dislike of certain potent persons in the political world.
Another of his faults was an inflated sense of his own importance, coupled with a childish reverence for rank. Penny pecunious and pound preposterous, he was as stingy as his father had been over sums another man would not have noticed, but spent fortunes over his own aggrandizement. Self-absorbed, he showed little consideration for others, mistook arrogance for good breeding, and was often rude to servants, whom he found it difficult to keep. A gentleman is as polite to a dustman as to a duke, and Curzon was not a gentleman in his treatment of those who were in no position to answer back. Though he quarreled with several old friends on returning from India, he was careful not to quarrel with Balfour, who could still be of use to him. As he was constantly in pain, some of his incivility was excusable; but it would have been less offensive if he had been impolite to people who could give him tit-for-tat. Occasionally, it is true, he played the hurt aristocrat with those in his own class, and when Margot Asquith implied in her autobiography that he was impressed by notabilities he never spoke to her again, cutting her dead when they were at the same gatherings. But as a rule his insolence was reserved for underlings, though he could be touchingly kind to subordinates he had heedlessly hurt if his callous behavior were drawn to his attention.
His ambition, like the pain in his back, remained constant to the end of his days. So much so that he ate mud under the leadership of Lloyd George rather than resign his office. He had resigned once—his resignation had, to his chagrin, been accepted with relief, and he determined not to risk another. Lloyd George affronted him in public and ridiculed him in private, interfering in matters that should have been dealt with by Curzon and making arrangements behind his back. But the Foreign Secretary swallowed his wrath in the firm belief that no one else could do the job as well as he. The eyes of the world were upon him in 1922 when he played the chief part at the Lausanne Peace Conference. He slaved at his work and displayed an exemplary patience, relieving himself by writing to his wife on Christmas Day: “I have often thought of you all during the day and realised that politics is a poor (even when it is not a dirty) game.”
Yet he still longed to be Prime Minister and believed that his way was clear when Bonar Law’s ill-health portended resignation in 1923. Austen Chamberlain had no desire to accept office, and no one else seemed to be in the running. During Bonar Law’s bouts of illness Curzon had taken his place at Cabinet meetings, and he was clearly the only possible choice for the premiership. He suffered spasms of agitation while the question was undecided, though complete confidence reigned between the spasms.
On Saturday, May 19, 1923, he left London for the Whitsun recess, going to Montacute. On the 21st he heard of Bonar Law’s resignation. He was thrilled. In the evening of the same day he received a telegram from the King’s private secretary, Lord Stamfordham, summoning him at once to London. All doubt vanished: the premiership was his. Next day he and his wife went by train from Somerset to London. During their journey they discussed plans, Curzon saying that he would only use No. 10 Downing Street as an office, continuing to reside and entertain at Carlton House Terrace. He thought it would be wise to retain the name of Curzon. They talked of Church appointments. The press comments that morning, the crowd of photographers at Paddington station and by the steps of his London house, showed what the world expected. They had lunch: they waited. At 3:30 P.M. Lord Stamfordham arrived, and explained with some embarrassment that the King had felt that the future Prime Minister must be in the House of Commons and had therefore decided to appoint Stanley Baldwin. After the shock of stupefaction, Curzon argued cogently against such an appointment; but Stamfordham could hold out no hope because, though he did not say so, Baldwin was already on his way to the Palace. Later Curzon discovered that pressure had been brought to bear on the King, not only by the Labour Party but by some of his own colleagues, above all by the sinister, secretive and bloodless Balfour. Baldwin himself had not been idle, and a memorandum stating his claims had been drawn up by a friend and seen by His Majesty. A combination of personal dislike and political convenience had prevented the King from doing what he had intended when the wire was sent.
Stamfordham’s words had a shattering effect on Curzon. For a while he seemed paralyzed by the blow. Then, alone with his wife, he fell into a chair and burst into a passion of tears. She tried to comfort him, but he felt like Shakespeare’s Richard II: “Of comfort no man speak.” He had overlooked someone who seemed to him negligible. “Not even a public figure,” he sobbed. “A man of no experience. And of the utmost insignificance—the utmost insignificance.”{13} When Baldwin read this revelation he remained unmoved, saying to his son Oliver, who passed it on to the present writer, “Yes, Curzon was excusably upset. He had failed to observe my possibilities.”
For some twelve hours Curzon felt overwhelmed by the disaster, being too much upset to meet the King and Queen at a dinner the following night; but he could not endure the thought of being a cipher in the House of Lords after conducting the affairs of the nation from the Foreign Office, so he bit the bullet, sent a congratulatory letter to Baldwin, proposed the election of the new Prime Minister as leader of the Conservative Party, and accepted office as Foreign Secretary in the administration of the man whose insignificance was so palpable.
With the resignation of the Government early in 1924 he left the post, and when the Conservatives were returned he became Lord President of the Council. “As you know,” he wrote to his wife, “I would never have swallowed what I have done or consented to take office again, were it not that you so strongly wished me to do so.” This can only have been partly true, but he was beginning to feel the need of retirement to Kedleston, whence he had written to her three years before: “I would love it the more with you.”
His second wife, like his first, recognized his dominion in the home, and knew that he would not be happy unless he could supervise everything. Pointing to a pile of books by the bedside of a female guest, she said: “George has chosen them, so you will like them. I had myself selected the books to be placed in every visitor’s room, but when George inspected them he decided that I had not correctly assessed the literary tastes of our ex
pected guests, and after sending a footman with a tray to collect the books he made a new selection.”
His fussy, peremptory and pompous nature soon got on Grace’s nerves. He expected her to be like his first wife, adoring, self-obliterating and submissive; but she could not live up to his expectations. Being twenty years his junior, she demanded a livelier existence than the one he offered. Although during their absences from one another his letters commenced “My darling Girl,” hers “My darling Boy,” they were apart too often for his peace of mind. He said that he missed her more than he could express, and she said that she was proud to belong to him. When she wired him on the seventh anniversary of their marriage, he assured her that he would marry her “1,000 times over again,” though he admitted that they had experienced some trouble, while she confessed that their “little disturbances” had been mostly her own fault.
The first of these little disturbances concerned Elinor Glyn. She had heard that they had been meeting one another again. He denied it and asserted his absolute fidelity to her. His love of Kedleston was not shared by her, and she took no interest in the improvements he was making there. She enjoyed gadding about, giving entertainments and going to parties and races, and when she could not do so there were scenes and sulks. He wrote to her regularly; she replied infrequently, and occasionally her letters were “nasty.” She did not want him to spoil the fun at Hackwood and once refused to let him visit the place on the anniversary of their wedding. She made all sorts of excuses not to accompany him when he had to attend a Conference or go for a health cure. The yearly sum of £5,000 which she allowed him was sometimes late in arrival, and on one or two occasions, in a fit of petulance, she instructed the bank not to honor her checks. She was capable of leaving him in solitude when he felt miserable and ill. He bored her with what she called his “Curzon-like manner” and she was inclined to side with his daughters when there were disagreements over money. He complained that she took no interest in his doings or in the state of his health and that all her affection was given to others. She merely replied that his charges were absurd and that as they could not live in harmony together they had better stay apart as much as possible. He longed for a son, but she could not give him one, though she suffered a long period of mud baths for the purpose at a German spa, not to mention operations and other methods of assisting pregnancy. This luckless circumstance, added to his ceaseless idolization of his first wife, doubtless exacerbated their temperamental discords.
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