by Siân Evans
Nevertheless she continued to dabble in international politics, having been charmed by Count Grandi, the Italian Ambassador. Like him, she desired good relations between Italy and Great Britain. She had met Mussolini, and through Lord Berners, who owned a beautiful house in Rome, she had visited the city many times. Now Mrs Greville was becoming too infirm to travel extensively, but her friend Ivy Chamberlain was willing and able to campaign for appeasement with Italy, by lobbying the Italian Senate. Ivy was the widow of Austen Chamberlain and the sister-in-law of his half-brother Neville, who was now Prime Minister. In January 1938 Chamberlain was irritated by ‘meddling’ letters from both Mrs Greville and Mrs Chamberlain. The ladies also tackled Anthony Eden, calling for rapprochement with Italy. On 18 February 1938 Ivy telegraphed her brother-in-law from Rome with unwanted pro-appeasement encouragement just as he was entering crucial negotiations with Count Grandi. In March intriguing diplomatic gossip was noted by Lord Killearn in Cairo that Lady Chamberlain had been entertaining Italian opinion-formers in high style in Rome, with large and sumptuous banquets. This was puzzling; it was generally known that Ivy Chamberlain had very little money after Austen had died, so the source of her entertainment budget was as mysterious as her motivation. It seems likely that Ivy’s Roman charm offensive was bankrolled by someone with ample funds, a belief in appeasement, and a proven record of wielding ‘soft power’ through entertaining the political elite. Mrs Greville’s modus operandi makes her a likely candidate; she was certainly close to Ivy, a frequent guest at Polesden Lacey, though Mrs Ronnie was often slighting about her intelligence. One such verbal demolition occurred over dinner, with Mrs Ronnie alluding to the legend of the city of Ancient Rome being saved from enemy invasion when the alarm was raised by a flock of geese: ‘Dear Ivy Chamberlain […] How well she is looking tonight!’5 And she kissed her hand in the direction of Lady Chamberlain, who was sitting at the other end of the table.
This was, of course, as we all knew, the signal for a frontal attack. When Maggie called any of her female friends ‘dear’ in that tone of voice, one could be sure that the sword was already half-way out of its sheath.
‘I hear great things of her recent trip to Rome,’ continued Maggie in dulcet tones. ‘Mussolini, it seems, was quite épris. They were constantly together, and dear Ivy assures me that the Duce will do practically anything she tells him. She sighed, to give greater effect to her final thrust. “Well … it would not be the first time that Rome had been saved by a goose!” It was cruel; it was unjust; it was delicious.’
She could certainly be vitriolic. Over lunch in July 1937 Harold Nicolson found himself next to Mrs Greville, who proceeded to demolish the reputations of her friends. He recorded his encounter with her in his diary with a mixture of disapproval, scorn and horrified pleasure, ‘she is nothing more than a fat slug filled with venom’6.
Mrs Greville had variable views on Jews; like many of her class, she mixed socially with clever high-achievers such as Philip Sassoon and the Rothschild family. For twenty years she was close to Rufus Isaacs, the former Viceroy of India, and after his first wife died she nurtured hopes of romance, but he married his secretary. Mrs Ronnie was also an enthusiastic patron of the architectural firm of Mewès and Davis, who had transformed Polesden Lacey and 16 Charles Street; the two eponymous partners were Jewish. But like many Britons of the time, she was convinced that there were anonymous hordes of observant Jews in Europe and Russia very different from her wealthy and distinguished Jewish friends. She was concerned that the European Jews might become refugees and ‘invade’ Britain. In her case, snobbery had the edge over the anti-Semitism unfortunately prevalent among people of all classes. Margot Asquith was typical of the type. In the mid-1930s she wrote: ‘I have had, and still have, devoted friends among the Jews, but have often been painfully reminded of the saying, “A Jew is round your neck, at your feet, but never at your side.”’7 Of course, in the 1930s no one predicted the wholesale genocide being planned in Germany, and very few would have endorsed it if they had been aware. As American Ambassador Dodd acutely remarked in Berlin as early as 1933, ‘The Nazis did not invent anti-Semitism. They were simply the first to organise it so that it could be used as an effective weapon of the state.’8
Mrs Greville thrived on debate and dissent, and Winston Churchill was often one of her guests. In the mid- and late 1930s he would transfix his fellow diners, issuing dire prophecies about Germany that eventually came true. It was through Mrs Greville that he met Professor Lindemann, a brilliant academic who she had cultivated and who was to become Churchill’s scientific advisor and close ally throughout the war. At Polesden Lacey the men’s discussions would go on into the night over port and cigars, to the chagrin of the ladies, who were waiting for them in the drawing room, in the traditional manner. In a less formal age Margaret Greville and her female guests would have stayed at the dining table and actively participated in the debate.
Mrs Greville once remarked that if she had had a daughter she would have liked her to be like Queen Elizabeth, and the two women were friends. Although her marriage to Ronnie was happy, it had been childless. George Keppel believed that if only the Grevilles had had children, her life would have been fulfilled. Margaret’s request to adopt Sonia Keppel was gently deflected by Alice, who asked her to be Sonia’s godmother instead, and she took a keen interest in Sonia’s welfare throughout her life, as she did with many younger women, from her maid Gertie Hulton to the heiress Edwina Ashley, if she felt their interests needed protection.
Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon was born in 1900, a similar age to any daughter Mrs Greville might have had; she was pretty, accomplished, popular, a great dancer, full of fun and, best of all, she was Scottish. Like Margaret, she was patriotic, but unlike her, Elizabeth’s ancestors were an ancient, wealthy family of aristocratic lineage, and she grew up in Glamis Castle, the setting of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Charming Elizabeth, much adored by her many, well-connected relatives, had the type of idyllic childhood that appealed to Margaret, whose own more modest upbringing was full of secrets. In addition, both women were fiercely loyal to Bertie, Prince Albert. The Yorks and their two little girls had many happy weekends at Polesden as well as parties at Mrs Greville’s London home; Princess Elizabeth was apparently fond of exploring the subterranean servants’ quarters of 16 Charles Street, in pursuit of the housekeeper’s cat. In return, Maggie was invited to formal Palace receptions, as well as intimate little dinners and numerous family celebrations.
In the late 1930s, now that ‘Bertie’ and Elizabeth were the King and Queen, Mrs Greville anticipated sadly that she would see them less frequently, and she spoke nostalgically of the past: ‘I was so happy in the days when they used to run in and out of my house as if they were my own children.’ However, even though their free time was more restricted, the King and Queen still saw their old friend regularly. They also communicated by letter; Mrs Greville amused the Queen in September 1937 by sending her a joke she had heard about a fashionable hat called the Wallis, because it was ‘shady, with no crown’.
They still enjoyed the informality of weekends at Polesden; Beverley Nichols recalled one occasion early on a Sunday morning when he could not resist the lure of Mrs Greville’s grand piano in the empty drawing room, and launched into playing improvisations on the theme of ‘God Save the King’, first as a funeral march, then as a mazurka and finally as a Bach fugue. The door opened, and there was Queen Elizabeth, looking puzzled and asking what he had been playing as it sounded ‘faintly familiar’.
An example of the close friendship between Mrs Greville and Elizabeth occurred in the summer of 1938, when Mrs Ronnie was seventy-five years old. The international situation was grave and the King and Queen had planned an important state visit to France, to strengthen the entente cordiale between the two countries. Just five days before they were due to leave, Queen Elizabeth’s mother, the Countess of Strathmore, died at Glamis. The visit was postponed by a month, but despite her grief Elizabeth put
duty first and was determined to go. She was obliged to observe a formal period of mourning, but she exercised the monarch’s unique prerogative to wear white instead of black. Her entire wardrobe was remade by designer Norman Hartnell, from hats and gloves to ballgowns and fur wraps. Her dazzling appearance in Paris, City of Light, radiant in snowy white and decorated with jewels worth £7 million, was a triumph, both diplomatically and sartorially. The Duke of Windsor had asked if he and Wallis could meet the King and Queen in Paris during the State visit, but the request was refused, so they left town for the duration. Wallis had recently been voted the best-dressed woman in the world, but it was the sister-in-law she had nicknamed ‘Cookie’ for her dumpy figure who had captured the admiration of tout Paris.
Mrs Greville was ill the day the King and Queen returned to Buckingham Palace from France; hearing of her old friend’s poor health, Elizabeth popped round to Charles Street the same afternoon and sat at her bedside telling her about the wonderful time they had had in Paris. While relating this story afterwards, Mrs Greville became uncharacteristically emotional, sobbing ‘Oh, my dear […] what it would be to have a daughter like that!’ She recovered her equilibrium by ordering some champagne, and being brusque to the footman who brought it.
Another young woman whose interests she fostered was Dorothé Mabel Lewis, Charley Londonderry’s illegitimate daughter by the American actress Fannie Ward. Dorothé was a beauty, and her early marriage to ‘Babe’ Barnato, a First World War ace, ended after only a year when he died in the great influenza epidemic, leaving her widowed at twenty and extraordinarily rich. In 1922 Dorothé married Terence Plunket, the sixth Baronet, and they had three boys. The Plunkets were much liked by the Duke and Duchess of York, and were also frequent and welcome visitors at Londonderry House and Mount Stewart, where Edith knew the truth of Dorothé’s parentage but accepted her wholeheartedly. Dorothé was a gifted dancer, and excellent company, while Terence was a charming Anglo-Irish gentleman with few pretensions who liked a laugh. The whole family often visited Polesden Lacey in the 1930s, usually staying for the weekend, and several of Lord Plunket’s improvised ditties survive in Mrs Greville’s scrapbooks:
A visit made pleasant by an artist’s touch
A hostess whose genius is marked by a touch
No one can equal
Dear Mrs Ronnie we thank you so much
A hostess de luxe with a masterly touch
No one can equal – we thank you so much.9
In February 1938 British and American society was shocked to hear that Lord and Lady Plunket had both been killed in a tragic accident in the United States; William Randolph Hearst had invited them to a party he was giving at his home in California, but their plane crashed as it was coming in to land, killing them instantly and leaving their three children orphaned. Queen Elizabeth wrote to Lady Londonderry, a tactful letter, given the fact that Dorothé was known to be Charley’s illegitimate daughter, and that the bereaved Plunket boys were therefore his grandchildren: ‘We both felt so sad over the ghastly tragedy of Dorothé and Teddy, as you know what intimate friends of ours they had been for many years. They both gave so much happiness to so many people of all kinds and sorts; their going does leave a terrible blank indeed. Those dear little boys make one’s heart ache.’10
Within days of the Plunkets’ funerals, attended by both Charley and Edith, a discreet notice appeared in The Times announcing that Lord Londonderry and Teddy’s younger brother would be the boys’ guardians. Mrs Greville was greatly upset by the deaths of the Plunkets, and it was at this point that her health started to give serious cause for concern; she was prone to chest infections, and for a number of years she had tended to go abroad during the winter months to avoid the worst of the British climate. But now she was suffering frequent bouts of pneumonia and bronchitis, and on occasion bad attacks of phlebitis forced her to use a wheelchair. Nevertheless she was determined to maintain her social life, and in July 1938 she disobeyed doctors’ orders and rose from her bed to attend Ascot. To make things easier for her the King and Queen insisted that their old friend should use the Royal Entrance to the racecourse, a considerable privilege.
Such preferential treatment was not extended to all the London society hostesses. Following the abdication, Emerald remained something of a pariah among those close to the royal family for a number of years. On 18 May 1937 the King and Queen attended a ball given by the Duke and Duchess of Sutherland at Hampden House, Green Street. It was the first time since the Great War that the reigning King and Queen had attended a private dance. Crowds of well-wishers gathered outside the house to cheer them as they arrived and departed. Lady Cunard, intimate friend of the former King Edward VIII, postponed her own arrival at the party until after the monarchs had left. Emerald was only too aware that she was, in the memorable phrase from 1066 and All That, ‘left over from a previous reign’.
As a leader of society, Edith Londonderry was aware of every current, rapid and possible rock in the social stream. She planned to give a ball at Londonderry House three weeks after the coronation, in honour of the new King and Queen. At the end of May 1937 she wrote to Queen Elizabeth, proposing a guest list for her approval. Thanking her for consulting them, Queen Elizabeth replied: ‘Lady Cunard is really the only one that we do not want to meet just now. The bitter months of last autumn & winter are still so fresh in our minds [… her presence …] would inevitably bring so many sad thoughts that we would prefer not to meet her […] there is nobody else on your little list, except possibly poor Mrs Corrigan, who one could take exception to, and I do appreciate your tact & kindness in writing.’11
Meanwhile, Sibyl Colefax continued her demanding dual career as energetic society hostess and businesswomen, despite her age; she was already sixty-two years old when, in 1936, tragic personal circumstances forced her to sell her beloved home and to find new ways of increasing her income. Throughout the late 1930s she continued to entertain frenetically, though her time and funds were both in short supply. Witty but wicked Lord Berners liked to parody the people he knew, and he saw Sibyl as a legitimate target. He was acquainted with Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, an American couple who lived in Paris, and had written pastiches of their distinctive avant-garde literary endeavours, which owed much to Surrealism. In 1936 he wrote Portrait of a Society Hostess; the style mimics Stein’s prose poems, but the subject of his satire was his old friend Sibyl Colefax:
Give a canary champagne and it spins. Chandelier drops glitter and drops and are conversation. Bohemian glass is cracked in Mayfair. Mayfair-weather friends come and go come and go come and go. The house is always full full full.12
Are you there? Are you there? There! There! Are you not all there? Many are not quite all there but royalty are there and lots and lots and lots. Glitter is more than kind hearts and coronets are more than comfort. She praises and embarrasses she praises and embarrasses she confuses cabinet ministers. Some will not go.
Pragmatic Lady Colefax was making major changes to her business. In 1938 her partner Peggy Ward, now the Countess of Munster, planned to retire from the firm, and she suggested John Fowler, a highly gifted decorator, as her replacement. He came from a modest background and was largely self-taught, having started as a restorer and painter of old furniture. Fowler’s passion for French culture gave his interior design work a light and often witty touch, and he particularly liked toile de Jouy wallpaper and textiles. The new partnership of Colefax & Fowler gave them both fresh impetus; John Fowler was now working in traditional British country houses, where he appreciated the accretion of art and artefacts over centuries. In return Sibyl’s decorating style became less conventional and more sophisticated due to his influence.
The Bruton Street premises operated both as a shop, selling fabrics, wallpapers, fitted carpets and rugs, and as an interior design practice. John Fowler provided bespoke designs to meet the client’s brief. The firm offered a complete decorating service, and had a skilled freelance team of craftspeople, f
rom upholsterers and gilders to plasterers and dyers. Increasingly the business stocked antique furniture and unusual objets d’art, acquired by both partners on buying trips to France and around rural Britain, which increased their retail sales and added atmosphere. Colefax & Fowler managed to capture and reinterpret the distinctive look of grand English country houses, with convivial groups of armchairs and sofas, large rugs in jewel colours, wooden panelling and well-polished traditional furniture. There was a subtle emphasis on comfort and convenience, with well-placed occasional tables and table lamps. Decoration was provided by touches of Oriental lacquer and blue and white Chinese vases, Imari porcelain or famille rose pots, and large arrangements of fresh garden flowers, or bulbs in pots. The mood was that of an interior that has grown naturally and gradually over many years, and the company appealed to people who wanted an ‘instant inheritance’.
Meanwhile, Sibyl was still in touch with the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. In August 1938 Harold Nicolson and Sibyl were fellow guests at a formal dinner at the Villa Mauresque, Cap Ferrat, home of Somerset Maugham. There was a hurried chat about the Gordian knot of protocol before the Duke and Duchess arrived. It was tricky; Sibyl was looking forward to seeing her old friend Wallis, but refused to curtsy to her, just because the former king desired it. Nicolson was prepared to address him initially as ‘Your Royal Highness’, then ‘Sir’, as though he were still a prince, but not ‘Your Majesty’ then ‘Sir’, as would be appropriate for a king. They all agreed to call Wallis ‘Duchess’, but then were thrown by the Duke apologising for arriving late because ‘Her Royal Highness’ had been delayed. To confuse matters further, the Duke and Duchess spent the entire evening calling each other ‘darling’, laughing and chattering animatedly. The Windsors were happy living in France, and liked the culture, but were uncertain what the future might bring.
