It was a compliment to be invited to join her circle. At that first dinner I had Bernard Shaw as my neighbor. Rather shy of such august company, I turned to him with diffidence for he had, I felt, not yet decided whether to treat me as a frivolous outsider come to view the lions or as a serious young woman intent on social reform. He was notwithstanding utterly delightful and his sallies left me wondering whether I was laughing at myself or at the world in general. He looked like Jupiter, I thought, with his classical brow and red beard, and his words could be likened to thunderbolts, for they totally demolished whatever he disapproved of. We became friends, and both he and his wife, whose translation into English of one of Brieux's plays I saw in London where it had but a succès d'estime, frequented the literary dinners I instituted every Friday during the following winter.
They were delightful dinners, with many of "The Souls," politicians and writers as guests. A judicious mixture of a more frivolous element provided the froth. Brilliant men are not insensible to a beautiful woman, even when her beauty surpasses her wit, and in England they are free to indulge in more serious conversation with other men once the ladies have left the table.
One of my favorite guests was Lady Frances Balfour, the daughter of the eloquent Duke of Argyll, from whom she had inherited a superior intelligence and an easy flow of talk. She was a stimulating person and it was my good fortune to work with her on several committees, and at meetings to share the honors of public speaking. Invariably she was amusing, shrewd and witty, leaving the boring marshaling of facts to my patient chairmanship. She held my views on women's suffrage, believing in the more conservative approach rather than in the distressing exhibitions of martyrdom which were shocking society, typified by Mrs. Pankhurst in jail, being forcibly fed, and the young woman who hurled herself in front of the King's horse and was killed as the field swept round the Epsom course to the Derby's finish.
When first H. G. Wells dined with me he was unknown in London society, though his books were creating a furor. I had assembled a brilliant company. Lord Rosebery at my request, was host and sat opposite me at the long table laden with silver, crystal and flowers. His favorite Mouton Rothschild stood at his side. As he rarely dined out, I had provided not only two charming women as his neighbors but a galaxy of intellect as a challenge to his own. There was Bernard Shaw, John Galsworthy whose Forsyte novels and plays were the talk of London and Sir James Barrie whose gentle humor was delighting playgoers with his Peter Pan and What Every Woman Knows. Barrie was a little man with pensive eyes and a deep fund of sentiment and pity. He told a friend of mine, "I would stand all day in the street to see Consuelo Marlborough get into her carriage," which shows that the days of high romance were still alive in the hearts of those who, like Barrie, were chivalrous and kind. I heard that he had once described his business in life as "playing hide and seek with angels," and one could not talk to him without realizing how near he was to Hans Andersen's world of fairies. I had also invited H. S. Chamberlain, just back from Germany. His book, The Foundations of the Nineteenth Century, in praise of German institutions, as my readers will remember, caused resentment among his English compatriots, and in 1916 he became a naturalized German and married Eva Wagner, a daughter of the composer. All this, however, was then in the future, and Chamberlain was still English though pro-German, an attitude which at that time he shared with a considerable company. The Charteris family was well represented, with Lord Elcho, later the Earl of Wemyss, a caustic wit, his brilliant wife whom Sargent had painted in his portrait of the Wyndham Sisters, and the Honorable Evan Charteris whose versatile charm as a conversationalist, whose skill as a shot, a golfer and a bridge and tennis player placed him in the first ranks of persona grata at any party. I placed H. G. Wells between Mrs. Rochfort Maguire and Lady Desborough, without whom no dinner was complete, for they had the most agreeable salons in London. They were thrilled at meeting him, but Lord Lovat, an incorrigible tease, later told them that the Wells I had invited was not the H. G. whose books were challenging the future. The following morning several friends rang me up to congratulate me on "the most brilliant dinner," adding to my amusement, "but what a pity the right H. G. Wells could not come!" It was not long, however, before I saw the same H. G. Wells in their company, although he refused to be lionized.
Men of letters are not as a rule good at small talk, for there are better ways of investing their capital. I found Galsworthy stiff and ill at ease. R. S. Hitchens, on the contrary, perhaps because he was a less distinguished writer, shone in social circles. His Garden of Allah, and Bella Donna were then best sellers and every new novel of his was eagerly awaited. He was a habitué of my Godmother Consuelo Duchess of Manchester's salon where I often listened to his amusing talk, which she knew well how to stimulate. He was also no mean musician and with my godmother, who herself played delightfully by ear, monopolized both conversation and piano. It is difficult in such brilliant company to award the palm, but to Bernard Shaw or W. B. Yeats or George Wyndham I would give pre-eminence as the best conversationalists. They were not only brilliant, but also possessed physical beauty to an eminent degree—Bernard Shaw, a veritable Zeus; George Wyndham, "outrageously handsome," as he was described in the days when, as Secretary for Ireland, he played so conspicuous a part in rendering palatable an unpopular policy; and W. B. Yeats, an Irish Lord Byron. In 1907, Yeats's Deirdre had taken London by storm and brought Irish literature and the Abbey Theatre with J. M. Synge, Lady Gregory and George Moore much to the fore, causing their English contemporaries Pinero, Stephen Phillips, Galsworthy and Barrie to look to their laurels.
How cultured and polished was that generation of scholarly men! Looking back on them I cannot imagine a more gifted company in any country. No matter what the subject, the talk was never heavy, for there was always a flash of British humor to enliven it, and with Maurice Baring, Harry Cust and Evan Charteris to add fuel to the fire we were often privileged to assist at a marvelous display of pyrotechnics. Alas that I did not record them, and that I am too honest and also too modest to attempt to invent them!
While reminiscing on authors, I must not forget my meeting with Michael Arlen for it produced one of the bon mots for which Lady Cunard, the former Maud Burke, was famous. Dragging a somewhat reluctant young man across the room (did he already fear the devastating introduction it was her habit to make?), she triumphantly cried, "This is Michael Arlen—the only Armenian who has not been massacred!"
On another occasion she asked me to bring the Grand Duke Dmitri to one of her political luncheons. He was the son of the Grand Duke Paul and the grandson of the Emperor Alexander II. An exceptionally handsome man, fair and sleek with long blue eyes in a narrow face, he had fine features, and the stealthy walk of a wild animal, moving with the same balanced grace. According to the story he told me, the monk Rasputin had been murdered in his presence in the house of Prince Youssopoff. Afterward the Czar sent for Dmitri and asked him why he had countenanced so foul a deed. The Grand Duke replied that his nobles had wished to rid the Emperor of the baleful influence of a man who was execrated by the Russian people. The Czar, unappeased, ordered Dmitri to leave the country, and it was to this order of exile that he owed his later survival of the Bolshevik Revolution. Eventually he came to England where he was befriended by Lord and Lady Curzon. As the Grand Duke and I arrived at Lady Cunard's luncheon, she faced the assembled company and shouted, "And here is the Grand Duke Dmitri, the murderer of Rasputin." Shocked beyond belief, I looked round to see his reaction, but with a turn on his heel and a short bow, he had already fled—which made us thirteen for luncheon. Such were my hostess's social gifts that she managed to laugh it off and we had as usual a most stimulating meal. Nevertheless, she combined good sense with nonsense to an unprecedented degree, and in time learned how far she could go-Maud, with her marriage to Sir Bache Cunard, had become the wife of a fox-hunting squire, but such a life was not to her liking. On returning one day to her home in Leicestershire she found an iron railing e
nclosing a garden and on it inscribed in Sir Bache's unmistakable script (he was something of an ironsmith) the legend, "Come into the garden, Maud." Having no taste for such dalliance she took a house in London, for it was her ambition to have a political salon in the tradition of the eighteenth century. Ruthlessly determined to succeed, she bent a conspicuous talent to this end. When first I met her she looked, I thought, like a little parakeet, with a golden coxcomb on her head, a small beak and a receding chin. That chin was the bane of her life, and with a despairing insistence she had it massaged and given electric treatments, but nothing succeeded in giving it the character she desired. Why, so greatly caring, she never resorted to plastic surgery remains a mystery. Again like a parakeet her plumage was brilliant; her startling clothes were always in the height of fashion, the exaggerated type of fashion that dressmakers launch at the beginning of a season and later discard. She loved jewels, especially emeralds, and her small rather clawlike hands were usually adorned with a fine ring or two. She appeared to dispense a tremendous energy but her enthusiasm cloaked an ingrained pessimism. As I grew to know her I realized that it was her need for friendship that caused her to indulge in absurd superlatives. I used to wonder why she did not herself realize that it was the wrong approach, especially in England. She did, however, in time achieve the success one associates with an enfant terrible. Her luncheon parties were famous—few refused an invitation. They rarely comprised more than ten for she insisted that conversation be general. However, it invariably became a monologue on her part during which she launched sallies at everyone's expense, which everyone took in good part. Somehow it seemed entirely natural that she herself should strike the high note of fun, and that our defects should become a source of amusement to others. In middle age she grew tired of her name Maud and demanded that she be called Emerald. It annoyed her when one forgot. Like a restless child she flitted from one interest to another, lacking stability and repose. Her ambition to foster grand opera in London, to which she gave her unstinted energies and her fortune as well, should have received more generous recognition. After her death instructions were found that her ashes be strewn in Grosvenor Square, the scene of her splendid hospitality. One of her most constant guests performed this macabre task, and afterward complained that the wind had blown the ashes back into his face, his eyes and his hair, and that he was now full of his former hostess. Every year at Whitsuntide I spent unforgettable days in the brilliant company Lord Curzon invited to Hackwood. Our host dominated us all and yet how graciously he knew how to extract from each the quintessence of personal contribution. In 1914, shortly after the invasion of Belgium by the German armies, I went to Hackwood for a night on my way to a meeting. As I entered the living hall, where in the past I had witnessed so many gay parties, I saw a lonely little figure seated at a table bending over a map. Near her stood a British general in uniform. It was the Queen of the Belgians sadly following the rout of her armies. Lord Curzon had offered her the hospitality of his home until such time as she could with safety return to her country.
Whitsuntide at Hackwood was often followed by a week end at Taplow Court where Lord and Lady Desborough dispensed a gracious hospitality. No one had a choicer circle of friends and admirers than Ettie Grenfell, as she was when first I knew her, and no one entertained more delightfully. There was the Thames, lovely in summer, where Lord Desborough punted in professional style, delighting to recount the while how he had twice swum Niagara Falls. There were shady walks in the woods and always an agreeable cavalier as escort. There was general conversation around the tea table on the lawn—and after dinner the inevitable game of bridge. Time passed all too quickly. Sometimes we motored to Cliveden nearby, that palatial house that had been owned by both the Dukes of Sutherland and Westminster before being bought by the first Lord Astor when he became an Englishman. He had given it to his son Waldorf on his marriage to the lovely and versatile Nancy.
She was, as everyone knows, the first woman to sit in the House of Commons where she represented Plymouth for many years. During her Parliamentary career she defended women's interests with a courage that compelled admiration even from those who opposed her views. She made a great many speeches on her feet and still more interjectory remarks from her seat; she could answer the Labour members in banter or in anger and be equally effective in either mood. She was adored by her constituents but disliked by the classic Parliamentarians who considered her repartees undignified. Her genuine courage and optimism were seen at their best during the dark days of World War II in which Plymouth was so heavily bombed.
Much has been written about the political atmosphere of Cliveden during the 1930's. It was then the headquarters of the circle known as the Round Table which, headed by Philip Kerr, later Lord Lothian, was working for a closer understanding between England and Germany. With my strong pro-French Sympathies, I resented the propaganda spread by this political group. I felt strongly that their theories were founded on a false estimate of the Gallic character which to them was undependable when compared with the honest intentions of the trustworthy German. Even in the winter of 1939 when Lady Astor came to Florida she was preaching the surrender of the Sudetenland to Germany and assuring her hearers that Hitler would never encroach on the liberties of the Czechs. It is curious how personal prejudice can blind even intelligent people to the most evident conclusions.
Looking back on the little circle I knew of American women married to Englishmen, there are, I realize, very few who remained definitely American. Nancy Astor was one of these. Her high spirits, her sense of humor, her self-assurance, her courage, her independence are all of the American variety; and also her beauty. I met her when she first came to England and have ever since valued the friendship she gave me, but there were moments when, conscious of her mischievous appraisal, I used to quail, wondering what pertinent consideration her sharp tongue would utter.
Lady Astor's vivid personality made her many friends, but there were those whose dislike was equally marked. She and Winston Churchill are actuated by a strong antipathy one for the other, so much so that one never invites them together, dreading the inevitable explosion bound to occur. It was therefore unfortunate that on one of Lady Astor's visits to Blenheim when my son was host Winston should have chosen to appear. The expected result of their encounter was not long in coming; after a heated argument on some trivial matter Nancy, with a fervor whose sincerity could not be doubted, shouted, "If I were your wife I would put poison in your coffee!" Whereupon Winston with equal heat and sincerity answered, "And if I were your husband I would drink it."
Outstanding parties were also given by the Duke and Duchess of Portland at Welbeck Abbey, a princely domain near lovely Sherwood Forest. It was an impressive mansion both above ground and beneath it, for one of the dukes had like a mole built innumerable underground rooms and galleries in which vast receptions were often given. To me the most memorable of these occasions was a tenants' luncheon which revealed the almost feudal point of view of my host. The Duke's speech to his tenants was charming and kindly in all intents but would have been more appropriate had it been made before the Reform Bill of 1832. I grew more and more uncomfortable as he proceeded but no one else seemed to find it at all strange. Indeed the company at Welbeck impressed me as rather eighteenth century in character. It had all the style of a princely court. Entering the huge living hall one found the Duchess beautiful and elegant in satin and lace presiding at a tea table while a younger woman dispensed coffee and chocolate at another. Grouped around the chatelaine might be the Archbishop of York (Cosmo Lang), the Duke of Alba, the Austro-Hungarian Ambassador, a Belgian countess, and innumerable peers and peeresses of the old school. Winnie Portland, as she was known to her many devoted friends, was a gracious and lovely woman who spent her life in well-doing; but she was, as it were, enshrined in a hyper-aristocratic niche where sorrow or want or fear were unknown. It was all very well to spend a few days in such a rarefied atmosphere where the problems created by modem econ
omic conditions and the restless upward them by clamorous outsiders who wished to be invited. Nevertheless Margot Asquith's insistence prevailed, and in spite of my protests that the house was much too small for a party she suggested that she herself, the Prime Minister and their daughter Elisabeth should each come on a separate week end. This necessitated organizing three parties, each to pivot around an Asquith. They were, I admit, rather special personalities in their way, but a party for each of them at little Crowhurst had to be chosen with care.
It is difficult to give an idea of Margot's personality to those who never knew her. It is far easier to describe her appearance. Small and phenomenally thin, as she grew older she looked, I thought, rather like a witch. With her gray hair in corkscrew curls, her hawk-like nose and shrewd eyes, one rather expected her after one of her mordant sallies to fly away on a broomstick, her deep voice still screaming invectives. When sometimes she performed skirt dances, delighting to prove the suppleness of her sixty years, one forgot her old Voltaire-like face. But her glance expressed so much wit and understanding that when she smiled, even maliciously, in response to one's quip, no compliment could have pleased more.
On the other hand it was difficult not to feel oppressed by her assumption of superiority, which on occasion even prevented the progression of friendships she wished to cultivate. For in recounting her conversations with celebrities, she invariably capped their most brilliant sallies—a forensic victory few can forgive. Her powers of observation were indubitably shrewd, and she had a quick wit which she exercised freely, regardless of ruffled feelings. But if tempted to estimate her critical faculties one need look no further than her family circle. Indeed, in her step daughter, Lady Violet Bonham Carter, she found a rival whose brilliant mind and balanced judgment enabled her with gentler methods to probe deeper. Impatient and intolerant of stupidity Margot often reduced people to an embarrassed silence, failing to appreciate the genuine qualities they might have possessed. She liked few women and showed a particularly virulent dislike for my compatriots, claiming that American men were greatly to be pitied. Even friends such as Lady Ribblesdale (who had been Ava Astor) and I were viewed with at most a kindly condescension.
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