by Siân Evans
Mrs Greville threw a railway-themed cocktail party at her London house in Charles Street. The ivory and gold ballroom was transformed into a station, waiting room, restaurant and bar with the addition of LNER posters, ticket collectors in uniform, a station master and a troupe of variety artistes. The furniture had been borrowed from a first-class waiting room, and refreshments were served in familiar LNER glasses. Judging by the glazed expressions on the faces of the participants in surviving photographs, the novelty railway party failed to generate enough steam to capture their imaginations. Similarly, Emerald Cunard organised an experimental night out for her friends at the White City Stadium, including greyhound-racing; she even had a modest win on the hound that she had backed.
By the late 1920s the social scene had expanded; no longer was the aristocratic marriage market a ‘closed shop’, where families knew one another’s offspring, lineage and likely inheritance. The regulated social world of the pre-war era collided with the easier manners of the younger generation in the ‘Great Mayfair War’ of 1928. Lady Violet Ellesmere, an aristocratic figure with traditional views, gave a ball at Bridgewater House at which there were three hundred guests, most of whom she did not recognise. She asked four of the guests to leave, which they did. Lady Ellesmere wanted to make an example of the ‘gate-crashers’ and so supplied their names to the press, in order to stop the nuisance that was becoming prevalent in society. In the subsequent newspaper debate, opinions were sought from the Ellesmeres, the evicted offenders (including Cecil Beaton’s sister Nancy and Stephen Tennant), their families, other uninvited guests who were not turned out and rival hostesses. Public opinion was largely sympathetic to the gate-crashers, as it had become quite normal, when invited to a cocktail party, to bring a few friends along as well. Lady Cunard’s view was solicited, but she claimed she never had difficulty with gate-crashers. ‘Why should I? I only ask the people I like.’
It was a flippant story, but it revealed some startling truths. Before the war, the boundaries of society were well defined, and no young man would have been invited to a ball unless he had the appropriate credentials of birth, breeding and, therefore, behaviour. But the war had changed everything; presentable young men were scarce, and those who would once have been ‘outsiders’ were now accepted to make up the numbers.
In addition, humble readers now avidly devoured the newspapers, with their tales of upper-class parties and celebrities’ bad behaviour. Modern life provided ample opportunity for stories about technological developments, speed, travel, crimes, disasters and scandals, but there was also interest from the readership in society figures, whether the offspring of noble families or those whose antecedents were rather more murky. In the manner of tabloid papers today, there was a huge appetite for gossip and comment.
Fleet Street hacks would elicit opinions on contemporary issues from actresses and film stars, duchesses and archbishops. They needed nerves of steel and a good contacts list to phone a countess at midnight to garner her opinion on bobbed hair, to enquire after a dowager’s ability to dance the Black Bottom or to ask a captain of industry if it was unpatriotic to sculpt the Prince of Wales in butter. It took charm and diplomacy to get a name from ‘The List’ shoe-horned into a gossip column.
However, the ambitious society hostess recognised the benefit of seeing her name in print, and would take every opportunity to cultivate the columnists. She would offer a sympathetic ear and a ready quote to a young stringer with a looming deadline and 800 words to fill on whether or not one should apply perfume to a Pekingese. As a quid pro quo she was also adept at getting coverage favourable to herself. Often she employed a secretary who would telephone a favoured journalist in advance of social events with all the information necessary to fill next morning’s column inches with nuggets about their mistress’s glamorous life, her jewellery, her magnificent home, her friends, her royal guests and her cuisine. In return, favourable aspects of an individual’s nature would be immortalised in print, such as ‘Mrs Greville is rich and hospitable. An invitation to one of her parties is an honour and, if refused, is liable, like a royal command, not to be repeated.’17
The hostesses also provided an informal introduction agency for young journalists keen to get a foot on the ladder; Mrs Keppel, for example, arranged an introduction between Oliver de Reuter and Roderick Jones, and the latter eventually became the head of the family’s international news agency. It was a symbiotic relationship in an era when the reading public were fascinated by the doings of the celebrities, from the younger royals and Amy Johnson the aviator to Mrs Kate Meyrick, queen of the night clubs.
The most influential gossip columnists, especially those who looked good in a black tie and tails and had the right accents, not only wrote about the hostesses in their columns but were often guests at their parties. Notable examples included Patrick Balfour (later Lord Kinross), who wrote for the Daily Sketch, the Marquess of Donegall and Beverley Nichols, both of whom wrote for the Sunday Dispatch, and Harold Nicolson and Robert Bruce Lockhart, who collaborated on the Londoner’s Diary column at the Evening Standard. Viscount Castlerosse was a gossip columnist for Lord Beaverbrook’s Daily Express for thirteen years and, like his peers, was carefully cultivated by Lady Astor, Mrs Greville, Sibyl Colefax and Emerald Cunard. He had a caustic wit and was enormously fat; as he puffed up the stairs at St James’s Square to be met by Nancy Astor, his hostess, she leaned forward and patted his vast paunch, saying, ‘If that was on a woman we should know what to think.’ He countered, ‘Well, it was last night, so what do you think?’
Some hostesses continued to entertain in the traditional manner; at the 1927 political reception at Londonderry House, Lady Londonderry wore a crinolined Queen Anne style dress of primrose-yellow, brocaded satin. ‘Men go down like ninepins before a woman in an ancestral frock’, commented the Daily Express approvingly. The following year, on 6 February 1928, Edith wore a full-length Velázquez-style gown of black velvet, a diamond necklace and rivière, and long diamond drop ear-rings. She stood with Stanley Baldwin, the Conservative Prime Minister, and her husband at the top of the famous staircase to receive her guests. The air was thick with the scent of mimosa, which decorated the mantelpieces and fireplaces of the long picture gallery and reception rooms. There were more than a thousand people present. It was a grand occasion in every sense; the most powerful and influential people in Britain were gathered for one of their regular tribal meetings, as the guests of the archetypal Tory lady.
Lady Londonderry not only hosted political events; she also cultivated literary and artistic types too, especially Irish writers such as George Bernard Shaw, Sean O’Casey and Oliver St John Gogarty. The ballroom was not her natural habitat, as she preferred outdoor life. She was a keen shot; on one occasion she was a guest at Sandringham, when peppery King George V complained that women should not hunt with guns. He claimed it was ‘disgusting, horrible, unworthy!’ Then he showed Edith a vast number of mounted hunting trophies; ‘My daughter-in-law’s!’ he chuckled, meaning the Duchess of York, who could do no wrong in his eyes. On one occasion Edith’s quick reflexes and physical strength probably saved a man’s life. In 1928 the Londonderrys were staying with King Alfonso and Queen Ena of Spain at Santander, on the Bay of Biscay. They had eight-metre sailing yachts, which they would race against other Spaniards who were members of the local yacht club, at high speeds and often in quite choppy conditions. Lady Londonderry was out on the Queen’s boat with a heavy swell running, moving at speed. One of the deck hands, a Basque sailor, lost his footing and fell into the sea at the bow. With remarkable presence of mind Lady Londonderry grabbed his arm as the yacht shot past and managed to haul him back on board.
Nancy Astor was similarly energetic and physically active, and enjoyed vigorous sports and exercise. She would swim in the Thames at Cliveden every day when she was in residence there, and while in London would retire to the top floor of 4 St James’s Square to practise her strokes on the squash court that Waldorf had instal
led for her under the roof. She found such activities relaxing after her social commitments, which were considerable. When entertaining in London, the Astors preferred formal dinners, followed by a reception for up to a thousand people; their ‘Town style’ parties were extremely well run by Mr Lee, the butler. The silver would be delivered from the safe at Cliveden; the placement was decided by Lady Astor with Miss Kindersley, her controller. Precedence of rank was vital; royalty, then dukes and duchesses, followed by the ‘other ranks’ of aristocracy. The placement issue was often resolved by consulting Burke’s Peerage, but they also had invaluable advice from Mr Lee, who knew which individuals loathed each other. Rivals were kept apart, while like-minded types were seated together. Married couples were sundered for the evening, but younger single people would be provided with others of their own age. Lady Astor always tried to claim the most interesting guests to sit close to her. The complex menus were decided and rehearsed in advance, and extra chefs and kitchen staff engaged if necessary.
The Astors’ menservants wore everyday livery of brown coats with yellow and white striped waistcoats, with red and yellow piping down the trousers. Dress livery was brown jackets, striped waistcoats, breeches, white stockings and black pumps with old buckles, and white gloves for all except Mr Lee, who was in charge of dispensing wines and liqueurs and needed ungloved hands. He wore a navy blue tailcoat, black breeches, black stockings and the same black pumps. Split-second timing was crucial to the running of a successful dinner party, and Mr Lee had very high standards. Dinner would often be followed by a vast reception in the ballroom. Mr Lee was superlative as the organiser of these events.
The police were always informed in advance in order to manage traffic in the surrounding square. Dinner guests were received in the hall as they arrived and divested of their cloaks and coats, which were stored in a staffed cloakroom. (Later, in the servants’ hall, versatile Arthur Bushell would provide an excellent impression of statuesque Queen Mary being de-coated with great ceremony.) Aperitifs were served in the small dining room, and then the guests would move to the next floor for dinner. The guests arriving for the reception would be announced as they joined the throng by a master of ceremonies engaged for the evening. During the reception footmen served drinks and canapés. Wine was supplied by Hawker’s of Plymouth (Mr Hawker was the Conservative agent for the Astors’ constituency), and Mr Lee was allowed by Waldorf to buy in wines, sherries and ports for their guests. He ordered the very best quality, rather to the surprise of many of the Astors’ guests, and took great pride in the care of the cellars. For large parties and receptions in London, 200 champagne bottles were delivered to a bathroom conveniently located near the drawing room, and fifty bottles at a time would be chilled in crushed ice in the bath.
Some guests, fearing that they might not be offered an alcoholic drink at the Astors’, brought hipflasks for discreet consumption while visiting the bathroom. Others had their servants deliver their favourite tipple to Mr Lee before the party started. George V’s equerry, on arrival with the King and Queen Mary at a dinner party in 1923, discreetly handed over to Mr Lee two decanters, one of port, the other sherry. Both monarchs were fond of a drop, but at the end of the evening Mr Lee slipped the untouched decanters back to the equerry, remarking ‘Hardly necessary, I think you’ll agree, sir.’ Similarly the Prince of Wales’s equerry, Major ‘Fruity’ Metcalfe, phoned Mr Lee in advance of a dinner party offering to send over brandy for HRH’s consumption, but was suavely assured that would not be required. Parties at Cliveden were much less formal, though again some arrived with their own supplies of alcohol in case it was unavailable. Bob Boothby remembered that it was difficult to obtain any more than a single glass of wine with dinner. On one occasion Oswald and Diana Mosley brought a petrol tin to Boothby’s bedroom; it was full of martini, and they all fortified themselves against an evening of Lady Astor’s mimicry and impersonations with a stiff pre-dinner cocktail.
Nancy Astor’s guests at Cliveden naturally included politicians, but also encompassed in the 1920s ambassadors such as the Japanese and Russian, though not the Germans, memories of the last war being all too recent. The Astors liked the company of artists, such as Philip de László, the portraitist, who had painted Lady Londonderry, and the brothers Rex and Laurence Whistler. Alfred Munnings, the equestrian artist, was a particular favourite of Waldorf’s, and he was often commissioned to paint portraits of his racehorses. Nancy was particularly drawn to literary types, and the playwright George Bernard Shaw was to become a favourite sparring partner and regular guest at Cliveden, spending Christmas 1928 at the house. They first met in 1927, and argued with vigour and genuine enjoyment on many points of view. Shaw was of the opinion that if only Lady Astor was able to think consecutively for sixty seconds she could be the greatest woman in the world. It was through ‘GBS’ that Nancy met the charismatic T. E. Lawrence, better known as ‘Lawrence of Arabia’. He had adopted the surname of his literary mentor (and, coincidentally, of Nancy’s first husband) to serve incognito in the Royal Air Force as Aircraftman T. E. Shaw. He would tease her and she would banter back. He was stationed near Plymouth, so was a regular guest when the Astors were resident in the constituency.
Nancy was never a martyr to boredom. Every year while the children were young the whole family went to stay on the remote island of Jura, in the Inner Hebrides. The children loved it for its fishing, swimming and boating, but both Rose and Nancy would become very bored. On one occasion Nancy was practising her golf putting in front of the lodge, and in a blast of temper she suddenly turned and struck four golf balls at the house in quick succession, breaking two windows in the process.
The Astor children were brought up as Christian Scientists, and Nancy proved to be a rather domineering mother. She could entertain them, usually by making them laugh, but she could also be impatient and very critical, which bewildered them as youngsters. In 1925 Bill, while a pupil at Eton, was appointed the cox to the rowing eight, a prestigious role in that sports-mad school. At the Henley Regatta that summer, with Bill as cox, Eton lost the rowing race; Lady Astor, instead of commiserating with her crestfallen son, accused him of having neglected his Christian Science practice and thus having lost the competition for his school.
Nancy’s devotion to Christian Science nearly had very serious consequences for her daughter Wissie, who in 1929 had a serious hunting accident in Leicestershire that damaged her spine. Under intense pressure Nancy and Waldorf reluctantly agreed to consult a medical practitioner, but insisted on summoning Sir Crispin English, an abdominal surgeon who had treated Nancy before her conversion to Christian Science. When he arrived, he was furious as it was evident Wissie urgently needed an orthopaedic specialist, and precious time had been lost in treating her injuries. Wissie, then aged twenty, never fully recovered her health, and her relationship with her mother suffered as a result. As soon as possible, she moved into a house of her own and for a while avoided contact with Nancy.
6
The Great Depression: 1929–1933
The worldwide financial crisis of the early 1930s had profound implications for all classes of British society. The Great War had brought in new methods of factory production, but by the end of the 1920s over-production had led to a falling-off in consumer demand. The American stock market overheated in October 1929, and the Wall Street Crash wiped out vast paper fortunes overnight. Land rents in Britain stagnated, and unemployment loomed for many.
Because of the crisis, many countries had placed large sums of money on deposit in London, regarded as a safe place for their reserves. But the worldwide slump and massive unemployment caused some nations to withdraw their deposits, and in August 1931 a serious run began on the Bank of England. The institution did not have enough gold reserves, so it borrowed £50 million in dollars and francs from the USA and France, but that was quickly exhausted. The Labour government resigned rather than cut the dole payments, and the National Government was formed; it borrowed a further £80 milli
on, but that also went to foreign creditors. On 20 September 1931 Britain abandoned the gold standard, and the Bank of England no longer guaranteed to give gold in return for its paper notes. The value of the pound dropped to 13 or 14 shillings, but this had the benefit of making British exports much cheaper overseas, which eased unemployment at home.
The moneyed classes were not immune to the global financial crisis. Many faced a drastic reduction in their incomes from investments, shareholdings and property. Nancy Mitford recommended the Wall Street Crash as the ideal conversational topic for those attending a weekend shooting party at a country house, as it was far less contentious than discussing the relative merits of modern and traditional artists, and less risky than asking about the origins of one’s fellow guests. It had the virtue of eliciting opinions and gossip, and was therefore a means of expressing solidarity.
At one country house the inhabitants could speak of little else. Sacheverell Sitwell and his wife, Georgia, abandoned their holiday in Amsterdam, having seen the English papers, returned to England and drove down to Polesden Lacey on 27 September 1931 with Emerald Cunard. (Only a global financial crisis could persuade Emerald to spend a Sunday in the shires, after her sixteen years with Sir Bache in rural Leicestershire.) They joined Mrs Greville’s house party, which included Austen Chamberlain, Sir Robert Horne, Professor Lindemann and Beverley Nichols, to discuss the situation. Wealthy but eccentric Gerald Berners was reduced to tears, suggesting that Sachie and Georgia Sitwell should share Faringdon with him to help them financially, and in October they moved into his Berkshire manor house.
Even Mrs Greville, one of the richest women in Britain, was shaken; she confided in Beverley Nichols, as they sat in opulent splendour in Polesden Lacey’s drawing room, surrounded by crimson silk wall coverings and eighteenth-century gilt boiseries, museum-quality Chinese ceramics, jade carvings and Fabergé bibelots, that if she was reduced to comparative poverty, perhaps a mere £10,000 a year (the equivalent today of approximately £500,000), she had a strategy for her twilight years:
