Time and again in tributes paid to Caroline she is summed up in one word, ‘radiant’, to which I would add, ‘serene’. She brought warmth to every situation in which she was involved. We were married in the Chapel at Lambeth Palace by the Bishop of Crediton, Wilfred Westall, and given the blessing by the Archbishop of Canterbury, Michael Ramsey. Both were treasured friends, which brought an added happiness to the event, and Joan Ramsey became our son Rupert’s godmother. We were then generously lent the Royal Academy of Arts for our reception, which was 1,500-strong, a month after the wedding.
Caroline was blessed with countless gifts. Her knowledge of birds and plants gave added joy to being in the country. Her job at Sotheby’s underpinned her love of the fine arts. From her experience with a firm of interior decorators, she had become an accomplished seamstress and made most of the furnishings in our homes at Higher Chuggaton and Ashley Gardens. She took great delight in Rupert and although he was not old enough to remember her, he is very conscious of the part she has played in his life and cherishes this.
Politics was a new experience. When we went on our honeymoon in Elba, a ham-fisted attempt was made to stage a coup against me as Liberal leader. We learnt of this incredibly ill-timed operation by seeing a banner headline in the English newspapers. Caroline innocently asked: ‘Is it always like this?’ ‘No’, I replied, ‘just sometimes’.
Twenty-five months after our marriage Caroline was killed in a car accident. It felt as if my life had come to an end. Thank God I had Rupert, and met Marion who bound up my wounds. It is seldom given to a man to be blessed with two such matchless women.
Before I remarried, one of the more daunting problems was to organise my life, involving, as it did, a busy parliamentary career, to enable me to give sufficient time and attention to my son. This involved trying to finish committee meetings at a reasonable time, and in debates I tried to be called as early as possible. This would normally enable me to get back to the flat to put Rupert to bed and read him a story. I tried to find an hour during the day when I could take him to Lambeth Palace gardens, where Michael Ramsey, the Archbishop of Canterbury, generously allowed us to roam freely, which gave us some privacy.
I was very fortunate that, immediately following Caroline’s accident, help was at hand. One of Caroline’s closest friends, Vivienne Franklin, who grew up with her during the war and was virtually her sister, arrived on the scene and offered to help look after Rupert and run the flat. I had met her once when she came to stay in Devon. She was a dedicated teacher and wonderful with children, and I am always grateful to her for the security and affection which she gave him. It is good to know now that she is married, with her own son, Charles.
Marlon and musicians
For once the press got it right! In January 1972, the pianist Moura Lympany, who is an old friend, telephoned me to ask whether I would like to go to a concert at the Festival Hall the following week to hear Nathan Milstein play the Beethoven violin concerto. The business of the house was fairly free on the night in question, so I accepted the invitation gladly. Moura told me that we were invited to supper afterwards at Marion Harewood’s. In the car, Moura boldly announced her object was to bring together Marion and myself, since it was her view that we should get married. When I recovered my equilibrium I said that I hoped Marion hadn’t been told the same thing, since the evening would be rather embarrassing as I had only once briefly met her, in 1952. Moura assured me that she hadn’t been so informed. The evening was to prove not only memorable, but eventful as well. Marion and I married in 1973, and our silver wedding was celebrated in 1998 with a reception in the National Liberal Club. The evening was even more enriched by Moura Lympany’s presence.
One of the many joys of being married to Marion is that of attending musical events, which before I had very often turned down on the grounds of parliamentary duties. As a child, I was often taken to Sunday concerts at the Queen’s Hall, alas destroyed by bombs during the war. My earliest encounter with musicians was probably my meeting with Sir Thomas Beecham. I wrote to him saying that I was aged eight and was one of his fans – might I be allowed to come round and see him after a concert to pay my respects? The message came back that Sir Thomas would be very pleased to see me. My mother and I duly arrived in his dressing room, where he gave me a warm welcome. He asked whether I was attending the following Sunday concert as well and if so, where would I be sitting. I said, rather precociously: ‘In my usual place in the front row’. On the following Sunday Sir Thomas mounted the podium with tremendous dignity – turned round, saw me, and gave me an enormous wink. My day was made.
The stories about Beecham are legion and most of them true. I like particularly the one of Beecham travelling in a non-smoking compartment of a train when a lady asked whether Sir Thomas would mind if she smoked. ‘Provided’, replied Beecham ‘that you don’t mind my being sick!’ ‘Sir’ replied the lady, ‘I don’t think you know who I am. I am one of the director’s wives’. ‘I don’t mind, Madam, if you are the director’s only wife, I should still be sick!’
Throughout my life, music has always played an important part. Marion’s dowry included her close friendships with many leading musicians. She herself had grown up in Vienna in a musical world, as the daughter of Erwin Stein, eminent musicologist, and was herself a pianist. Amongst her early recollections are her father’s colleagues and friends, the composers Alban Berg and Anton von Webern, and indeed Schoenberg, the founder of the Second Viennese School. When the Stein family sought refuge in the UK in 1938, she came to know Benjamin Britten, who was to be a life-long inspiration. I first met Ben at a gala concert at Covent Garden, ‘Fanfare to Britain’, in 1973, to celebrate our joining the European Community. Marion introduced us, and I noticed that he was wearing his Order of Merit back to front. I had the temerity to point this out, to which he replied that he was aware of this, but if the decoration was worn the other way round, it carried the words ‘For Merit’, which he found somewhat embarrassing!
Sadly, I only really got to know him after he had had major surgery, shortly after our wedding. He never fully recovered from the operation, and therefore I did not have the privilege of hearing him either as a conductor or as a pianist. Over the years, I have come to know and love his music, and I have heard all his operas in many parts of the world. Ben was blessed with many qualities in addition to his musical genius. His hatred of war and violence led him to write ‘War Requiem’, which was first performed in the rebuilt Coventry Cathedral, which had been destroyed in the war. He and Peter Pears showed great courage in returning from the US at the height of the war in 1942 on the first available boat, knowing that as conscientious objectors, he and Peter would have to face a tribunal, which could, as in the case of Michael Tippett, involve being sent to prison. Given the short time I knew him, I was aware of his powers of perception and his compassion for people and causes.
Peter Pears was not only a great singer, but unlike all too many of his colleagues, he was conspicuous in his clear articulation of words. Certainly, there was never any doubt in what language he was singing! His superb technique, which had exemplified his long career, enabled him to make his debut at the Metropolitan Opera in New York at the age of sixty-four, in Britten’s opera Death in Venice. Amongst his many interests he had a flair for collecting pictures, often by as yet unknown young artists. He and Ben amassed a large library of scores and books, which formed the nucleus of what is now the Britten-Pears library at Aldeburgh. Most importantly, the Library contains a unique collection of the composer’s manuscripts. After Ben’s death, the Treasury accepted a proportion of the manuscripts in lieu of death duties, vesting their ownership in the British Library. Through the persistence of two of Britten’s executors, Isador Caplan and Donald Mitchell, and to the credit of the British Library and the Treasury, the manuscripts were allowed to remain on permanent loan in Aldeburgh at the Britten-Pears Library. As a result, the library now houses a unique concentration of the work of one composer,
to the great benefit of scholars and students of his music.
The great Russian cellist and musician, Mstislav Rostropovich, and his wife, the soprano Galina Vishnevskaya, are also close friends. Apart from his musicianship, Slava is a man of immense courage. He gave shelter to Alexander Solzhenitsyn at a time when he was persona non grata with the Soviet authorities. For this and his opposition to the totalitarian regime, he himself fell from favour. He and his wife were granted temporary leave of absence to perform abroad, but learned from a radio broadcast that they had been stripped of their Soviet citizenship. With the advent of Yeltsin, Shiva flew into Moscow unannounced to play his cello as an act of solidarity. Their citizenship has now been restored.
As a musician he is superb – the sound that he is able to draw from his cello is magical and almost has the variety of a full symphony orchestra. I once asked him how he had acquired the scratch mark down one side of his Stradivarius. ‘Oh’, said Slava, ‘Napoleon’. At the time before spikes were fitted to the base of the cello, the player had to hold the instrument in place with one foot wedged into the waist of the cello. The story goes that Napoleon had asked Duport, the owner of the Strad, whether he might be allowed to play the instrument, which was readily conceded. But Napoleon forgot that he was wearing spurs, hence the scratch mark.
I mention two examples of Slava’s immense sense of humour. On Peter Pears’s 70th birthday, there was a concert at the Snape Makings Concert Hall in his honour. In the course of the concert Murray Perahia, who was taking part in the programme, announced that although Rostropovich’s commitments made it impossible for him to fly over from America to play at this special concert, nevertheless he had sent one of his most promising pupils to play on his behalf. The most drab looking woman in a faded green dress, straw hat and never-to-be-forgotten yellow plastic shoes appeared on the stage. She sat down to polite applause and after what seemed like an eternity, took off her hat, started to unbutton her dress and lo, underneath, dressed in a dinner jacket, was Rostropovich! It was a total surprise to everyone.
After the Aldeburgh Festival in 1968, Slava, Ben and Marion were driving to Rose Hill in Cumberland, where Ben and Slava were due to give a recital. They planned to spend the night on the way up at Harewood House. Slava was most anxious to know how protocol indicated that he should address the Princess Royal, who would be at Harewood. ‘I take it I curtsy’, said Slava. He was told that this was quite the wrong thing to do and that she would be acutely embarrassed. The next day or so before leaving Aldeburgh, Slava was seen walking up the High Street, stopping every now and then practising his curtsy. When the party, en route for Harewood, reached Lincoln for lunch, Slava reverted to his intention to curtsy to the Princess Royal. At that stage Ben realised that there was a very real likelihood of Slava doing just this. He entreated Slava to put the idea out of his head and said: ‘I’ll do anything within reason if you promise not to curtsy’. ‘Anything?’ said Slava. ‘Then will you write me six unaccompanied cello suites in return for my agreeing not to curtsy?’ Ben agreed, and a contract was drawn up on the back of the hotel menu. Three cello suites were written before Ben’s death.
When the Benjamin Britten opera theatre was opened at the Royal College of Music, various bigwigs were invited to place some contemporary object or document under the foundation stone. Slava’s contribution was a copy of the Lincoln hotel contract.
Slava was invited to play at our musical evening at Covent Garden, which was generously lent to Marion and myself to celebrate our wedding in 1973. The authorities in Moscow deliberately prevaricated and in essence refused him permission to travel to the UK despite the fact that a senior member of the Foreign Office had personally spoken to Gromyko about the invitation. When Slava was eventually to come to the UK he offered to give a charity concert to make up for our disappointment. We were lent Exeter Cathedral, and I chose the Barnstaple Parish Church Appeal Fund and the Caroline Thorpe Children’s Fund as the benefiting charities. The cathedral was packed out on a glorious September evening to hear Slava play a programme of three unaccompanied Bach suites. He took the West Country by storm.
Another landmark in my life was Yehudi Menuhin, whose death is deeply mourned by the countless number of people who knew and loved him. The first soloist I heard was Yehudi with his sister, Hepzibah, at the Queen’s Hall in 1937, when I was eight. Exactly forty years later at the Albert Hall, Yehudi played at the Liberal Party centenary concert, when my son, Rupert, also aged eight, heard his first soloist, who again was Yehudi.
To celebrate his 21st birthday on 14 November 1969, Prince Charles held a musical evening at Buckingham Palace, at which Yehudi played. Driving home, my wife Caroline remarked:
‘I suppose one of the great advantages of being the Prince of Wales is that you can get Yehudi Menuhin to play for you specially’. After her death, I received a letter of sympathy from Sir Robert Mayer saying if he ever he could be of help I must let him know. Recalling our conversation following the Palace concert, and on a sudden impulse, I picked up the telephone and rang Sir Robert to ask him whether it would be thought very presumptuous for him to inquire whether Yehudi Menuhin would be able to play at Caroline’s memorial service. Within ten minutes Yehudi was on the telephone to me to ask very diffidently whether I would like him to play at the service. It was a wonderfully generous offer; Yehudi played Bach’s unaccompanied Chaconne, and, with Robert Masters, the slow movement of Bach’s Double Violin Concerto. It was a sublime and moving experience.
Yehudi, with his sister Hepzibah, also played at the Covent Garden wedding concert, and chose Beethoven’s Spring Sonata for Violin and Piano. It was an evening of the giants, with Clifford Curzon and Murray Perahia playing Mozart’s Sonata for two pianos in D major; James Bowman, Peter Pears, John Shirley-Quirk and Steuart Bedford (piano), sang Benjamin Britten’s Fourth Canticle – ‘The Journey of the Magi’; Janet Baker sang Schubert and Handel and Robert Tear four British Folksongs arranged by Benjamin Britten. The evening was a great tribute to Marion, that so many of her friends should have readily agreed to take part in that marvellous musical occasion.
During Marion’s presidency of the South West Arts Association, it was suggested that to mark the Association’s 25th anniversary there should be an event known as ‘President’s Choice’ – the president to decide whom in invite and where to stage the concert. It was against this background that a packed parish church at South Molton in North Devon had the privilege to hear Yehudi play. Yehudi and Slava, in their different ways have espoused great causes outside and beyond music. I doubt whether there are any personalities in the world of music who are more beloved in their time for their artistry, compassion and humanity.
One of the first events in my marriage was that within six months Marion made me a grandfather (albeit a step-) without any intervening generation. There are now eleven grandchildren, each of whom is devoted to their grandmother, who in turn takes an intense interest in the life of each one of them. The same deep affection is felt by the four sons – the three Lascelles, David, James and Jeremy, and the Thorpe – Rupert. I am a very lucky man.
Marion has a great gift of adapting herself to new situations. Within less than a year of our marriage she was pitched into the February 1974 general election, with the intensive campaigning, principally by helicopter, all over the UK, which this involved. There was also the North Devon constituency which was highly marginal and needed tending. Throughout the campaign Marion gave out warmth and friendliness, warmly appreciated and returned in full measure.
Throughout our marriage there have been many, many happy moments and some less so, but there was always the background of music: Aldeburgh, with its coastline and Festival; Chuggaton and its garden, and above all we are blessed with some very wonderful and supportive friends.
Marion is now chairman of the Britten-Pears Foundation. This takes an increasing amount of her time, but it is a labour of love. She brings to this, as to everything else that she touches, a calm, imagin
ative and wise counsel. For my part no man could have a more perfect companion.
Chapter Two
Early Years
The violin
I started learning the violin at an early age. My teacher was Ruth Araujo, herself a pupil of Jelly d’Aranyi, who was the great niece of the renowned violinist Joachim. I therefore had distinguished ancestry to instruct me. My mother would practise with me and accompany me on the piano. At my pre-prep school (Wagner’s) in Queensgate, the headmaster announced at a school concert: ‘Thorpe will play’, and then ‘Mrs Thorpe will accompany’. The curtains were drawn back. She always swore that her nerves were worse than mine. I continued studying the violin during my years at school in America. But it was later at Eton that there were real opportunities for progress.
Edward Boyle, who was amongst the best informed people on almost every subject, long felt that there was insufficient encouragement given to string playing at Eton, and therefore presented a cup to be competed for annually by string players. There were three of us, all first violins in the school orchestra, who were level pegging: Eustace Gibbs, who went on to the Foreign Office; Simon Streatfield, who went on to play the viola in various internationally known orchestras, and myself. In 1944 I won the cup, playing one of the Beethoven Romances. In 1945 I over-reached myself by playing the slow movement of Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto. I still do not know how I managed the double stoppings – maybe I didn’t! Eustace won. In 1946, I played a real old teashop piece by Wieniawski and won hack the cup.
The school orchestra took itself very seriously, but looking back as dispassionately as possible, I think in fact we were surprisingly good. We tackled Beethoven’s Symphonies numbers 1, 5 and 8; once, for a glorious orgy without audience and solely for our own self-indulgence, we played all three symphonies one after another. What was the most exciting event for me was when Simon and I played the first two movements of the Bach Double Concerto with orchestra.
In My Own Time Page 4
