Sydney and Violet

by Stephen Klaidman

  Reflecting the not entirely satisfactory relationship he had with his own father, Serge wrote:

  I would feel that many of the less than human traits, which he showed in his life, had much to do with her influence.… I personally felt that [Sydney and Violet’s] world was an essentially artificial one full of name dropping and pretension.… I don’t think that either one of them had much humanity and compassion despite all that drooling over Proust.… I would imagine that most of the “Violet gushers” are people who either belonged to, or were at the periphery of, that world, which I think, deep down, was a cold and superficial one, despite pretensions of intellectual depths. And depth, we remember, is something of the heart and soul. It is not about cleverness. Yes, they were both clever, but not deep genuine human beings.

  Some of what Beddington-Behrens had to say will almost certainly resonate with anyone who knows enough about Sydney and Violet to have formed an opinion of them. It is easy to think, for example, that they were name-dropping snobs. And there is no doubt that the world in which they moved in some respects really was cold, superficial, and inhumane. There also is no doubt that they sought out persons of intellectual distinction, entertained them well, and talked about them freely, which could be seen as instances of snobbery, social climbing, and name-dropping. But a careful reading of their correspondence with people like Eliot, Proust, Lewis, Huxley, and Mansfield suggests otherwise. It suggests instead relationships of equality, with benefits flowing in both directions. And where there was fawning or gushing, that too seems to have flowed both ways.

  Moreover, anyone who has read Sydney’s body of work with an understanding of Violet’s contribution to it would be hard pressed to say they were no more than shallow name-droppers. Beddington-Behrens said he had not read the books and had no interest in reading them. Other factors to consider in judging them might be their support of artists such as Isaac Rosenberg and Wyndham Lewis, and their giving “refuge,” to use Violet’s word, to the Beerbohms during the war, as well as taking in the young refugee Stella Jadwabuik. These acts, I think, imply more humanity than Beddington-Behrens gives them credit for.

  Apart from her letters and a diary that has been lost or destroyed, Violet wrote almost nothing of her own. And although we know she was an incisive editor and critic, no manuscripts of Sydney’s books have been preserved, so there is no way to fully evaluate her contribution to his writings. The best remaining evidence of her critical and editorial method and style consists of thirteen typewritten pages of suggestions for works in progress by Julian Fane stored in an archive in Lewes, England. These pages reveal a great deal about her taste and acuity, but also about her respect for the integrity of authorship. She wrote the following explicit comment on authorial autonomy after recommending brutal cuts in a work titled Leo’s Birthday:

  I do not wish you to make such a drastic cut on my advice, but for the sake of the book itself as a work of art I cannot help saying what I think and believe. There is no reason why you should be guided by my taste in the matter as it is your book. There is no criterion about a work of art and it is not a matter of being right or wrong. If after another point of view (mine) has been exposed to you, you prefer your own, then you are right. (Italics are Violet’s in both cases.)

  In the paragraph above she expressed an obligation to the work of art itself, almost as if it were completely autonomous. But she also acknowledged the absolute right of its creator to mold it as he saw fit. She offered advice to the creator as one should—if one feels one must—to a parent, in language that made clear she understood that the work of art under consideration was his child, not hers. And finally she specified that if he rejected her advice, not only would she recognize his right to reject it, but she would defer to his judgment. She was taking a position that was appropriately respectful of the artist and the work of art and was anything but arrogant.

  There is only one other record of Violet’s editing. Not long before she died Theophilus Boll sent her his biographical note and critical essay on Stephen Hudson, both of which appeared in his 1962 edition of Richard, Myrtle and I, for fact checking. She was displeased to the point of annoyance with the biographical note and responded in a tone that was demanding and disrespectful. Her comments typically ranged from blunt to acerbic: “Your account of the artistic, intellectual atmosphere of the Schiff home is completely false”; “Uncle Charles and his wife did not in the least understand Sydney’s temperament”; “Will you please delete this, which is quite untrue and would have been an impossibility.” Time and again she asked Boll to delete paragraphs and sometimes whole pages, and she directed him to fix grammar and usage. Boll, however, refused to be intimidated. The only changes he made were to correct factual errors, which were minor and few, and, where he agreed, errors in grammar and usage.

  It is probably fair to assume that Violet grew testier as she grew older; nevertheless Fane’s characterization of her in her mid-seventies was totally consistent with many contemporary accounts of the thirty-four-year-old woman Sydney fell in love with and married two years later.

  “When I knew her she was impressed by erudition,” Fane wrote, “but for her own part recoiled from anything academic—it was life that claimed her attention. And she had a positive genius for getting her way and for self-protection. She must have been born unusual, perhaps more child-like than childish, not fond of nature or animals, serious and wise and able to dominate her environment, willful and sweet-tempered, and dedicated to the proposition that she existed to help everyone to be happy. The branch of life she specialized in was human relations, and art in its more romantic aspect became nearly her religion.”

  Fane’s layered portrait accurately captured Violet’s defining qualities and contradictions, her standards and her spirit. She could be manipulative, willful, and domineering, but also wise, sweet-natured, and altruistic. Proust thought she was formidably intelligent and angelically sweet. Yet to Serge Beddington-Behrens she was sinister and shallow. Of course Proust knew her mainly through her letters, which were suffused with admiration for him and his work, which, to be fair, might have influenced his views. We don’t know for sure how she perceived or treated Beddington-Behrens when he was between the ages of five and seventeen. There is, however, nothing in her life story to suggest that she ever had the slightest affinity for children. And finally, if Fane was correct that Violet believed she existed to make others happy, it is probably also true that she thought she knew better than they did what would make them happy.

  Violet Schiff died on July 2, 1962. She was eighty-six years old. Her obituary appeared in the Times of London on July 9 under the headline: “All Embracing Interest in the Arts.” The following letter from T. S. Eliot was appended to it:

  The death of Violet Schiff, after a long illness, will cause great grief to relatives and to many friends, among whom I and my wife are proud to be numbered. I write, however, not only to express a personal sorrow but because of my memories of Violet and her husband the late Sydney Schiff in the world of art and letters 40 years ago. In the 1920s the Schiffs’ hospitality, generosity and encouragement meant much to a number of young artists and writers of whom I was one. The Schiffs’ acquaintance was cosmopolitan, and their interests embraced all the arts. At their house I met for example, [Frederick] Delius and Arthur Symons, and the first Viscountess Rothermere, who founded The Criterion under my editorship. [John] Middleton Murry and Katherine Mansfield knew their house, and Wyndham Lewis and Charles Scott-Moncrieff, and many others.

  When I married in 1957, Violet Schiff welcomed me and my wife, whom she took to her heart at once. She was already an invalid and could not be persuaded to pay visits, but was always happy to receive her friends. Her mind was as active as ever, and her interest in people and in the arts was undiminished. It was, indeed, in her last years when she was house-bound and, I suspect, often in pain, that her qualities impressed me most deeply: the vigor of her speech, the animation of her face, and the warmth of her symp
athy. Hers was a sympathy which made one feel that she understood much more than had been, or could be, put into words: that she was aware of, and responded to, that which could not be spoken. In consequence of this sensitiveness she could regard people with a gentle, clear-sighted charity.

  I write primarily to pay homage to a beloved friend, but also in the hope that some future chronicler of the history of art and letters in our time may give to Sydney and Violet Schiff the place which is their due.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The idea for this book began germinating four years ago. Jenny McCracken, a dear friend who shares my passion for Proust, lent me one book and gave me another. I read the one she lent me first. It was a biography of the poet and painter Isaac Rosenberg and it briefly mentioned Sydney and Violet. The book she gave me was A Night at the Majestic by Richard Davenport-Hines. It took its title from the 1922 dinner that the Schiffs hosted and which Proust, Joyce, Picasso, Stravinsky, and Diaghilev attended. Moreover, it had a chapter on the Schiffs. Although I knew vaguely who they were from biographies of Proust, it would not have occurred to me to write this book had Jenny not brought the Rosenberg biography and Davenport-Hines’s work to my attention. I cannot thank her enough.

  After several months of preliminary research, and in recognition of the fact that only a small number of scholars and aficionados of the modernist period had ever heard of the Schiffs, I wrote an unusually lengthy proposal. My loyal and editorially gifted agent, Chuck Verrill, helped me whip it into final shape. He then developed a carefully selected submissions list of a dozen publishers and sent it to me for approval. I had no problem with his choices, but I showed the list to Kitty, my wife, confidante and collaborator in all things, before responding. She suggested adding Nan A. Talese/Doubleday. Chuck and I agreed this was a good idea, so he sent out thirteen copies of the proposal instead of twelve. In less than a week Nan bought the book. Thanks, Chuck, for your hard work, wise advice, insightful editing, and cheerful willingness to support projects with uncertain prospects. And thanks, dear Kitty, not only for thinking of Nan, but for your help in painstakingly combing through 950 letters in the British Library, most of which were handwritten and many of which were virtually indecipherable, and reading and re-reading the manuscript.

  Nan’s enthusiasm for the book added fuel to my own, and her literary knowledge, exquisite taste, and refined editorial judgment made a contribution to the final product that cannot be overestimated. I have long been a believer in the less-is-more school of writing, but as all writers know, it is awfully hard not to fall in love with your own words. When this happens, as it inevitably will, you need a great editor to save you from yourself. Thank you, Nan, for doing this for me and for so much more. I also want to thank Ronit Feldman, a knowledgeable and accommodating editor on Nan’s staff, who was especially helpful in my search for pictures and permissions, and Dan Meyer, Nan’s thoughtful and intelligent assistant, who shepherded the book through the production process. Both made my task easier and Sydney and Violet better. Thanks also to Nora Reichard, the senior production editor, and Rosalie Wieder, the copy editor, each of whom, in her own way, contributed significantly to the successful completion of this project.

  There are many others who helped bring this work to fruition. First among them are the Beddington family members, who graciously spent time with me and searched their files and picture albums. Each of them was kind enough to answer my intrusive, sometimes repetitive, and perhaps tedious questions, to provide photographs and documents, to introduce me to other family members, and to dredge up memories that have enriched my book.

  The first family member I met was Charles Beddington, and it happened serendipitously. I came across his name in an article in the Washington Post about the sale of an unsigned School of Canaletto painting at a small Chevy Chase auction gallery. The work sold for $687,125. The pre-auction estimated sale price was $6,000 to $8,000. Charles, a dealer in eighteenth-century art, was mentioned because he was an adviser to an anonymous buyer and speculated that the artist was Michele Marieschi. I sent him an e-mail telling him that I was writing a book about Sydney and Violet and asking if he was related to Violet. He responded almost instantly saying that he was her great-nephew and that he was in a small way the family historian. And to my delight he also said he would be in Washington the next day. A day after that we met at the National Gallery and looked at pictures while talking about Sydney and Violet. Over the next two years we established a warm relationship over dinners in London and Washington. He supplied invaluable information and family pictures, without which the book would lack many of the vivid details and illuminating images that breathe life into its subjects. His sister, Charlotte Wallis, and his ninety-five-year-old mother, Debbie Beddington, also contributed to my understanding of Violet and Sydney.

  My contacts with two other family members, Stephen Kane and Serge Beddington-Behrens, were conducted entirely by e-mail and telephone. Both were consistently cordial and willing to respond to my questions, and Dr. Kane provided original materials. He also was kind enough to research and copy letters for me at the Imperial War Museum in London and to have a drawing of Sydney by William Rothenstein at the Merton College Library at Oxford professionally photographed so that it could be used in the book. And he passed on his mother’s written account of a visit to Sydney and Violet’s house at 18 Cambridge Square in London and introduced me to his sister, Evelyn Richardson, and to Nadia Lasserson, both of whom shared with me their memories of Violet when they were young girls and she was an old woman. Although his recollections were more painful than pleasant, Dr. Beddington-Behrens also shared his childhood memories of Violet with me. I thank all of them for their extremely useful contributions. I also want to thank Fleur Wadley, her brother, Edward Rossdale, and their mother, Lucie Marcelle Louise Rossdale, who invited Kitty and me to their home in London, told me what they knew about Sydney and Violet, and provided a copy of Samuel Beddington’s will.

  I want to give special thanks to Gillian Fane, the widow of Julian Fane, the young English writer who became Violet’s close friend after Sydney died. Mrs. Fane clarified a number of issues for me and was unfailingly responsive to my requests for information. The same was true of Diana Crook, the curator of the Julian Fane archive, who provided copies of original materials that helped me understand Violet’s contribution to Sydney’s literary output.

  I am indebted to Christophe Wall-Romana, an old and dear friend who is a poet and an associate professor and director of graduate studies in the Department of French and Italian at the University of Minnesota. He helped me out when my French faltered while translating the correspondence between the Schiffs and Marcel Proust. If there are mistakes in those translations, they are of course mine. And Kitty and I are both grateful to two more old and dear friends, Marion and Irving Yass, who put us up during two of our trips to London, fed us, and made our stays incomparably more pleasant than they would otherwise have been.

  I also want to thank Deborah Bull, a highly professional photo researcher who was a pleasure to work with and without whose expertise the eight pages of pictures in the book would not have been nearly as good.

  And finally, I thank the librarians who guided me through collections at the following institutions: the British Library, Department of Manuscripts; the Charles E. Young Research Library, Department of Special Collections, UCLA; the Cornell University Library, Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections; the Merton College Library, University of Oxford; the Imperial War Museum; Georgetown University’s Lauinger Library; the Gardner Library, University of California, Berkeley; and the Library of Congress. All of the librarians at these institutions were helpful, but two were especially so: Ana Guimaraes at Cornell and Julia Walworth at Merton College, Oxford.

  NOTES

  A NOTE TO READERS

  1 The cause, as in the similar cases: Didion said she had no letters from Dunne, but says nothing about whether she had written to him. The information about Didion and Dun
ne and Oates and Smith is taken from “For Sorrow There Is No Remedy,” a review by Julian Barnes of A Widow’s Story: A Memoir, by Joyce Carol Oates, New York Review of Books, April 7, 2001, 10.

  2 Sydney wrote to his friend: Schiff to Beerbohm, letter no. 24, Max Beerbohm Collection, Merton College Library, University of Oxford (hereafter cited as Beerbohm Collection).

  3 The Schiffs’ nephew: Edward Beddington-Behrens, Look Back Look Forward (London: Macmillan, 1963), 58.

  PROLOGUE

  1 “On the one side”: Taken Care Of: The Autobiography of Edith Sitwell (New York: Atheneum, 1965), 87–88.

  2 Many years after the heyday: John Maynard Keynes, My Early Beliefs in Two Memoirs, in The Collected Writings of John Maynard Keynes, Vol. 10 (London: Macmillan, St. Martin’s Press, for the Royal Economic Society, 1972), 447.

  3 Another wondered if there was a human face: Miranda Seymour, Ottoline Morrell: Life on the Grand Scale (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1993), 354.