The Glitter and the Gold
Page 19
Sargent had been Carolus Duran's pupil, and he often talked of him and of Boldini, for whose work he expressed great admiration, claiming that his Italian rival had been more successful with me than he himself was. During the sittings, which were numerous and took place in his studio, he was always agitated and smoked endless cigarettes. He was very self-conscious, and his conversation consisted of brief staccato remarks of a rather caustic nature. Viewing his sitter from afar, he would cock his head to one side, screw up his eyes, and with poised brush and extended palette would rush at his canvas and paint in short jerky movements. Children made him nervous; he had no idea how to manage them. Since mine were temperamental and mercurial, I had to supervise all their sittings. And as I got to know him better, I came under the spell of his kindheartedness, which not even his shyness could disguise.
7: Deed of Separation
WE HAD been married eleven years. Life together had not brought us closer. Time had but accentuated our differences. The nervous tension that tends to grow between people of different temperament condemned to live together had reached its highest pitch.
Desiring to be free, we contemplated divorce, but in England the divorce laws then existing required a man to prove unfaithfulness in his wife; a wife, however, had to prove physical cruelty as well, or else desertion and nonsupport. It was not until years later that a new legal code removed much of the stigma of divorce. In 1906 separation appeared to be the only solution. We were given equal custody of the children, which was considered a concession in my favor since they were boys and Blenheim was their home. The public interest then centered on this affair now seems excessive, but can more readily be understood by those who remember that in Edwardian social circles divorce or separation was not recognized as a solution for marital discord. Husbands and wives who could not get on together went their separate ways and in the great houses in which they lived practiced a polite observance of the deference each owed the other.
Our separation accomplished, Sunderland House became my home. My mother-in-law and many of my English family and friends gathered round me, and I was deeply touched by the innumerable letters I received, even from people unknown to me, expressing hopes for my future happiness.
To the present generation the disgrace then attached to divorce will seem strange—indeed even a legal separation presented difficulties and made life alone in a great house, with a great name, a complicated problem for a young woman still in her twenties. During the next London season a splendid concert, at which John McCormack, Emmy Destin and Fritz Kreisler performed, provided an opportunity to test the beau monde's reactions to one living as I did—separated and alone. Standing with my father at the top of the stairs to welcome the flow of guests, I realized that although separated couples were not received in Court circles, London society would not so be governed. My mother-in-law's kindly observation, "It is a tribute to the dignity of your behavior," added to the pleasure my English friends had given me.
I Nevertheless, I was grateful for the visits my father and mother paid me. My mother came from America to be with me; her sympathy was precious, but the realization that my life must be a lonely one, since my children would spend but half the year with me, and far less when once at school, underlined my need for some absorbing interest. A purely social life had no appeal, and in considering the future my thoughts turned to Prebendary Carlyle who, as head of the Church Army, had already aroused my interest in various philanthropic activities. One of the most selfless persons I have known, strongly convinced of the inherent goodness of humanity, he so instilled his belief into others that while under his influence they lived, as far as their natures allowed, according to his hopes. He now wished me to help him in a new venture—an attempt to reinstate first offenders, to prevent their return to the criminal world, and to induce them to become useful members of society. He used to say, "I have seen men come out of their first imprisonment determined to go straight, but when they find their homes broken up and their children in public institutions, and realize that the consequence of their crime has fallen upon their innocent families their good intentions break down and they take again the easy course of a criminal career."
To be punished for the guilt of others is essentially unfair, yet our vaunted civilization has done nothing to assist the wives of first offenders during their husbands' incarceration. Left without means to support, and often with several children to provide for, these unhappy women have difficulty in finding employment. With a view to helping them, we leased two adjoining houses in Endsleigh Street, London, which we equipped with laundries and sewing rooms, where they were able to earn a standard wage; their babies were cared for in our day nursery. At Prebendary Carlyle's request, I closed our day's work with prayer, and I can still feel the emotional tension with which those sorrow-laden souls followed our simple service. "We like the Duchess to read to us," they said, "but she always makes us cry." For me there was comfort in feeling that for once their tears were not bitter.
Their experiences at times had the inherent greatness of inescapable tragedy. I remember a young and lovely creature who had the virginal sweetness Murillo gave his Madonnas. Her husband had been imprisoned for theft, and while she sewed in our workrooms we cared for her child. As the time approached for her husband's release she appeared to be anxious, and when she told us that the child she was bearing was not her husband's I realized that his release might bring about a tragedy. Then came the miserable tale of his cruelty to her. He had driven her into the streets to earn money to support him, and when sent to prison had asked his best friend to look after her and his child. Then life changed for her; she was well cared for and she and her husband's friend grew to love each other. "And now he is going to leave me," she sobbed. "He says he has betrayed the trust my husband placed in him, and that he cannot bear to face him!" I told her to send her lover to see me, but it was too late. On returning home she found a letter in which he told her that he had insured his life in her favor and was going to drown himself in the Thames. He also left a pitiful letter for her husband in which he asked his forgiveness, and begged him to look after his child. On the husband's release I asked him, "Are you going to care for your wife?" "Yes, and also for his child," he answered. I saw that for once he was deeply moved and hoped that a better future awaited his wife.
With the intention of finding work for the prisoners I used to interview them on their release. Comedies as well as tragedies resulted—and sometimes at my expense. There was the presentable young man who in the course of our interview boasted that he could easily earn his living could he but afford to buy the necessary tools. I must have been more anxious to help than I was either vigilant or wise, for I advanced him the money he said he needed. The very next day his wife turned up.
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
"My husband has returned to prison, and told me that you would surely take me back."
"But what has he done?" I gasped.
"Why you gave him the tools, and he broke into a house last night and the police got him."
She was indignant when I explained that my homes were for first offenders only and seemed to think I had done her a mean trick in becoming an accessory in the crime.
When one plunges into philanthropy it is not long before one becomes submerged. The National Commission appointed to inquire into the declining birth rate, on which I was the only lay member in a conclave of clergy, doctors, eugenicists, economists and social workers, presided over by Dean Inge of St. Paul's (The Gloomy Dean), was at once a relaxation and an interest, since I had no responsibility other than that of a humble member. Our meetings were enlivened by the most divergent views, but it seemed to me that any opinion could be supported by the same statistics if differently presented. The men, who predominated, maintained that the declining birth rate in the middle classes was entirely due to the higher education of women, an argument so conspicuously prejudiced that I immediately determined to champion that cause. Dr. Marie St
opes, whose books on the Science of Married Love were startling us all, asked pertinent questions which often reduced an eminent divine or a recalcitrant medical man to an embarrassed silence. The only immovable person, as it was in the tradition he should be, was the Monsignor representing the Roman Catholic Church. When the use of contraceptives was being argued, he stated irrevocably that no concession from that quarter would be considered.
One thing has a way of leading to another, I found, and during a visit to America in 1908 I made my debut as a speaker in New York. The occasion was a dinner in the Waldorf Astoria in honor of Mrs. Humphry Ward who had come from England to launch an appeal for playgrounds for children. It was Colonel George Harvey who persuaded me to address this, to me, memorable gathering at which seven hundred citizens had assembled to render homage to England's leading authoress. I had returned to my native land deeply impressed with the civic service English men and women so wholeheartedly gave their country. It was, I thought, the truest patriotism, unstinted and unselfish, and I felt it almost an obligation to tell my countrywomen what I had learned. A sense of duty overcame my fears, although I suffered agonies of apprehension. The following day there were headlines in the papers: "Consuelo in Dinner Talk Criticizes U. S. Women," "Duchess of Marlborough Delivers an Eloquent Speech," with verbatim reports. Admittedly extremely gratifying, they, together with a carrying voice—an important asset in the days before microphones—provided a strong incentive to further public work.
On my return to England I threw myself wholeheartedly into various activities chiefly concerned with the welfare of women and children. Sir Edgar Vincent gave me a house in the lovely grounds of Esher Place where I opened a recreation home for working girls. The Mary Curzon Lodging House for Poor Women as well as my Home for Prisoners' Wives were other permanent interests.
Always interested in the higher education of women—an interest recently stimulated by the discussions of the birth rate commission—I accepted the post of Honorary Treasurer of Bedford College, a women's college incorporated in the University of London. Here I was fortunate in securing the magnificent donation of 100,000 guineas from Sir Hildred Carlyle, which enabled the college to be moved from its cramped quarters in Baker Street to a beautiful site in Regent's Park.
An amusing repercussion to a speech I made on behalf of the college was a poem which appeared in Punch, written by Sir Owen Seaman, a well-known English humorist, at that time editor of the magazine:
TO SOPHONISBA, OF BEDFORD COLLEGE
(The Duchess of Marlborough, in advocating a scheme for the removal of the Bedford College for Women from Baker Street to Regent's Park, is reported to have said that "it was difficult to comprehend why there should be such rooted objection on the part of Englishmen to the higher education of their wives. There must be some secret fear that, hard as they found it to understand a woman now, it would be absolutely beyond their ken were she highly educated." The way to conquer opposition was for women to be "tactful enough not always to worst their husbands in argument.")
Ere the vows at which the bravest falter
Make you my irrevocable bride;
Ere I feel the nuptial noose or halter
Round my throttle permanently tied;
While the hour is open for repentance,
Hear the following prayer which I despatch!
Else, before the priest pronounces sentence,
I propose to scratch.
I implore you not to be too sniffy
Should my lack of culture cause you pain;
Do not petrify your Albert if he
Fails to fathom your unusual brain;
Promise you will temper your ideas
To the taste of just an average man;
Promise, Sophonisba, not to be as
Clever as you can.
Fostered at the fount of higher knowledge,
You enjoyed a chance denied to me;
I was never schooled at Bedford College,
I was nursed at Balliol's homely knee;
Therefore make allowance for the mental
Lapses which invite your lips to laugh,
And, as you are strong, be very gentle
To your feebler half.
Epigrams, in private, I could swallow;
If you make my manly pride to flinch
From a wit too fleet for me to follow,
I could always smack you at a pinch;
But in public, when you take the trophy
For the finest table-talk in Town,
Do not knock me sideways, O my Sophie;
Let me softly down.
O.S.
The speech also brought in the sum of twenty-five pounds from the editor of the American periodical. The Outlook, and the honor of being quoted in "Today's Notable Sayings" in the Westminster Gazette. It proved, I felt, that a sense of humor is indeed an asset and with ridicule as a weapon can stimulate reforms. But there were other causes which required stronger measures.
I admit that such activities provided greater interest than the frivolities of a London season, but these too were still a part of my life. In the fragments of a 1908 diary I found the following appreciation:
The London season is at its fag end. Conscience stricken hostesses with unpaid social debts are sending out belated invitations in a vain effort to fulfill neglected obligations. Every night one is bidden to three or more balls. Today there were six parties, and at one of them a monkey called "Peter" for whose services in entertaining her guests a hostess paid £150. The puns and bon mots of the season are stale, as are also Mr. Spooner's Spoonerisms, but to these are added gaffes of a special brand, made by old Lord M. His latest offense concerns me, and was committed during a visit to Blenheim. Approaching the house he remarked on the beauty of the park; and turning to another peer. Lord G. who has himself just married a wealthy American, he added, "There are uses for American heiresses and their money after all!" Lady G. who was present had the sense to laugh, but Lord G. furious at the insult immediately repeated the remark to Marlborough, setting everyone wondering who had committed the greater faux pas. To cap it all, shortly after his return from Blenheim I met Lord M. at a dinner where the seating arrangements separated me from my cavalier; whereupon in strident tones he shouts out to me, "Have you ever been separated from your man before, my dear Lady?"
It was astonishing how he could always be relied upon to give one a shock!
On another page of this old notebook I find:
This year I have frequently had the new Prime Minister, Mr. Asquith, as my neighbor at dinner, and in the course of conversation he has suggested that I should keep a diary adding word pictures of the brilliant men it is my good fortune to meet. To encourage me, he quoted an excerpt from his wife Margot's diary which he considers supremely amusing. It concerns Viscount Haldane, who was Minister for War in Sir Henry Campbell Bannerman's cabinet, and has continued in the same post under Mr. Asquith. Margot wrote: "It took Henry and me a long time to get over his (Lord Haldane's) appearance, but when we did we found in him many good qualities to command our admiration." She insisted upon reading this appreciation to Lord Haldane who, in spite of the effective reorganization of the British Army on which he was engaged, was with difficulty prevented from resigning his office.
It is perhaps Mr. Asquith's suggestion which has given me the courage to write these memoirs. I should, however, have remembered that he was invariably kind to the young, for whom he ever had an encouraging word, and that he might not have regarded these belated efforts with the same indulgence.
But it was not every day that I sat next to men of Mr. Asquith's caliber, although invariably placed with much older people, and I longed to see something of another set. So when the Sidney Webbs invited me to dine in their little house on the Embankment, I was overjoyed, for I was curious to meet the Fabians. The success of this new party in the General Election of 1906 had startled the country into realizing that socialism was a coming factor in politics; at the same time H
. G. Wells attempted to hasten its coming by reorganizing the old Fabian Society, thus engaging in a controversy with Bernard Shaw which attracted much public attention.
My hosts Sidney and Beatrice Webb were famous economists and sociologists and had together published three standard works, History of Trade Unionism, Industrial Democracy and English Local Government. They figured prominently on the Royal Commission on the Poor Law and were active in securing constructive measures for the improvement of industrial conditions and labor relations. When I knew Beatrice Webb she had the beauty of an eagle with finely chiseled features, while in her eyes one saw the soaring, searching quality of her mind. She was a socialist and an ardent reformer and when later her husband became one of the Labour government's first peers she refused to be known as Lady Passfield.