The Glitter and the Gold Read online

  We spent a pleasant evening with the English Ambassador, Sir Henry Drummond Wolff, who proved a charming and courteous host. There I met Lord Rosebery, then leader of the Liberal party in the House of Lords. His short government of little more than a year had fallen in 1895 but had given him time to realize his greatest wish, that of winning the Derby while Prime Minister, which he did in 1894 and again in 1895. An exceedingly brilliant man with a caustic wit, he had, in spite of a bourgeois appearance, an aristocratic arrogance rendered less aggressive by the twinkle of his blue eyes and a kindly humorous smile. Someone told me that his mother, the Duchess of Cleveland, who in England lived at Battle Abbey, always requested her guests to write not only their names but also an appreciation of their stay in her visitors' book; and the following entry by an unappreciative guest: "From Battle murder and sudden death good Lord deliver us," was just the sort of sentiment I thought Lord Rosebery might himself have indulged in. Realizing that no better pass to the favor of the Dowager Duchess of Marlborough could be found, I deemed myself lucky when he told me that he was sending her a good account of me.

  It was less pleasant to envisage a more immediate consequence of our meeting. When Marlborough heard that Lord Rosebery was to be received in audience by the Regent of Spain, Queen Maria Christina, he wished also to be accorded this honor. The stringent etiquette of the Spanish Court intimidated me as much as did the fear of Lord Rosebery's ridicule; nevertheless, when we met at the Palacio Real on the appointed day and were conducted through endless reception rooms, I managed to acquit myself with dignity and, on reaching the royal presence, to drop the three ceremonial curtsies Spanish custom required. The Queen Mother led a cloistered life, and my sympathy went out to the little King, Alfonso XIII, whom we saw in a gloomy palatial distance. No one then could foresee his tragic exile and his death in a foreign land. But for an Epicurean he was a remarkable stoic; later, when I met him in England, he told me that he had always considered death his close companion and that immunity from bombs had been but a lucky chance.

  Of my visits to Seville and Granada I remember little. The vastness of the Cathedral of Seville impressed me, but my aesthetic eye was shocked by the statues of the Madonna adorned as if for a Carnival, with mantles of velvet and ermine and with garish jewels fashioned as necklaces, bracelets and tiaras. After the Gothic austerity of these somber churches I came with relief to the Alhambra, whose wide terrace overlooked fertile plains to the rocky heights of the Sierra Nevada. Here evidence of the Moorish love of gardens and of running water, of graceful arches and of slender columns reminded me of the Taj in India. Had my frame of mind been happier and had our visit occurred during the summer I might have found gaiety in Spanish music and in the fiestas with their colorful crowds; as it was I have a somber picture of an austere country whose customs and religion have remained very much as they were in the sixteenth century.

  From Spain we went by train to France. It was a complete and startling contrast to arrive at the little principality of Monaco in brilliant sunshine with the blue Mediterranean at our feet. My honeymoon had so far been a serious and depressing introduction to a life I had imagined would at least be gay, but now my spirits rose. They have always depended on blue skies, and I looked forward to pleasant days in cheerful surroundings. We stopped at the fashionable Hôtel de Paris, eating our meals among a lively crowd of beautiful women and elegant men, many of whom were acquaintances of my husband. When I asked him who they all were, I was surprised by his evasive answers and still more startled when informed that I must not look at the women whose beauty I admired. It was only after repeated questioning that I learned that these were ladies of easy virtue whose beauty and charm had their price. It became increasingly complicated when I heard that I must not recognize the men who accompanied them, even though some of them had been my suitors a few months before. In those days there were ladies of the demi-monde who vied in beauty, in elegance, in wit and charm with the greatest ladies of the Faubourg. These women—perhaps the nearest approach to the Greek hetaerae the Christian world has seen—had beautiful houses where they received the intelligentsia of Paris, smart carriages in which to air their charms, handsome jewels to adorn their persons. At the opera and at the races in their incomparable toilettes they were the cynosure of all eyes. The two outstanding beauties of the demi-monde were La Belle Otero, a dark and passionate young woman with a strong blend of Greek and Gypsy blood, who was always flamboyantly dressed to set off her magnificent figure; and lovely Liane de Pougy, who looked the grande dame she eventually became by her marriage to the Roumanian Prince Ghika.

  There was rivalry between them, and they were proud of the precious stones that adorned them as visible signs of the eminence they had reached in their profession. Fortunes were spent and lost for them and bets were exchanged on the relative value of their jewels. It was not surprising therefore that Otero should challenge her rival by appearing at the Casino one night covered from head to foot with priceless jewels. It was a dazzling display, but in seeking to outdo her rival Otero had sacrificed good taste and had lent herself to ridicule. Excited conjectures about Pougy's rejoinder were promptly answered. The next evening, appearing in a simple white gown without a single jewel, she was followed by her maid gorgeously arrayed in jewels that far outshone Otero's.

  In such extravagant ways was stressed the immense importance men attached to beauty, and it seemed to me then unfair that ces dames du demi-monde should be permitted to enhance their beauty with cosmetics which were forbidden to la femme du monde. For the respectable woman, as she was called, had to observe a neutral role; her clothes as well as her "make-up" had to be discreet. To pass unnoticed was the dictum imposed by the good, if hypocritical, society of the day. Any extravagance of fashion was condemned as bad taste, and no well-bred woman could afford to look seductive, at least not in public. Lipstick and powder alone were considered fast, and any further embellishments would immediately have committed one to the world of the déclassé, that sad middle state where recognition is withheld both by the upper and the lower worlds. How different was this life from the prim monastic existence my mother had enforced. The goddess Minerva no longer sat enthroned. Beauty rather than wisdom appeared to be everyone's business.

  I was further aghast at the importance food had suddenly assumed. "Considering," I was told, "that it is the only pleasure one can count on having three times a day every day of one's life, a well-ordered meal is of prime importance." We seemed to spend hours discussing the merit of a dish or the bouquet of a vintage. The maître d’hôtel had become an important person to whom at meals most of my husband's conversation was addressed.

  Without a doubt the demi-monde was brilliant, seductive and gay, but the beau monde glittered no less enticingly. Dandies, roués, spendthrifts and scions of great European families were to be seen recklessly gambling away colossal fortunes. Even the United States of America, that Mrs. Grundy in so profligate a world, had its representative in no less a spectacular figure than the great James Gordon Bennett, millionaire owner of the New York Herald and its continental mouthpiece, the Paris Herald, he who had sent H. M. Stanley to Central Africa to find Livingstone and had organized a Polar Expedition as well. When I knew him he owned a villa at Beaulieu-sur-Mer and was a great friend of my mother. The trains used to rush through his garden, and Mr. Bennett invariably ran to his windows to watch them pass. I thought it unusual for one who had his yacht, the famous Lysistrata, anchored in the quiet bay at his feet to find so much to excite him in passing trains. But James Gordon Bennett was an eccentric and there were curious tales concerning his fancies. Among those he invited to dine on the Lysistrata were the American belles Lily, Lady Bagot, and Adele, Countess of Essex, who with another compatriot, the malaprop Mrs. Moore of Paris, had one evening an extraordinary adventure. Suddenly in the midst of dinner Mr. Bennett retired to his cabin and the yacht weighed anchor and moved out to sea. On seeing the coast of France disappear in the distance the guests rushe
d out to question the captain on so unexpected a departure, clamoring for an immediate return. "I have Mr. Bennett's orders to proceed to Egypt," the captain answered, "and nothing but his word will change that order." But the owner of the luxurious yacht was locked in his cabin, and the guests perforce spent an unpleasant night in various stages of active discomfort, since the sea was rough and they had only their evening clothes. The next morning fortunately brought the host back to reality and the yacht was ordered to return to Monte Carlo. There the furious and outraged guests were disembarked in broad daylight still wearing their evening dresses. Profuse apologies accompanied by extravagant presents finally restored more friendly relations, but in the future visitors were less easily persuaded to dine on the Lysistrata.

  In this international world it was perhaps the Russians who were the greatest gamblers, led by the Grand Dukes Alexis and Vladimir. It must have been a family failing, for the Grand Duchess Anastasia was later also to prefer the gaming tables of Monte Carlo to the stern and stuffy atmosphere of her German husband's court. In the 1920's, when my mother was her neighbor at Eze-sur-Mer, we used to watch the Grand Duchess during our rare visits to the Casino. Invariably she was recklessly throwing her last louis on the table—her semi-Oriental eyes glistening green as she watched them go. When after a particularly disastrous night she was found dead in bed there were ominous rumors of too many sleeping pills. What a typical Russian she looked—lean, dark and sinister, but exquisite in satin and jewels. She wore her black hair tightly coiffed to her narrow head which she still held proudly and her lips curled disdainfully. She was completely indifferent to anything but her personal wishes and desires.

  In the winter of 1896, the year of my honeymoon, it fell to a Russian named Polovtsoff to uphold his country's reputation for reckless gambling. Having evolved a system he had taken two years to perfect by a continuous chart of the game taken at a trente-et-quarante table, he finally decided to enjoy the fruit of his labors and theory. Taking 300,000 francs, in those days no mean sum, he sat down and, watched by a breathless crowd, lost fourteen maximum running! This is—from what I have been told by a croupier—the usual result of a self-evolved system. For, "Que voulez-vous, Madame," he added, "if there was an infallible system don't you suppose the Casino would have discovered it years ago?" Polovtsoff, however, had luckier days. One night, having won a lot of money, he went back to his hotel where he put his winnings in a metal box he kept in his room. In the middle of the night he was awakened by a man who was attempting to strangle him. Biting the man's hand severely, he made him let go, told him to take the money and get out. In the morning Polovtsoff notified the police, and the empty metal box was found in the hotel garden. The next day a man with a bandaged hand was seen leaving the train in Paris. He was at once arrested and turned out to be a member of one of Russia's most prominent families. A relative who brought poison to his prison prevented trial and disgrace. The story was never told and the man's name never divulged. I have it from Polovtsoff's son through Henry May to whom he told it.

  I heard few of these tales at the time, and met fewer of the people concerned in them. Indeed, from the infrequency with which anyone was presented to me I concluded that my circle would be all too select. It was pleasant, therefore, to meet another young bride. English, blonde and pretty, she was a self-assured young woman with a shrewd appraisal of social standards. Amazed at my unworldliness, she ripped the blinkers from my eyes. In the tarnished mirror of a crude materialism my values appeared absurd and I listened to her vitriolic gossip with mounting concern. Seeing with her eyes those I was to meet, gauging as she meant me to the enmity of certain of my husband's friends, the future loomed complex and difficult. Finally, emphasizing the need for fine clothes, for rich jewels and a lavish expenditure, she added, "With our money, our clothes, our jewels we will be the two successes of the coming London season, and all the women will be jealous of us."

  Depressed and concerned, I left the sophisticated set we had found in Monte Carlo to proceed to Rome. Settled in the high bare rooms of the hotel for my first Christmas without family and friends, I felt strangely lonely and sad. It was an unfortunate moment to choose to insure my life, but it appeared no time was to be lost. A doctor's certificate was needed to complete the transaction. Medical supervision in the form of checkups was rare in my youth; a doctor was sent for to cure rather than to prevent. I shall always remember the brutal manner in which the pretentious Roman doctor who came to examine me informed me that I had probably only six months to live. However, a specialist summoned from London assured us that organically I was sound and had but outgrown my strength. He imposed a regime of rest, and in the solitude of those long hours I began to realize what life away from my family in a strange country would mean. At the age of eighteen I was beginning to chafe at the impersonal role I had so far played in my own life—first a pawn in my mother's game and now, as my husband expressed it, "a link in the chain." To one not sufficiently impressed with the importance of insuring the survival of a particular family, the fact that our happiness as individuals was as nothing in this unbroken chain of succeeding generations was a corroding thought; for although I greatly desired children, I had not reached the stage of total abnegation regarding my personal happiness. Nevertheless, to produce the next link in the chain was, I knew, my most immediate duty and I worried at my ill health.

  My husband spent his time with art dealers, ransacking the antique shops of the city. I was not allowed to accompany him because he claimed that my appearance in furs and furbelows caused prices to rocket. We were lucky in securing a beautiful privately owned Boucher tapestry which a famous English dealer had missed buying by a day. Later it hung in my bedroom at Blenheim until it was sold by my husband to Mr. Edward Tuck; it now hangs in the Petit Palais in the fine collection that he presented to the city of Paris.

  From Rome we went to Naples, which I advise honeymooners to omit, since a visit to the buried towns of Pompeii and Herculaneum is bound to awaken discord. I, at least, found it a humiliating experience to be left outside the ruins while my husband went below with a guide to inspect the paintings and statues erected to the worship of Priapus the god and giver of life.

  At Brindisi we boarded a small steamer and after another rough journey reached Alexandria, then proceeded to Cairo and up the Nile. I viewed the dahabiya with distrust—it was a sailboat and depended on a steam launch to haul us upstream. It was, moreover, small and uncomfortable and my maid and Marlborough's valet shared my dislike of these cramped quarters. Even the glorious sunsets which redden sands and sky and turn the Nile into a molten stream were less beautiful when seen with a small tug ahead. Progress was incredibly slow. We tied up every night and spent our days in the inevitable excursions by donkey to temples or burial vaults. During my previous trip with my father the donkeys had borne American names; now however Yankee Doodle had become John Bull. One night nautch girls were summoned to perform their dances. Not yet hardened to such exhibitions, I retired below and was not altogether sorry to hear that one had fallen into the river from which she was fished none the worse for her immersion.

  We returned finally to Cairo, then at Suez boarded a P. & O. steamer for Marseilles. In Paris we took an apartment in the Hôtel Bristol on the Place Vendôme.

  I was happy to be in Paris again and while there completed the purchase of my trousseau. Since I had little experience in shopping, everything having always been bought for me by my mother, Marlborough took it upon himself to display the same hectoring rights she had previously exercised in the selection of my gowns. Unfortunately, his taste appeared to be dictated by a desire for magnificence rather than by any wish to enhance my looks. I remember particularly one evening dress of sea-blue satin with a long train, whose whole length was trimmed with white ostrich feathers. Another creation was a rich pink velvet with sables. Jean Worth himself directed the fittings of these beautiful dresses which he and my husband considered suitable, but which I would willingly have exc
hanged for the tulle and organdy girls of my age were wearing.

  My father had generously told me to get whatever I wanted as a gift from him, but I was surprised by the excess of household and personal linens, clothes, furs and hats my husband was ordering. Marlborough's ideas about jewels were equally princely, and since there appeared to be no family heirlooms, jewels became a necessary addition to my trousseau. It was then the fashion to wear dog collars; mine was of pearls and had nineteen rows with high diamond clasps which rasped my neck. My mother had given me all the pearls she had received from my father. There were two fine rows which had once belonged to Catherine of Russia and to the Empress Eugenie, and also a sautoir which I could clasp round my waist. A diamond tiara capped with pear-shaped stones was my father's gift to me, and from Marlborough came a diamond belt. They were beautiful indeed, but jewels never gave me pleasure and my heavy tiara invariably produced a violent headache, my dog collar a chafed neck. Thus bejeweled and bedecked I was deemed worthy to meet English society. With the first days of spring we crossed the channel.

  London looked immense as the train slowly wound through endless dimly lit suburbs. They seemed drab to me but the streets were clean and the little houses had gardens. There was a general air of homeliness. In those days there was little discontent—England was prosperous and only the intelligentsia ventured to discuss socialism. Feeling anxious and diffident at meeting so many strangers—strangers who were to become my family—I gazed anxiously at the station platform where a small group of people was waiting to welcome us. Lady Blandford, my mother-in-law, with her daughters Lilian and Norah, was there; Ivor Guest, the good-looking but supercilious cousin who had come to our wedding; Lady Sarah Wilson, an aunt; Lady Randolph Churchill with her son, young Winston Churchill, yet another cousin; and numerous friends. I felt the scrutiny of many eyes and hoped that my hat was becoming and that my furs were fine enough to win their approval. They all talked at once in soft voices and strange accents which I knew I should have to imitate, and I felt thankful that I had no nasal twang. The sight of these strangers, Marlborough's family, brought the loneliness of my position sharply into focus. I realized that he would from now on be surrounded by friends and distractions that were foreign to me and that the precarious hold I had during our months alone secured in his life and affections might easily become endangered.