The Marrying Americans

by Hesketh Pearson

  Mandeville was made a bankrupt in 1889, and on the death of his father the following year he became the eighth Duke of Manchester. He promptly turned over a new leaf, ceased his connection with Bessie, and apparently settled down to a respectable family life at Kimbolton Castle. Bessie immediately entered an action against him for sums he had borrowed from her. He refused to admit that she had lent him a penny, which was probably true because she freely distributed cash among those who caught her fancy. A periodical called The Dwarf, owned by a man who had a poor opinion of the Duke, made imprudent comments while the case was sub judice. As a result of his indiscretion, the proprietor had to apologize and pay the legal costs. Again the Duke suffered the blaze of publicity and his wife endured a period of privacy. As he spent some time in Australia during 1891, while Consuelo was staying with friends in Paris and elsewhere, the picture of domestic harmony at Kimbolton was somewhat distorted.

  The Duke died in August ‘92 at Tandragee Castle.

  Consuelo had inherited her brother’s property, valued at over two million dollars, which she generously divided with her sisters, one of whom was Lady Lister-Kaye. In the matter of wearing apparel Consuelo remained erratic, and once on her way to a Court ball she told her companion in the carriage that her stays were so tight and tedious that she intended to dispense with them, which she did there and then, pulling them out over her breast after much twisting and wrenching.

  In addition to the capricious conduct of her husband and son, she had had to sustain the loss of her twin daughters; but she accepted the tragedies of life with serenity and death with composure. Everyone who knew her well mourned her departure, which took place at 15 Grosvenor Square, London, in November, 1909. She left over seven hundred thousand pounds in England and America.

  Her eldest child, Kim, became the ninth Duke of Manchester on his father’s death in ‘92, he being then at Eton College, aged fifteen, and trustees were appointed to manage the estate. He inherited Kimbolton and Tandragee Castles, but he also inherited a quantity of debts. Much of his childhood had been spent at Tandragee, where he developed a great admiration for his father, whose physical courage appealed to the lad. A man cannot possess every quality, and if overgifted in one direction he is usually undergifted in another. Kim’s father exhibited bodily fortitude to his son, mental insensitiveness to his wife, but a five-year-old boy notices the first quality, not the second. Wishing to make a man of Kim, his father taught him to swim by taking him out in a boat to the middle of a lake and flinging him in. Having a strong wish to survive, Kim floundered about in the water, somehow kept afloat, and lived to relate: “When my father thought I was full enough of water, he yanked me back into the boat and emptied me out.” He learned to ride in an equally Spartan manner. His father placed him on an unsaddled pony and gave it a whack, which sent it away at a gallop. Kim fell off; his father gave him a whack for being so stupid; and the performance was repeated until he could keep his seat. “In my boyhood,” Kim declared, “children were brought up on serjeant-major lines, and were drilled into decent members of society.” His own life illustrated his conception of a decent member of society.

  As a young man he visited America several times, and like many another young man in his position he made remarks which were widely reported and distorted. One of them was to the effect that if he could not marry a Vanderbilt or an Astor he was undone. His dukedom was not worth a penny, said he, but he hoped to sell it for a million; and his cardboard coronet was in the market for anything it would fetch. Whether or not he said such things, they were put into his mouth, and he became the joke of Newport society. But he did not mind being laughed at if only he could get an heiress, and he played up to the part assigned him by the press. Somehow it got into the American papers that the wages of the housekeeper at Kimbolton were in arrears, that she had been compelled to buy food and drink for her master’s guests with her own savings, and that when she threatened proceedings for the recovery of the debt the Duke had accused her of pinching the spoons. On one of his arrivals at New York the gossip-writers enlarged on the reason for his voyage and suggested The Duke and the Ducats as a good title for a forthcoming Newport romance. For two or three years his search was unrewarded. Perhaps the wealthy beauties of Newport felt disinclined to share the ridicule to which he had been exposed. But at last he found a girl willing to take the risk.

  She was Helena, daughter of Eugene Zimmerman, a not very prominent millionaire of Cincinnati, a director of railroads, a proprietor of coal and iron districts, and a considerable holder of Standard Oil Company stock, but unknown in New York society. Helena’s maternal aunt, Effie Evans, favored the match and did her best to arrange it. Under her auspices the Duke met Helena at Dinard, and as Miss Evans was a journalist the newspapers of America were soon in a position to couple the names of Kim and Helena. The aunt managed to get the Duke a job as reporter on the New York Journal, and in that capacity he tried to discredit the scandalous stories associated with him. He had been accused of infatuation for leading actresses and famous heiresses. He denied the charge, and most of the gossip. Unfortunately, Kim had a reputation for handling the truth carelessly, and as press reporters are not notable for accuracy we must assume that he had provided groundwork for their fancies.

  Eugene Zimmerman disliked all this publicity; indeed he preferred his wealth to remain unknown, his house at Cincinnati being unpretentious; and the idea of having a duke for a son-in-law made no appeal to him. But Kim felt certain that his future father-in-law would act generously if once the deed were done, and persuaded Helena to marry him secretly at Marylebone Parish Church, London, in November 1900. The news leaked out and Kim’s mother, Consuelo, was asked if it were true. She stated flatly that it was false, and showed displeasure at the bare suggestion of such a marriage. But wishing to feel convinced on the point, she called at the church, saw the register, and felt convinced. The officiating clergyman then explained that a friend of the Duke had made the arrangements, describing Miss Zimmerman as an heiress with £10,000 a year and unlimited prospects, admitting that her parents did not know of the marriage, but producing the Archbishop of Canterbury’s license.

  The newspapers, prompted by Kim, spoke of the union as a love-match, and though he had expressly stated that he had no hope of a dowry he was extremely relieved when Eugene Zimmerman ate his words, said that he had never disapproved of the match, and described as rubbish the story that he would cast his daughter off if she married against his will. The thought of a loving welcome from a wealthy parent abbreviated the honeymoon which Kim and Helena spent in Ireland, and they sailed for America, where Mr. Zimmerman received them with apparent pleasure, detectives kept an eye on suspicious characters, and reporters fired off a barrage of questions. Kim explained the presence of the detectives to the pressmen by saying that the party had been threatened with a hostile reception in the form of bad eggs.

  Eugene Zimmerman proved a good father-in-law: that is, he instantly paid the Duke’s debts, amounting to a hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars, and settled a large income on the pair. He also footed a considerable bill when the Duke and Duchess of Manchester received King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra at Kylemore Castle in County Galway, Ireland. This expensive four-day event took place in 1904, and created a sensation in the American press. In those days the entertainment of monarchs necessitated much forethought. The railway station had to be enlarged and decorated and furnished with awnings and carpets. Presents had to be given to the King and Queen. Carefully picked guests had to be invited to share the festivities. The food and wines had to be of the best. And so on. Bills for something like a hundred and fifty thousand dollars were sent to Mr. Zimmerman, who paid up like a man, though he probably tried to think of it as an investment. The only noticeable return he got from the speculation was the appointment of his ducal son-in-law as Captain of the Yeomen of the Guard in 1906.

  Kylemore Castle had been built by a Manchester cotton magnate named Mitchell Henry. It w
as in the worst Victorian style and cost him over half a million pounds. Eugene Zimmerman bought it for about seventy thousand and gave it to his daughter in the hope that her hospitality would be on a large scale. It was. Half the British aristocracy stayed there at one time or another for shooting or fishing or hunting, and Helena herself liked it better than Kimbolton or Tandragee. It continued to be their main country residence for the rest of their married life. But Kim was no more able to exist in a state of domestic bliss than his father had been, and they traveled about the world a good deal before their divorce in 1931. That same year he married Kathleen Dawes, but Helena waited six years before marrying the tenth Earl of Kintore.

  A year after his divorce Kim issued a book which he called My Candid Recollections. It did not live up to the title so far as his own experiences were concerned, but it gave a few sidelights on his character. He combined a certain shrewdness with a kind of asininity peculiar to his type. In illustration of the second quality, he wrote: “Now I am going to make a somewhat startling suggestion: I am going quite seriously to suggest that this leader whom Britain so sorely needs should be a sportsman.” Had he studied history at all closely, he would have known that Great Britain has been misruled by sportsmen for several hundreds of years. Against that piece of stupidity we have a prognostication quite remarkable for 1932. He knew he would be laughed at for the sentiment, he told his readers, but referring to Winston Churchill: “I believe he may yet live to be the salvation of the country.”

  Kim lived to see it, dying in 1947.

  CHAPTER 8—Love at First Sight

  Mary Endicott and Joseph Chamberlain

  By way of contrast with youthful aristocrats in pursuit of money let us glance at an elderly politician who was caught by love. On November 26, 1887, there was a big reception at the British Legation in Washington. It was held in honor of Joseph Chamberlain, who was on a visit to the United States in order to negotiate a treaty in connection with the North American fisheries. Already he had been struck by the beauty and mental alertness of American women; but now he was introduced to one who added charm and sympathy to those qualities and he fell in love with Mary Endicott, daughter of Judge Endicott, then Secretary of War in President Cleveland’s first administration. Her age was twenty-three, his fifty-one.

  Chamberlain had made a lot of money as a screw manufacturer in Birmingham, where he was extremely popular on account of his municipal activities, having been elected mayor three times in succession and cleaned up the slums of that city. In spite of his republican views, which earned him the dislike of Queen Victoria, he received a ministerial post under Gladstone, but later split the Liberal Party over Irish Home Rule, and the Tories under Lord Salisbury took office. At the new Prime Minister’s request, Chamberlain undertook the job of trying to settle the dispute between the United States and Canada over the northern fisheries, and he arrived at New York as Chief Commissioner for Great Britain on November 7, 1887, having been through the fairly common experience of making what the skipper of the boat described as the worst passage across the Atlantic in his memory.

  Up to date Chamberlain’s domestic life had been both happy and tragic. In 1861 he married Harriet Kenrick, who died in ‘63, having given birth to a son (Austen) and a daughter. In 1868 he married Florence Kenrick, cousin of his first wife, who died in ‘75 after producing a son (Neville) and three daughters. Following the death of his second wife Chamberlain tried to forget his sorrow by doubling his activities. He felt that he was fated to face life alone, and he had no intention of marrying again. But fate disposed otherwise, and Mary Endicott produced in him all the symptoms of love at first sight. He soon left the spot on which he had been standing to receive people at the British Legation, joined her, and they talked together until he was reminded of his social obligations to others. He could not help thinking of marriage, but wondered whether he dared take the risk, lest another wife should die too. He became a frequent guest in the house of her parents, and someone remarked that “he fairly chased all the young men away.” Trying to describe her, he said that he had met a lady by Reynolds or Gainsborough who had walked out of her frame. Soon she began to return his affection. His conversation was so vital, he showed so much interest in so many things, he was so “light in hand,” that she never felt the difference in their years. Of course the newspapers were soon full of gossip. They were seen together so often that the columnists felt sure they would soon be together forever.

  Like many lovers before and since his time, Joseph felt convinced that Mary and he had been made for one another; and when the Treaty negotiations were at their worst, and it looked as if his visit had been a failure, he told her, “You are the real Treaty; the other does not matter”—a sentiment that would scarcely have appealed to Lord Salisbury. All the same he did not neglect his duty. In common with so many distinguished visitors to the States, he became one of the most popular Englishmen who had ever been entertained there; and he was duly impressed by Niagara Falls. A very youthful fifty-one, he danced with women half his age and dined with men young enough to be his sons, and never seemed tired. People often asked him to explain his perpetual youth. “No exercise and smoke all day,” he replied. He maintained an equable demeanor all through the ticklish discussions over the fisheries, but at one moment threatened to break off negotiations, which brought the others to their senses, and the Treaty, as agreeable to each party as any treaty can be that is fair to both, was signed on February 15, 1888. It was a personal triumph and he admitted that he had “stood the racketting as if I were 25 instead of something that I had rather not recall.”

  Perhaps the real secret of his eager youthful appearance and quick excitable manner was the sudden realization that he was more deeply in love than he had ever been before. Quite unable to check his emotions, he asked Mary to marry him and instantly followed her acceptance by asking the permission of her parents, receiving their consent just before the other Treaty was signed.

  The Endicotts were an old New England family, the first of them having arrived in 1628, becoming Governor of Massachusetts and being independent enough to resist the Crown. He was a grim Puritan who fought the Indians, persecuted the Quakers, and coined money. The family settled at Salem, where their descendants remained for more than two centuries. Chamberlain’s future father-in-law, Judge Endicott, insisted that the engagement should be kept secret until after the Presidential contest of the coming autumn, which might be decided by the Irish vote; and if it were known that the daughter of the Secretary of War in Cleveland’s government was to be married to the man who opposed Gladstone and Parnell over Home Rule for Ireland, it would have a disruptive effect on the American Celts. The marriage therefore could not take place for at least six months.

  Chamberlain’s main hobby was the cultivation of orchids at Highbury, his Birmingham home, and he was always seen with an orchid in his buttonhole, which was as much a part of his make-up as the monocle in his eye. But at the last banquet he attended in New York a red rose had taken the place of an orchid. This was clearly symbolical of something or other, but no one guessed the meaning of the symbol. It was Mary’s favorite flower. As he could not take her with him across the Atlantic, he took her portrait instead. “He had always thought of writing a good play. This time he lived one,” says his official biographer,{16} though the connection between his amorous experience and a political drama is a little vague.

  During their separation he kept up an almost daily correspondence with Mary, but it nearly amounted to a political diary. He had previously gone into society for amusement or distraction, “to pass the time”; but now he did so in reference to her. How would she like this? he kept asking himself. He created a large rose-house for her at Highbury. He read books about the New England of her ancestors, who lived at a period of witchcraft and witch-hunting. His old home became in his eyes a new home for her, and he pictured her “in imagination in every room.” He told her that they would try to grow American roses, which would re
mind her of the country she had abandoned for him. It relieved his mind to buy things for the decoration of Highbury. Apparently politics engaged too much of his attention, for he wrote to her: “Take my advice and never marry a politician, but you may marry a horticulturist—a grower of orchids, for instance.” He went to a play because of the title Joseph’s Sweetheart, but it was so stupid that he left after the third act. He still derived comfort from books and he advised her to read Samuel Butler’s Erewhon and Bulwer Lytton’s The Coming Race. He said that she had revived his youth, exclaiming, “How much I owe you!” Before meeting her he had steeled himself to face life, but she had made him sensitive. While admitting that he sometimes felt like giving up public life and devoting himself entirely to her, he exhorted her to recall him to a sense of duty and “order me back to the battlefield.” He noticed how civil he was to Americans, “all because they are countrymen of somebody!”