Hesketh Pearson

by The Marrying Americans

  Up to this point the heads of the Astor family had concerned themselves exclusively with the business of adding to their assets, but William Waldorf was made of more malleable material. An Italian tour as a youth had given him an interest in art and developed a curiosity in public affairs. At the age of twenty-nine, to his father’s surprise, he attained election to the New York Assembly, and the following year stood for Congress. Though he spent much money in an attempt to get votes, being censured by the press for such conduct, he was defeated. Annoyed by his failure, he wished to leave America, and obtained the post of Minister Plenipotentiary at Rome. Here he increased his knowledge of art, acquired many paintings and sculptures, wrote a novel, and sumptuously entertained people who cared for such things.

  Returning to New York in 1886, he found the place and the people both hostile and humdrum, and when his father died he left for England to the accompaniment of displeasing observations in the papers. The other branch of the Astor family, headed by William, brother of John Jacob the Second, now reigned supreme in New York, William’s wife (the Mrs. Astor) being the queen of the social world and aunt of William Waldorf, whose one object was to achieve prominence in England. He started by buying Lansdowne House in London, next Cliveden near Maidenhead, and then Hever Castle close to Tonbridge. He soon won fame as an eccentric, especially when he erected a Tudor-looking house on the Victoria Embankment, London, which he crammed with all sorts of artistic objects, and wherein he lived like a medieval baron with revolvers by his bedside and doors which shut mysteriously when he pressed a button. He never became popular socially, perhaps because his eminent guests were received by a secretary and sometimes dismissed by himself abruptly when he became weary of them. Though he spent a great deal of money to obtain social recognition, owning newspapers and assisting the right sort of people in the right sort of way, there was something about him that even those he helped found distasteful. He was nervous, uncomfortable, poised insecurely between his millions and his ambitions.

  But his son Waldorf Astor had a different sort of upbringing and a dissimilar nature. Eton, Oxford, rowing, polo, hunting, fishing and reading, helped to put him quite at ease in his surroundings, and his friendly open manner made him universally liked. His age was the same as that of Nancy Shaw, their birthday being the same, and in character he complemented her. She was animated, excitable, commanding, enthusiastic; he was calm, easy-going, quiet and cautious. She returned his love, and since his father raised no objection their marriage took place in May 1906. As a wedding present they received Cliveden and a few million pounds from his father, who gave Nancy the Sanci diamond which since the fourteenth century had belonged to kings and princes.{35}

  At Cliveden, a mid-Victorian construction by Charles Barry, she became a notable hostess, mixing all conditions of people of every sort of nationality, from monarchs and diplomats to authors and soldiers. She made a point of asking Americans to meet Englishmen, as she came to believe that the future of civilization depended on Anglo-American union. There was a large staff, some score of indoor servants and double that number out-of-doors. The catering department was often pushed to its limits to provide for unexpected guests, and the crush at table could be uncomfortable. Her husband started a stud farm for race horses and won many races with those he bred; but she cared as little for the racing set as previously for the hunting set in Leicestershire. Some of her guests, like Winston Churchill, she did not personally like, but the feeling was reciprocated in his case and resulted in a famous interchange. They usually avoided one another and were never invited to the same parties; but once he turned up by accident at Blenheim while she was there, and a heated argument between them caused her to explode: “If I were your wife I’d put poison in your coffee!” to which he retorted: “And if I were your husband I’d drink it.” She cared little for Hilaire Belloc, who was too worldly, or for James Barrie, who became a duchess’s darling, or for Rudyard Kipling, who was wife-ridden; but she enjoyed the company of Lytton Strachey. Her guests were free to do whatever they liked. They could read, write, talk, walk, play games, just as they felt disposed.

  Waldorf Astor was elected M.P. for Plymouth in 1910, and his wife did much speaking and canvassing for him. In 1912, having brought several children into the world, she fell ill and was ordered a rest cure. This did not suit her temperament and she held dinner parties in her bedroom. The following year she became a Christian Scientist, dismissed her doctors, and recovered, her strong will being fortified by the new faith. Some years later she converted her husband to the same belief, and his crippling sciatica departed. Before the 1914 war they had a cottage built near the Sandwich golf course, a cottage with fifteen bedrooms, bought a large house in St. James’s Square, London, and another on Plymouth Hoe. A group of young and earnest men gathered round the Astors after Waldorf’s entry into Parliament. They were known as Milner’s young men, having served under that statesman in South Africa. All of them possessed ideals concerning the British Empire, which they wished to turn into a great peace-creating Commonwealth. One was Philip Kerr (later Lord Lothian), another was Lionel Curtis, a third was Geoffrey Dawson (future editor of The Times). They ran a quarterly review, The Round Table, in which their opinions were disseminated and constantly met together at Cliveden to exchange views.

  Much to Waldorf’s annoyance, his father achieved the position he had so long coveted when Lloyd George made him a baron in 1916 and a viscount in 1917, which meant that when he died two years later his son had to sit in the House of Lords. A new M.P. was required for the Sutton division of Plymouth; and since women had recently been given not only the vote but the right to sit in Parliament, Waldorf wished his wife to succeed him in his constituency. The local conservatives asked for nothing better, and after a campaign in which she easily held her own with hecklers she was elected with a large majority, becoming almost at once a national figure, the press having reported her quick repartee and humorous stories. The first woman to sit in the British Parliament, she was sponsored by the Prime Minister, Lloyd George, and Arthur Balfour, and instead of going straight to her seat, as was usual after such ceremonies, she chatted gaily with the Speaker. In fact she soon felt at home in the House, and on the evening of her entry gave a dinner to M.P.s irrespective of party. Her first speech was inevitably on the subject of alcohol. The Conservatives wished to abolish the Liquor Control Board, a wartime institution, and she wished to retain it, saying it had been a blessing to women and children. When the House protested vocally, she tried to soothe members by adding: “Do not think I am urging prohibition. I am not so stupid as that, though I admit I hope England will come to it one day and I am not afraid to say so.”

  We will not weary ourselves with the politics of that time, and all that need be said is that Lady Astor, as she had now become, kept the House of Commons alive, not so much with her speeches as with her interruptions and backchat. She defended the interests of women and children on all possible occasions, never missed an opportunity to attack the liquor trade, and introduced a bill making it illegal for boys and girls under eighteen to drink in public houses, which was watered down in committee. Always intemperate in her advocacy of temperance, she must be described as more of a wag than a wit, but her remarks were often better adapted to the occasion than if they had been weighted with more durable substance, as in this case: “The toast used to be ‘The Ladies, God bless ‘em.’ Now that women have the vote it should be ‘The Gentlemen, God help ‘em.’” A more characteristic example was her reply to a tipsy Labour member during a debate on prohibition in the House. Prohibition being then the law in her native land, “Why don’t you go to America?” he shouted. “Why don’t you go and have another?” she retaliated. Her general attitude to the drink question earned her a premature epitaph by Colin Hurry:

  “Here England buries her grudge against Columbus.”

  In 1922 she attended a conference of women in the United States and frequently spoke against the policy of isolation tha
t had been adopted by that country. She met President Harding, General Pershing and other notables, and went on to see her old friends in Virginia, where she had a rapturous welcome. Fond of the Negroes in her youth, she did not forget them now, and listened entranced to their singing.

  At every general election she was returned for Plymouth with a handsome majority, and she represented the constituency for twenty-five years. Before the Labour Party came to power she gave a dinner to the leaders who were supposed to have revolutionary leanings, and introduced them to King George V and Queen Mary. Ramsay MacDonald and the rest of them were duly impressed and probably rather enjoyed what their less-privileged followers called a masquerade, because they had to appear in Court dress, breeches and silk stockings, which caused headlines in the American press like Labour in Knee Pants. The outcome of the occasion was an invitation to the future ministers to dine at Buckingham Palace. Incidentally Lady Astor never felt quite at ease with Queen Mary, who was able to turn on the cold-water tap of royalty at a moment’s notice. When the two of them were at a home for the blind, Lady Astor asked the Queen to have a chat with one of the inmates. “Have you talked to him?” asked the Queen. “Yes, indeed.” “Then I think that will suffice.” But her son the Prince of Wales was quite a different sort of person; he was easy-going, modest, rather shy, and not in the least intimidating. Lady Astor liked him, feeling sure he would be a popular monarch, and they played golf together.

  Perhaps she took more pride in her friendship with Bernard Shaw than in anything else, and her pride was justified because she won his friendship by personality, not position. It will be more convenient at this point for the chronicler to adopt the first person. Since Lady Astor was the only famous hostess of her time who could attract Shaw to her gatherings, I asked him how he had first got to know her. “I have always refused to play the society clown and declined all the invitations she sent me,” he replied; “then I met her at someone else’s house, liked her at once, and began to accept her invitations.” He also took an interest in her eruptions during the Parliamentary debates, admired her bellicosity and irreverence, and enjoyed such remarks of hers as: “The press doesn’t give women enough publicity; they’ve got to murder their husbands to get into the papers.” (On the nonsense talked about the common man) “The common man’s no use at all; it’s the uncommon man who gets us on.” (Answering a heckler who accused her of great wealth) “Yes, the Astors are very rich. Don’t you wish you were?” And: “I married beneath me. All women do.”

  In the later twenties Shaw often stayed at Cliveden, and his correspondence with his hostess began in February 1929 with a letter opening “Loveliest Nan.” It was a very cold winter and he hoped she had not been devoured by wolves, adding: “though you would be if I were a wolf.” At the end of March he read his new play The Apple Cart to a party she had collected at Cliveden, and thereafter he wrote to her frequently. We find him sending her a ticket for one of his lectures, telling her all about the bust of himself on which Jo Davidson was working, refusing to attend a party given by one of her friends, supplying bulletins of his wife’s health when she contracted scarlatina at Buxton in May 1930, describing his trips round the world, and giving her advice on politics during the financial crisis of 1931, which, since he called the bankers “the most Godforsaken fools,” she cannot have followed. He did not think much of her other political advisers, telling Geoffrey Dawson that he was the world’s worst journalist, which of course made him an ideal editor of The Times. When I wished to quote two of his letters to her in my biography of him, he told me to omit the opening “My dearest Nancy,” explaining why: “You see Lady Astor’s son by a former marriage is called ‘the Shaw boy,’ Shaw being his proper name, and people might think he’s my boy when I address her so affectionately.”

  While writing Shaw’s Life I went to Lady Astor’s house in St. James’s Square on April 26, 1939, and had a long talk with her. I found that she did not admire Shaw’s brains but his character: “He has a good heart; he’s really kind and virtuous; he’s good through and through; he has a beautiful nature.” There is much truth in this, because he was incapable of suggesting evil in any of his stage characters and could not believe evil of the dictators who rose like toadstools in the nightmare of the nineteen-thirties. She thought him an essentially simple man, having no interest in royalties (except cash ones) or the aristocracy. She said that she had introduced him to a circle of intelligent people who were neither actors nor socialists, and that she had been able to influence The Times to publish his letters, the only sort of official recognition he cared about, for it meant much more to him than a dukedom or the Order of Merit. She hoped to appear in his will, giving me this reason: “No one remembers politicians after their deaths, and my one chance of immortality is to be mentioned in his will. Besides, I need the money.” As we were talking in a palatial London residence, and as I knew of her houses at Plymouth and Sandwich, not to mention her Cliveden château, I failed to see how any sum Shaw might leave her could much increase her comfort.

  She then gave me a description of her famous visit to Russia with Shaw, the other members of the party being Lord Astor, their son, and Lord Lothian. They arrived in Moscow on July 21, 1931, and received a tremendous welcome. “They treated me as if I were Karl Marx,” said Shaw, who thought the Russian people looked happy and found Stalin merry. “They received him as if he had been God,” said Lady Astor, who thought the Russian people looked wretched and found Stalin grim. Shaw was given a marvelous suite at the Metropole; the rest of the party were accommodated in cubbyholes. “We were just nobodies,” Lady Astor told me: “He was the great man. But he insisted on our full recognition and participation in every ceremony, pushing us forward and keeping us well in the limelight with himself.” They were taken to all the show places, to model farms, model colonies, model everything else, and learned from their guides that thus and thus was Russia being modeled.

  While Shaw was speaking at a luncheon given in his honor for his 75th birthday, Lady Astor noticed that his audience sat tense with fear when he criticized the Soviets, relaxing with relief when he praised them. One or two of the speakers, emboldened by his appreciation of the Russian experiment, attacked the English. Shaw said, “I am Irish,” and told Lady Astor to reply for England. She was quite equal to the occasion and he roared with laughter at her sallies. Her forthrightness could be a little disconcerting. Shaw gave me an illustration. “Now tell me honestly,” she plied Litvinoff, “wouldn’t you rather not have had a revolution at all?” Taking a deep breath, Litvinoff solemnly replied: “My whole life was spent in preparing for one.”

  But it was over a passage between herself and Joseph Stalin when their party was received by the dictator at the Kremlin that Shaw’s memory lapsed or Lady Astor’s fancy functioned. Stalin wanted to know how England had managed to build such a great empire. Shaw replied that the English were buccaneers and had stolen it. Lady Astor’s explanation that the English character had been formed by the Bible, which had made them crusaders, missionaries, pioneers and mighty fighters, produced an electric atmosphere, and everyone except Stalin nearly had a fit. She added that the Russians too might be great if, having smashed an idolatrous religion, they brought back the Bible.

  “That is what we don’t yet know,” replied Stalin, while his comrades choked and the interpreter’s teeth chattered. “It remains to be seen.”

  Then Lady Astor dropped a bomb.

  “When are you going to stop Tsarist government?” she demanded.

  The interpreter went as white as the ceiling as he translated the question.

  “What do you mean?” growled Stalin.

  “Shooting your opponents,” Lady Astor briskly explained.

  The interpreter could hardly deal with this: he stammered and yammered, his features twitching with fear. When he had got it off his chest, the officials opened their mouths in stupefaction and remained for a while petrified. Stalin calmly answered:

  “We a
re living in a state of war. When peace comes we shall stop it.”

  Having delivered this, the interpreter nearly expired.

  When I showed Lady Astor’s report of what had happened to Shaw, he contradicted it emphatically: “This is what Lady Astor now imagines she said. Not a word of it actually passed. Obviously we could not have asked Stalin for an interview to insult him in his own house.” Yet the queer thing is that Shaw’s own description of what Lady Astor said to Stalin must have annoyed the dictator far more than the accusation of shooting his opponents. According to Shaw, she asserted that the Soviet did not know how to treat children. Stalin was indignant, saying with intense feeling and the appropriate gesture: “In England you BEAT children.” Let Shaw continue:

  “All Russia would have been abashed and silenced had all Russia been present. The attempt to abash and silence Lady Astor was about as successful as an effort of a fly to make head against a whirlwind. Her fearless impetuosity rocked the Kremlin to its foundations. He [Stalin] did not know what he was talking about. She [Nancy Astor] did. She had not fostered and financed the sisters Macmillan in their Child Welfare experiment at Deptford for nothing. Those prettily dressed little girls in their dainty nursery at the collective farm, with their unbroken toys: why were they not out of doors? The nurse had said that it had rained that morning. Rubbish! A child should not know nor care whether it was rain or shine. And the spotless dresses and the clean faces and hands! A child should be grubby, dirty, clayey, except at meals. It should not have a dress from the wardrobe of the Russian ballet: it should have a tough linen frock that could he washed in half an hour. ‘Send a good sensible woman to me in London,’ she ordered, ‘and I will take care of her and show her how children of five should be handled.’ Stalin, overwhelmed, soon guessed that this feminine tornado had perhaps something to teach him. He took an envelope and asked her to write her address on it....She was hardly safe at home when he sent her a dozen, whom she had to entertain and instruct and take to Deptford.”