Margot Asquith, an Autobiography - Two Volumes in One

by Margot Asquith

CHAPTER VI

MARGOT RIDES A HORSE INTO LONDON HOME AND SMASHES FURNITURE— SUITOR IS FORBIDDEN THE HOUSE—ADVISES GIRL FRIEND TO ELOPE; INTERVIEW WITH GIRL'S FATHER—TETE-A-TETE DINNER IN PARIS WITH BARON HIRSCH—WINNING TIP FROM FRED ARCHER, THE JOCKEY

When I first came out in London we had no friends of fashion to get me invitations to balls and parties. The Walters, who were my mother's rich relations, in consequence of a family quarrel were not on speaking terms with us; and my prospects looked by no means rosy.

One day I was lunching with an American to whom I had been introduced in the hunting-field and found myself sitting next to a stranger. Hearing that he was Arthur Walter, I thought that it would be fun to find out his views upon my family and his own. He did not know who I was, so I determined I would enjoy what looked like being a long meal. We opened in this manner:

MARGOT: "I see you hate Gladstone!"

ARTHUR WALTER: "Not at all. I hate his politics."

MARGOT: "I didn't suppose you hated the man."

ARTHUR WALTER: "I am ashamed to say I have never even seen him or heard him speak, but I entirely agree that for the Duke of Westminster to have sold the Millais portrait of him merely because he does not approve of Home Rule shows great pettiness! I have of course never seen the picture as it was bought privately."

MARGOT: "The Tennants bought it, so I suppose you could easily see it."

ARTHUR WALTER: "I regret to say that I cannot ever see this picture."

MARGOT: "Why not?"

ARTHUR WALTER: "Because though the Tennants are relations of mine, our family quarrelled."

MARGOT: "What did they quarrel over?"

ARTHUR WALTER: "Oh, it's a long story! Perhaps relations quarrel because they are too much alike."

MARGOT: "You are not in the least like the Tennants!"

ARTHUR WALTER: "What makes you say that? Do you know them?"

MARGOT: "Yes, I do."

ARTHUR WALTER: "In that case perhaps you could take me to see the picture."

MARGOT: "Oh, certainly! … And I know Mr. Gladstone too!"

ARTHUR WALTER: "What a fortunate young lady! Perhaps you could manage to take me to see him also."

MARGOT: "All right. If you will let me drive you away from lunch in my phaeton, I will show you the Gladstone picture."

ARTHUR WALTER: "Are you serious? Do you know them well enough?"

MARGOT (nodding confidently): "Yes, yes, don't you fret!"

After lunch I drove him to 40 Grosvenor Square and, when I let myself in with my latch-key, he guessed who I was, but any interest he might have felt in this discovery was swamped by what followed.

I opened the library door. Mr. Gladstone was sitting talking to my parents under his own portrait. After the introduction he conversed with interest and courtesy to my new relation about the Times newspaper, its founder and its great editor, Delane.

What I really enjoyed most in London was riding in the Row. I bought a beautiful hack for myself at Tattersalls, 15.2, bright bay with black points and so well-balanced that if I had ridden it with my face to its tail I should hardly have known the difference. I called it Tatts; it was bold as a lion, vain as a peacock and extremely moody. One day, when I was mounted to ride in the Row, my papa kept me waiting so long at the door of 40 Grosvenor Square that I thought I would ride Tatts into the front hall and give him a call; it only meant going up one step from the pavement to the porch and another through the double doors held open by the footman. Unluckily, after a somewhat cautious approach by Tatts up the last step into the marble hall, he caught his reflection in a mirror. At this he instantly stood erect upon his hind legs, crashing my tall hat into the crystal chandelier. His four legs all gave way on the polished floor and down we went with a noise like thunder, the pony on the top of me, the chandelier on the top of him and my father and the footman helpless spectators. I was up and on Tatts' head in a moment, but not before he had kicked a fine old English chest into a jelly. This misadventure upset my father's temper and my pony's nerve, as well as preventing me from dancing for several days.

My second scrape was more serious. I engaged myself to be married.

If any young "miss" reads this autobiography and wants a little advice from a very old hand, I will say to her, when a man threatens to commit suicide after you have refused him, you may be quite sure that he is a vain, petty fellow or a great goose; if you felt any doubts about your decision before, you need have none after this and under no circumstances must you give way. To marry a man out of pity is folly; and, if you think you are going to influence the kind of fellow who has "never had a chance, poor devil," you are profoundly mistaken. One can only influence the strong characters in life, not the weak; and it is the height of vanity to suppose that you can make an honest man of any one. My fiance was neither petty nor a goose, but a humorist; I do not think he meant me to take him seriously, but in spite of my high spirits I was very serious, and he was certainly more in love with me than any one had ever been before. He was a fine rider and gave me a mount with the Beaufort hounds.

When I told my mother of my engagement, she sank upon a settee, put a handkerchief to her eyes, and said:

"You might as well marry your groom!"

I struggled very hard to show her how worldly she was. Who wanted money? Who wanted position? Who wanted brains? Nothing in fact was wanted, except my will!

I was much surprised, a few days later, to hear from G., whom I met riding in the Row, that he had called every day of the week but been told by the footman that I was out. The under-butler, who was devoted to me, said sadly, when I complained:

"I am afraid, miss, your young gentleman has been forbidden the house."

Forbidden the house! I rushed to my sister Charty and found her even more upset than my mother. She pointed out with some truth that Lucy's marriage and the obstinacy with which she had pursued it had gone far towards spoiling her early life; but "the squire," as Graham Smith was called, although a character-part, was a man of perfect education and charming manners. He had beaten all the boys at Harrow, won a hundred steeplechases and loved books; whereas my young man knew little about anything but horses and, she added, would be no companion to me when I was ill or old.

I flounced about the room and said that forbidding him the house was grotesque and made me ridiculous in the eyes of the servants. I ended a passionate protest by telling her gravely that if I changed my mind he would undoubtedly commit suicide. This awful news was received with an hilarity which nettled me.

CHARTY: "I should have thought you had too much sense of humour and Mr. G. too much common sense for either of you to believe this. He must think you very vain. …"

I did not know at all what she meant and said with the utmost gravity:

"The terrible thing is I believe that I have given him a false impression of my feelings for him; for, though I love him very much, I would never have promised to marry him if he had not said he was going to kill himself." Clasping my two hands together and greatly moved, I concluded, "If I break it off now and ANYTHING SHOULD happen, my life is over and I shall feel as if I had murdered him."

CHARTY (looking at me with a tender smile): "I should risk it, darling."

A propos of vanity, in the interests of my publisher I must here digress and relate the two greatest compliments that I ever had paid to me. Although I cannot listen to reading out loud, I have always been fond of sermons and constantly went to hear Canon Eyton, a great preacher, who collected large and attentive congregations in his church in Sloane Street. I nearly always went alone, as my family preferred listening to Stopford Brooke or going to our pew in St. George's, Hanover Square.

One of my earliest recollections is of my mother and father taking me to hear Liddon preach; I remember nothing at all about it except that I swallowed a hook and eye during the service: not a very flattering tribute to the great divine!

Eyton was a striking preacher and his church was always crowded. I had to stand a long time before I could ever get a seat. One morning I received this letter:

DEAR MISS TENNANT,

I hope you will excuse this written by a stranger. I have often observed you listening to the sermon in our church. My wife and I are going abroad, so we offer you our pew; you appear to admire Eyton's preaching as much as we do—we shall be very glad if you can use it.

Yours truly,

FRANCIS BUXTON.

The other compliment was also a letter from a stranger. It was dirty and misspelt, and enclosed a bill from an undertaker; the bill came to seven pounds and the letter ran as follows:

Honoured Miss father passed away quite peaceful last Saturday, he set store by his funeral and often told us as much sweeping a crossing had paid him pretty regular, but he left nothing as one might speak of, and so we was put to it for the funeral, as it throws back so on a house not to bury your father proper, I remember you and all he thought of you and told the undertaker to go ahead with the thing for as you was my fathers friend I hoped you would understand and excuse me.

This was from the son of our one-legged crossing-sweeper, and I need hardly say I owed him a great deal more than seven pounds. He had taken all our love-letters, presents and messages to and fro from morning till night for years past and was a man who thoroughly understood life.

To return to my fiance, I knew things could not go on as they were; scenes bored me and I was quite incapable of sustaining a campaign of white lies; so I reassured my friends and relieved my relations by telling the young man that I could not marry him. He gave me his beautiful mare, Molly Bawn, sold all his hunters and went to Australia. His hair when he returned to England two years later was grey. I have heard of this happening, but have only known of it twice in my life, once on this occasion and the other time when the boiler of the Thunderer burst in her trial trip; the engine was the first Government order ever given to my father's firm of Humphreys & Tennant and the accident made a great sensation. My father told me that several men had been killed and that young Humphreys' hair had turned white. I remember this incident very well, as when I gave Papa the telegram in the billiard room at Glen he covered his face with his hands and sank on the sofa in tears.

About this time Sir William Miller, a friend of the family, suggested to my parents that his eldest son—a charming young fellow, since dead—should marry me. I doubt if the young man knew me by sight, but in spite of this we were invited to stay at Manderston, much to my father's delight.

On the evening of our arrival my host said to me in his broad
Scottish accent:

"Margy, will you marry my son Jim?"

"My dear Sir William," I replied, "your son Jim has never spoken to me in his life!"

SIR WILLIAM: "He is shy."

I assured him that this was not so and that I thought his son might be allowed to choose for himself, adding:

"You are like my father, Sir William, and think every one wants to marry."

SIR WILLIAM: "So they do, don't they?" (With a sly look.) "I am sure they all want to marry you."

MARGOT (mischievously): "I wonder!"

SIR WILLIAM: "Margy, would you rather marry me or break your leg?"

MARGOT: Break both, Sir William."

After this promising beginning I was introduced to the young man.
It was impossible to pay me less attention than he did.

Sir William had two daughters, one of whom was anxious to marry a major quartered in Edinburgh, but he was robustly and rudely against this, in consequence of which the girl was unhappy. She took me into her confidence one afternoon in their schoolroom.

It was dark and the door was half open, with a bright light in the passage; Miss Miller was telling me with simple sincerity exactly what she felt and what her father felt about the major. I suddenly observed Sir William listening to our conversation behind the hinges of the door. Being an enormous man, he had screwed himself into a cramped posture and I was curious to see how long he would stick it out. It was indique that I should bring home the proverbial platitude that "listeners never hear any good of themselves."

MISS MILLER: "You see, there is only one real objection to him, he is not rich!"

I told her that as she would be rich some day, it did not matter. Why should the rich marry the rich? It was grotesque! I intended to marry whatever kind of man I cared for and papa would certainly find the money.

MISS MILLER (not listening): "He loves me so! And he says he will kill himself if I give him up now."

MARGOT (with vigour): "Oh, if he is THAT sort of man, a really brave fellow, there is only one thing for you both to do!"

MISS MILLER (leaning forward with hands clasped and looking at me earnestly): "Oh, tell me, tell me!"

MARGOT: "Are you sure he is a man of dash? Is he really unworldly and devoted? Not afraid of what people say?"

MISS MILLER (eagerly): "No, no! Yes, yes! He would die for me, indeed he would, and is afraid of no one!"

MARGOT (luring her on): "I expect he is very much afraid of your father."

MISS MILLER (hesitating): "Papa is so rude to him."

MARGOT (with scorn): "Well, if your major is afraid of your father, I think nothing of him!" (Slight movement behind the door.)

MISS MILLER (impulsively): "He is afraid of no one! But Papa never talks to him."

MARGOT (very deliberately): "Well, there is only one thing for you to do; and that is to run away!" (Sensation behind the door.)

MISS MILLER (with determination, her eyes sparkling): "If he will do it, I WILL! But oh, dear! …What will people say? How they will talk!"

MARGOT (lightly): "Oh, of course, if you care for what people say, you will be done all through life!"

MISS MILLER: "Papa would be furious, you know, and would curse fearfully!"

To this I answered:

"I know your father well and I don't believe he would care a damn!"

I got up suddenly, as if going to the door, at which there was a sound of a scuffle in the corridor.

MISS MILLER (alarmed and getting up): "What was that noise? Can any one have been in the passage? Could they have heard us? Let us shut the door."

MARGOT: "No, don't shut the door, it's so hot and we shan't be able to talk alone again."

Miss MILLER (relieved and sitting down): "You are very good. … I must think carefully over what you have said."

MARGOT: "Anyhow, tell your major that I know your father; he is really fond of me."

MISS MILLER: "Oh, yes, I heard him ask your father if he would exchange you for us."

MARGOT: "That's only his chaff; he is devoted to you. But what he likes about me is my dash: nothing your papa admires so much as courage. If the major has pluck enough to carry you off to Edinburgh, marry you in a registrar's office and come back and tell your family the same day, he will forgive everything, give you a glorious allowance and you'll be happy ever after! … Now, my dear, I must go."

I got up very slowly, and, putting my hands on her shoulders, said:

"Pull up your socks, Amy!"

I need hardly say the passage was deserted when I opened the door. I went downstairs, took up the Scotsman and found Sir William writing in the hall. He was grumpy and restless and at last, putting down his pen, he came up to me and said, in his broad Scotch accent:

"Margy, will you go round the garden with me?"

"MARGY": "Yes, if we can sit down alone and have a good talk."

SIR WILLIAM (delighted): "What about the summerhouse?"

"MARGY": "All right, I'll run up and put on my hat and meet you here."

When we got to the summer-house he said:

"Margy, my daughter Amy's in love with a pauper."

"MARGY": "What does that matter?"

SIR WILLIAM: "He's not at all clever."

"MARGY": "How do you know?"

SIR WILLIAM: "What do you mean?"

"MARGY": "None of us are good judges of the people we dislike."

SIR WILLIAM (cautiously): "I would much like your advice on all this affair and I want you to have a word with my girl Amy and tell her just what you think on the matter."

"MARGY": "I have."

SIR WILLIAM: "What did she say to you?"

"MARGY": "Really, Sir William, would you have me betray confidences?"

SIR WILLIAM: "Surely you can tell me what YOU said, anyway, without betraying her."

"MARGY" (looking at him steadily): "Well, what do you suppose you would say in the circumstances? If a well-brought-up girl told you that she was in love with a man that her parents disliked, a man who was unable to keep her and with no prospects…"

SIR WILLIAM (interrupting): "Never mind what I should say! What did YOU say?"

"MARGY" (evasively): "The thing is unthinkable! Good girls like yours could never go against their parents' wishes! Men who can't keep their wives should not marry at all. …"

SIR WILLIAM (with great violence, seizing my hands): "WHAT DID YOU
SAY?"

"MARGY" (with a sweet smile): "I'm afraid, Sir William, you are changing your mind and, instead of leaning on my advice, you begin to suspect it."

SIR WILLIAM (very loud and beside himself with rage): "WHAT DID
YOU SAY?"

"MARGY" (coolly, putting her hand on his): "I can't think why you are so excited! If I told you that I had said, 'Give it all up, my dear, and don't vex your aged father,' what would you say?"

SIR WILLIAM (getting up and flinging my hand away from him):
"Hoots! You're a liar!"

"MARGY": "No, I'm not, Sir William; but, when I see people listening at doors, I give them a run for their money."

I had another vicarious proposal. One night, dining with the Bischoffheims, I was introduced for the first time to Baron Hirsch, an Austrian who lived in Paris. He took me in to dinner and a young man whom I had met out hunting sat on the other side of me.

I was listening impressively to the latter, holding my champagne in my hand, when the footman in serving one of the dishes bumped my glass against my chest and all its contents went down the front of my ball-dress. I felt iced to the bone; but, as I was thin, I prayed profoundly that my pink bodice would escape being marked. I continued in the same position, holding my empty glass in my hand as if nothing had happened, hoping that no one had observed me and trying to appear interested in the young man's description of the awful dangers he had run when finding himself alone with hounds.

A few minutes later Baron Hirsch turned to me and said:

"Aren't you very cold?"

I said that I was, but that it did not matter; what I really minded was spoiling my dress and, as I was not a kangaroo, I feared the worst. After this we entered into conversation and he told me among other things that, when he had been pilled for a sporting club in Paris, he had revenged himself by buying the club and the site upon which it was built, to which I observed:

"You must be very rich."

He asked me where I had lived and seemed surprised that I had never heard of him.

The next time we met each other was in Paris. I lunched with him and his wife and he gave me his opera box and mounted me in the Bois de Boulogne.

One day he invited me to dine with him tete-a-tete at the Cafe Anglais and, as my father and mother were out, I accepted. I felt a certain curiosity about this invitation, because my host in his letter had given me the choice of several other dates in the event of my being engaged that night. When I arrived at the Cafe Anglais Baron Hirsch took off my cloak and conducted me into a private room. He reminded me of our first meeting, said that he had been much struck by my self-control over the iced champagne and went on to ask if I knew why he had invited me to dine with him. I said:

"I have not the slightest idea!"

BARON HIRSCH: "Because I want you to marry my son, Lucien. He is quite unlike me, he is very respectable and hates money; he likes books and collects manuscripts and other things, and is highly educated."

MARGOT: "Your son is the man with the beard, who wears glasses and collects coins, isn't he?"

BARON HIRSCH (thinking my description rather dreary): "Quite so! You talked to him the other day at our house. But he has a charming disposition and has been a good son; and I am quite sure that, if you would take a little trouble, he would be devoted to you and make you an excellent husband: he does not like society, or racing, or any of the things that I care for."

MARGOT: "Poor man! I don't suppose he would even care much for me!
I hate coins!"

BARON HIRSCH: "Oh, but you would widen his interests! He is shy and I want him to make a good marriage; and above all he must marry an Englishwoman."

MARGOT: "Has he ever been in love?"

BARON HIRSCH: "No, he has never been in love; but a lot of women make up to him and I don't want him to be married for his money by some designing girl."

MARGOT: "Over here I suppose that sort of thing might happen; I don't believe it would in England."

BARON HIRSCH: "How can you say such a thing to me? London society cares more for money than any other in the world, as I know to my cost! You may take it from me that a young man who will be as rich as Lucien can marry almost any girl he likes."

MARGOT: "I doubt it! English girls don't marry for money!"

BARON HIRSCH: "Nonsense, my dear! They are like other people; it is only the young that can afford to despise money!"

MARGOT: "Then I hope that I shall be young for a very long time."

BARON HIRSCH (smiling): "I don't think you will ever be disappointed in that hope; but surely you wouldn't like to be a poor man's wife and live in the suburbs? Just think what it would be if you could not hunt or ride in the Row in a beautiful habit or have wonderful dresses from Worth! You would hate to be dowdy and obscure!"

"That," I answered energetically, "could never happen to me."

BARON HIRSCH: "Why not?"

MARGOT: "Because I have too many friends."

BARON HIRSCH: "And enemies?"

MARGOT (thoughtfully): "Perhaps. …I don't know about that. I never notice whether people dislike me or not. After all, you took a fancy to me the first time we met; why should not other people do the same? Do you think I should not improve on acquaintance?"

BARON HIRSCH: "How can you doubt that, when I have just asked you to marry my son?"

MARGOT: "What other English girl is there that you would like for a daughter-in-law?"

BARON HIRSCH: "Lady Katie Lambton,[Footnote: The present Duchess of Leeds.] Durham's sister."

MARGOT: "I don't know her at all. Is she like me?"

BARON HIRSCH: "Not in the least; but you and she are the only girls I have met that I could wish my son to marry."

I longed to know what my rival was like, but all he could tell me was that she was lovely and clever and mignonne, to which I said:

"But she sounds exactly like me!"

This made him laugh:

"I don't believe you know in the least what you are like," he said.

MARGOT: "You mean I have no idea how plain I am? But what an odd man you are! If I don't know what I'm like, I am sure you can't! How do you know that I am not just the sort of adventuress you dread most? I might marry your son and, so far from widening his interests, as you suggest, keep him busy with his coins while I went about everywhere, enjoying myself and spending all your money. In spite of what you say, some man might fall in love with me, you know! Some delightful, clever man. And then Lucien's happiness would be over."

BARON HIRSCH: "I do not believe you would ever cheat your husband."

MARGOT: "You never can tell! Would Lady Katie Lambton many for money?"

BARON HIRSCH: "To be perfectly honest with you, I don't think she would."

MARGOT: "There you are! I know heaps of girls who wouldn't; anyhow, I never would!"

BARON HIRSCH: "You are in love with some one else, perhaps, are you?"

It so happened that in the winter I had fallen in love with a man out hunting and was counting the hours till I could meet him again, so the question annoyed me; I thought it vulgar and said, with some dignity:

"If I am, I have never told him so."

My dignity was lost, however, on my host, who persisted. I did not want to give myself away, so, simulating a tone of light banter, I said:

"If I have not confided in the person most interested, why should I tell YOU?" This was not one of my happiest efforts, for he instantly replied:

"Then he IS interested in you, is he? Do I know him?"

I felt angry and told him that, because I did not want to marry his son, it did not at all follow that my affections were engaged elsewhere; and I added:

"I only hope that Mr. Lucien is not as curious as you are, or I should have a very poor time; there is nothing I should hate as much as a jealous husband."

BARON HIRSCH: "I don't believe you! If it's tiresome to have a jealous husband, it must be humiliating to have one who is not."

I saw he was trying to conciliate me, so I changed the subject to racing. Being a shrewd man, he thought he might find out whom I was in love with and encouraged me to go on. I told him I knew Fred Archer well, as we had hunted together in the Vale of White Horse. He asked me if he had ever given me a racing tip. I told him the following story:

One day, at Ascot, some of my impecunious Melton friends,—having heard a rumour that Archer, who was riding in the race, had made a bet on the result—came and begged me to find out from him what horse was going to win. I did not listen much to them at first, as I was staring about at the horses, the parasols and the people, but my friends were very much in earnest and began pressing me in lowered voices to be as quick as I could, as they thought that Archer was on the move. It was a grilling day; most men had handkerchiefs or cabbages under their hats; and the dried-up grass in the Paddock was the colour of pea-soup. I saw Fred Archer standing in his cap and jacket with his head hanging down, talking to a well-groomed, under-sized little man, while the favourite—a great, slashing, lazy horse—was walking round and round with the evenness of a metronome. I went boldly up to him and reminded him of how we had cannoned at a fence in the V.W.H. Fred Archer had a face of carved ivory, like the top of an umbrella; he could turn it into a mask or illuminate it with a smile; he had long thin legs, a perfect figure and wonderful charm. He kept a secretary, a revolver and two valets and was a god among the gentry and the jockeys. After giving a slight wink at the under-sized man, he turned away from him to me and, on hearing what I had to say, whispered a magic name in my ear. …

I was a popular woman that night in Melton.

Baron Hirsch returned to the charge later on; and I told him definitely that I was the last girl in the world to suit his son.

It is only fair to the memory of Lucien Hirsch to say that he never cared the least about me. He died a short time after this and some one said to the Baron:

"What a fool Margot Tennant was not to have married your son! She would be a rich widow now."

At which he said:

"No one would die if they married Margot Tennant."