By the time their palace at No. 40 Avenue du Bois de Boulogne was fit to receive guests, though the interior work was never completed, Boni and Anna were on cool terms with one another. He loved flowers, music, beauty, people, while she seemed to want something else, possibly even dreaming of a husband’s undivided love. The palace, which contained a theatre to seat 600 people, was duly blessed by the Abbé Marbeau, later Bishop of Meaux, and Boni “celebrated the occasion by paying all rents under 500 francs of residents in our parish.” But it was scarcely a poverty-stricken quarter.
His first reception was not given to princes, marquises, counts and viscounts, but to artists, decorators, sculptors and plumbers. Then came the titled world, and it grieved him that Anna could never be made to pay the deference due to rank, rebelling against the etiquette which he considered essential. The rich costumes and powdered wigs of the servants set off the superb ornamentation of the mansion, and he sensed some jealousy in his guests, who could not rise to the vastness of his ideas. They entertained as many as 2,000 people at a time. His notions of grandeur once led him into danger. When the King of Spain visited Paris, Castellane drove to the Spanish Embassy in a magnificent Dorsay with superb horses and grooms in State liveries. He was mistaken for the King and acclaimed by the populace; but as a number of assassins had designs on His Majesty, who was surrounded by guards, Boni might easily have received a bullet intended for Alphonso.
Feeling, no doubt, that she was entitled to spend a certain amount of her own money, Anna bought the castle and estate of Marais in 1897, and her husband cheerfully adopted the role of host, giving a fete to the peasants of the locality, with illuminations, merry-go-rounds, and other attractions. The neighboring notabilities were lavishly entertained, and Boni’s fancy pictured a collection of exotic animals in the grounds, large Nubians in red turbans with jaguars and black panthers on leash. Again the liveries of the servants harmonized with the house; they wore white coats and pale blue breeches. One eminent visitor, King Carlos of Portugal, ruthlessly upset the color scheme by appearing in a bright red smoking jacket. Had he not been a monarch Boni would have ticked him off and compelled him to dress in accord with the surroundings, just as he once told a lady that her gown and hat were out of place at a shooting party. One visitor to Marais arrived in an automobile: this was the Comte de Périgord, afterwards Prince de Sagan, who hardly knew the host and had never met the hostess. “Little did I dream, when I entertained this angel unawares, that he would eventually own Marais—and incidentally marry my wife,” wrote Boni long afterwards. By this time, either owing to his advice or to her imitative faculty, his wife was transformed and could receive princes without embarrassment.
In 1898 Boni was elected as a deputy for Castellane, and in the famous affair which shook France he displayed hostility to Captain Dreyfus, buying the Soir in order to pump up the emotional nonsense of the moment. He fought a duel with his cousin Comte Orlowski because of certain remarks made by the Count about the French army. As he felt concern over the state of his cousin’s soul, it pleased him that it was only necessary to wound the fellow. Among other little luxuries Boni allowed himself a racing stable, not because he liked racing but he enjoyed seeing his mauve and green colors moving against a setting of trees. Apparently he was able to isolate his own colors and be blind to all the others with which they were mixed. His entertainments were famous, and one of them, a flower dinner party for 250 people, was the talk of the hour. The female guests represented different flowers, his wife appearing as a scarlet poppy. “It was a most enjoyable evening,” he wrote, “and my charming flowers reversed the decrees of Nature by going to bed at sunrise!”
He had innumerable love affairs and women were attracted to him in spite of his appearance, which was described by one person as being like a powder puff, by another as resembling a lovely doll, for his complection seemed like wax and his hair shone like gold.
Anna’s family controlled their anger for a while; but when Boni bought the Château de Grignan because Madame de Sévigné as well as his ancestors had once owned the place, their rage came to the surface. They started a campaign against him, calling him a spendthrift, which he hotly denied, admitting that he had perhaps bought too much too quickly, but it had never occurred to him that he would have to pay on the nail. It was almost a point of honor with him never to settle accounts when presented. But at last a dealer, perhaps incited by the Goulds, demanded payment of the whole of his account. “This was indeed an impertinence,” said Boni, “and one unworthy of a man in whom I had hitherto reposed implicit confidence.” But the impertinent fellow was also impenitent and brought an action against Castellane in New York, whence his wife’s income was administered by trustees. As the sum ran to several millions of francs, Boni was attacked in the American papers, which did not add to his domestic comfort. Anna was angry, “but if she had proved herself more sympathetic towards me at this crisis in my fortunes, I should have become her slave for life.” Alas! she agreed with her family and laughed at his assurance that his speculations in works of art would ultimately make a huge profit for her. At a much later date he claimed that his investments had been the best ever made by the Gould family.
One woe doth tread upon another’s heel
So fast they follow...
and Boni was to be attacked for his political views as well as his social indiscretions. The Figaro opened fire and called him a bankrupt, mentioning other misdemeanors while he was absent in America, where the unpleasant newspaper gossip drove him to ask President Roosevelt to put an end to it. But the President did not feel disposed to muzzle the press for the sake of Boni.
Returning to France the Count called on the editor of the Figaro, M. de Rodays, with the intention of boxing his ears, having cabled his design from New York. Shown into the presence of M. de Rodays, he asked point-blank whether the editor was responsible for the objectionable articles. De Rodays replied that he did not write them but accepted full responsibility for them; upon which Boni stepped forward and slapped the editor’s face several times. De Rodays squealed, Boni gave him another slap, left his card, and walked out. A duel followed, de Rodays choosing pistols at the greatest allowable distance and one shot to settle all. The affair took place in the Parc des Princes at Boulogne-sur-Seine, and Castellane’s bullet hit his antagonist in the thigh. De Rodays bled profusely, and honor was satisfied. Instantly Castellane became a topic in plays, revues and concerts, his photo being exhibited everywhere, his popularity attested by the name “Boni” which everyone called him. “I moved in the midst of this turmoil aloof, disdainful, and unheeding,” he remarked.
In the summer of 1899 the Prince of Wales asked him to send a yacht to Cowes, where he gave a dinner on board in honor of H.R.H., the servants being dressed as sailors in consonance with his artistic taste. But the propeller of the yacht broke and he lost the Cup. His wife then accompanied him to Scotland and Ireland, where he bought a hunter at the Dublin Horse Show, but eventually returned the animal to Ireland. They went on to Blenheim, and the Duke of Marlborough received a good deal of advice on harmonious environment which if followed would have necessitated the rebuilding of his palace. Boni was particularly proud of the kitchens at his various establishments and discoursed on their elegance, their white-tiled walls and marble floors, in a manner which the Duke found tactless.
While the Goulds were busy exposing him as a monster of extravagance, Boni considered his contributions to the public weal. “As I have afforded food for endless gossip,” he thought, “surely I may claim to be regarded as a public benefactor.” His châteaux, yachts, race horses, charities, fetes, pictures, furniture, rare books, could all be regarded as sound investments apart from the pleasure they had given to so many people. His wife’s pearls were the finest in the world, her diamonds unsurpassed, while her rings with their flawless stones, her Renaissance jewels, had no equal. Some sixty million francs were spent on these luxuries, but their value would increase as time went on, and even
the 7,800 meters of land on which his Parisian palace had been built, for which he had paid 300 francs a meter, would be worth ten times that amount in the years ahead. In addition to such benefits he had, with the assistance of his wife, produced three “charming” boys; yet with all these achievements in his favor Anna failed to understand him and listened to the “perfidious advice” of family lawyers. At the end of his career he came to the conclusion that “Nobody has replaced me” and that “My enterprises were too much in advance of my time.”
In 1903 he again visited the United States, his wife and two elder boys having preceded him. But to his annoyance they did not meet him when his boat docked. He took a cab to the hotel where they were staying and saw the three of them seated at a table in the dining room. Anna was unperturbed by his querulous attitude and merely expressed regret that, having married a foreigner, she did not live in her own country. Having stayed in America for six weeks, they visited various Mediterranean resorts on their yacht. Constantinople did not live up to its reputation for beauty; Venice was not so attractive as the painters had made it; but Athens was a sheer joy. Life on board a yacht had an unfortunate effect on Anna, whose dislike of her husband became increasingly apparent, though “I am convinced,” said he, “that I have not done anything worse than those who read my ‘Confessions’”—a somewhat shaky avowal.
On December 8, 1905, they gave a dinner at their Parisian palace to the King of Portugal, in the course of which Boni “sensed impending disasters.” Already he had noticed that people ceased talking when he entered a room, and he recognized himself as the theme of scandal, but he was hardly prepared for an incident which took place when he and his wife were guests at a dinner in the first week of January 1906. Someone asked him what he had been doing that day. As a conscientious deputy he replied that he had been to the “Chamber.” His wife appeared skeptical, saying, “The word has two meanings, and I think he prefers a ‘chambre’ as a bedroom to a place of legislation.” This made him feel uncomfortable but did not alter his way of life.
On January 26th he and Anna went for an afternoon walk in the Bois. He expected to meet her at dinner, but on his return home from the Palais Bourbon a little after 6 he found his house wifeless, childless, servantless, and in the dark, the electricity supply having been cut off. He rushed to the Hôtel Bristol, where Anna had taken refuge, but was headed off by detectives. Returning to his deserted mansion, he received an official application for a judicial separation from his wife. When next they met he asked why she had been so charming to him on the day she left home. “Because it was for the last time,” she said.
His matrimonial affairs were soon the talk of the town, but he held his head higher than ever, saw his friends, never discussed his fortunes, and walked in the Jardin du Luxembourg instead of the Bois de Boulogne. At last the Gould family persuaded Anna to divorce Boni, for which purpose his character had to be blackened. But, according to himself, the necessary evidence was difficult to obtain, “as my misdemeanours were not flagrant.” But flagrant or not, she obtained all that was needed and they were divorced, Boni reflecting that “I am sure we did not appreciate the wisdom of giving and taking during our married life.” He omitted to mention that he had given her a great deal out of her own money.
Meanwhile Anna lost no time in bewailing her lot. In 1908 she married Helie de Talleyrand-Périgord, who became Duc de Talleyrand. His family went in for American wives on a fairly large scale, though he was wealthy enough to do without one. But rich men have no objection to greater riches, and it would seem that he was fond of Anna. At any rate she bore him two children and definitely liked him better than Boni.
The lack of creature comforts did not depress our spendthrift hero, whose chief consolations were perhaps to be found in other people’s beds, and he experienced the satisfaction of believing that he had been “a considerate husband,” which was true in the sense that he had devoted much thought to his wife’s income. “When I married Anna Gould,” he exclaimed with a flourish, “I laid the world and its possibilities at her feet. When she divorced me, she kicked them inconsequently away!” A partial view no doubt, but this may be said in his favor: the way he spent his wife’s money was preferable to the way in which her father had acquired it.
CHAPTER 7—The Manchesters
Consuelo Iznaga and the 8th Duke of Manchester
Helena Zimmerman and the 9th Duke of Manchester
Although many American women married French, Italian, Spanish and German noblemen, their titles were not prized so highly in the social world of New York as British peers, and the Marquis of Castellane was small beer compared with the vintage port of an English ducal family. When therefore Viscount Mandeville, son and heir of the 7th Duke of Manchester, visited America in 1875, he was marked down as a likely son-in-law by several ambitious mothers. Twenty-two years old, he was looking for fun, not money, and it is doubtful whether he wanted to be tied to a wife, however rich, his nature being unsuited to the settling-down process of matrimony. He wished to enjoy himself, as most youngsters do at that age, and responsibility was the last thing he desired. But all his inclinations were dismissed from his mind after dancing with Consuelo Iznaga.
She was the second daughter of a Cuban father and a mother whose family had lived in Dakota. Before the Civil War the Iznagas had owned slaves in Louisiana, living richly on their cotton plantation with a house in New York. The war deprived them of much property and they lost a great part of their Cuban estate. Though still enjoying comfort, they were no longer rich when Mandeville was invited to stay with them. A few days after his arrival he was down with typhoid fever. Recovery was slow and the patient’s attention became fixed on Consuelo, the lovely girl of seventeen whose presence made illness a pleasure. He asked her to marry him, and she consented. His parents were aghast on receiving the news but relented when they got to know her.
The dukedom of Manchester dates from 1719, the family name being Montagu. The title has nothing to do with the famous Lancashire city, the territorial name deriving from Godmanchester in Huntingdonshire, “God” having been dropped. The father of the Mandeville who was now engaged to Consuelo had himself married a German, Countess Louisa von Alten, who for many years led what was considered the fast set in London society and who, following the death of her present husband, married the eighth Duke of Devonshire, being known thereafter as “the double duchess.” We shall meet her again. Though a woman who spoke her mind and snubbed people unmercifully if their behavior vexed her, she approved of Consuelo and even admired her. With her golden hair, large dark eyes, angelic expression, slender neck and graceful figure, Consuelo was generally regarded as a beauty; but her dresses were sometimes eccentric and her placid indifference to conventions astonished people in the years to come. It was as well for her future happiness that she could remain unconcerned whatever the provocation she received.
The marriage of Viscount Mandeville to Consuelo Iznaga took place in New York on May 22, 1876. The church was packed with some fourteen hundred people and the general traffic in the neighborhood was suspended when the carriages of the guests began to roll up. No marriage was complete without Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, but on this occasion a special musical arrangement by John Peel was played at the bride’s request. Her close friend Minnie Stevens was present, and in the years ahead they saw a lot of one another in England, for Minnie crossed the Atlantic to find a husband and with Consuelo joined the select set favored by the Prince of Wales.
Having failed to have his fling before marriage, Mandeville seems to have made up for the deprivation afterwards. His wife gave in to his whims and showed no resentment however he behaved. Though she hated country life, he marooned her at Tandragee Castle, County Armagh, the Irish estate of the Manchesters, where she was uncomplainingly wretched. He even subjected her to the company of his undesirable friends. They were invited to stay at Ross-Trevor by Lord Newry, who told Consuelo that he would be giving a ball at a hotel he had recently built a
nd asked her to bring a dress for the occasion. They were received at Newry’s house by their hostess, a queer woman with a painted face. Consuelo did not like the look of her, and when at dinner the odd female exclaimed, “Oh, I am quite miserable! Newry has laced me too tight,” Consuelo did not like the sound of her. But not desirous of a quarrel with her husband, she kept her thoughts to herself. Enlightenment came with the ball, when she heard from an elderly well-wisher that her hostess had practiced polyandry on a fairly substantial scale and was now Lord Newry’s mistress. Without passing this information on to her husband, perhaps guessing that he was not ignorant, she pleaded illness the following morning and he had to take her home. Newry, having already soaked her for a £10 subscription to a fanciful charity, sent her a bill for entertainment expenses.
More reputable friends did not interest Mandeville and he made so many excuses to avoid them that Consuelo started accepting invitations without him. Some of her husband’s conversation must have infected her because, as we have already heard, she told “roguey-poguey” stories at a dinner party given by Lady Randolph Churchill, which astonished her hostess and the other guests; but this may have been an attempt to hide her disappointment under a lively exterior. She had plenty to distress her, having to undergo the publicity consequent upon her husband’s infidelity. For a while he cohabited with a music hall star named Bessie Bellwood. The notoriety of the liaison was bad enough for his wife, since Bessie was not the sort of person who could keep a secret, but worse was to come. A cabby called to demand payment of a sum owed him by Mandeville. During their argument, or altercation, Bessie suddenly intervened and gave the cabby a punch on the nose. A police-court case ensued, and Mandeville had to give evidence in the witness box. Altogether a most discreditable episode, and poor Consuelo hid herself for a while. But she never reproved him, and indeed never censured the actions of anyone, her children being allowed to do what they liked. A visitor once called to see her when she was ill in bed and found her eldest child, Kim, playing on the floor with the pot de chambre. “It seems to be the only thing that amuses him,” said his tolerant mother.{15}
Hesketh Pearson Page 14