Margot Asquith, an Autobiography Part 43

I do not think if you had ransacked the world you could have found natures so opposite in temper, temperament and outlook as myself and my stepchildren when I first knew them.

If there was a difference between the Tennants and Lytteltons of laughter, there was a difference between the Tennants and Asquiths of tears. Tennants believed in appealing to the hearts of men, firing their imagination and penetrating and vivifying their inmost lives. They had a little loose love to give the whole world. The Asquiths--without mental flurry and with perfect self- mastery--believed in the free application of intellect to every human emotion; no event could have given heightened expression to their feelings. Shy, self-engaged, critical and controversial, nothing surprised them and nothing upset them. We were as zealous and vital as they were detached and as c.o.c.ky and pa.s.sionate as they were modest and emotionless.

They rarely looked at you and never got up when any one came into the room. If you had appeared downstairs in a ball-dress or a bathing-gown they would not have observed it and would certainly never have commented upon it if they had. Whether they were glowing with joy at the sight of you or thrilled at receiving a friend, their welcome was equally composed. They were devoted to one another and never quarrelled; they were seldom wild and never naughty. Perfectly self-contained, truthful and deliberate, I never saw them lose themselves in my life and I have hardly ever seen the saint or hero that excited their disinterested emotion.

When I thought of the storms of revolt, the rage, the despair, the wild enthusiasms and reckless adventures, the disputes that finished not merely with fights, but with fists in our nursery and schoolroom, I was stunned by the steadiness of the Asquith temper.

Let it not be inferred that I am criticising them as they now are, or that their att.i.tude towards myself was at any time lacking in sympathy. Blindness of heart does not imply hardness; and expression is a matter of temperament or impulse; hut it was their att.i.tude towards life that was different from my own. They over- valued brains, which was a strange fault, as they were all remarkably clever. Hardly any Prime Minister has had famous children, but the Asquiths were all conspicuous in their different ways: Raymond and Violet the most striking, Arthur the most capable, Herbert a poet and Cyril the shyest and the rarest.

Cys Asquith, who was the youngest of the family, combined what was best in all of them morally and intellectually and possessed what was finer than brains.

He was two, when his mother died, and a clumsy ugly little boy with a certain amount of graceless obstinacy, with which both Tennants and Asquiths were equally endowed. To the casual observer he would have appeared less like me than any of my step-family, but as a matter of fact he and I had the most in common; we shared a certain spiritual foundation and moral aspiration that solder people together through life.

It is not because I took charge of him at an early age that I say he is more my own than the others, but because, although he did not always agree with me, he never misunderstood me. He said at Murren one day, when he was seventeen and we had been talking together on life and religion:

"It must be curious for you, Margot, seeing all of us laughing at things that make you cry."

This showed remarkable insight for a schoolboy. When I look at his wonderful face now and think of his appearance at the time of our marriage, I am reminded of the Hans Andersen toad with the jewel in its head, but the toad is no longer there.

I have a dear friend called Bogie Harris,[Footnote: Mr. H. Harris, of Bedford Square.] who told me that, at a ball given by Con and Hoppy Manners, he had seen a young man whose face had struck him so much that he looked about for some one in the room to tell him who it was. That young man was Cyril Asquith.

One night when he was a little boy, after I had heard him say his prayers he asked me to read the General Confession out of his Prayer Book to him. It was such an unusual request that I said:

"Very well, darling, I will, but first of all I must read you what I love best in the Prayer Book."

To which he answered:

"Oh, do! I should like that."

I put a cus.h.i.+on behind my head and, lying down beside him, read:

"Lighten our darkness, we beseech Thee, O Lord; and by Thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night, for the love of Thine only Son, our Saviour Jesus Christ. Amen."

After this I read him the General Confession, opening, "We have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep," and ending, "that we may hereafter live a G.o.dly, righteous, and sober life."

When I had finished I said to him:

"What do you take sober to mean here, darling?"

CYS (looking furtively at me with his little green eyes): "It does not mean drunkenness." (A slight pause and then reflectively): "I should say moderate living."

I told the children one day to collect some of their toys and that I would take them to the hospital, where they could give them away themselves. I purposely did not say broken toys; and a few days afterwards I was invited to the nursery. On arriving upstairs I saw that Cys's eyes were scarlet; and set out in pathetic array round the room was a large family of monkeys christened by him "the Thumblekins." They were what he loved best in the world. I observed that they were the only unbroken toys that were brought to me; and he was eyeing his treasures with anguish in his soul. I was so touched that I could hardly speak; and, when I put my arms round his neck, he burst into sobs:

"May I keep one monkey ... only one, Margot? ... PLEASE?

...PLEASE, Margot? ..."

This was the window in his soul that has never been closed to me.

For many years during a distinguished college career he was delicate, but since his marriage to Miss Ann Pollock--a daylight creature of charm, beauty and goodness--he has been happy and strong.

My stepdaughter Violet--now Lady Bonham Carter--though intensely feminine, would have made a remarkable man. I do not believe there is any examination she could not have pa.s.sed either at a public school or a university. Born without shyness or trepidation, from her youth upwards she had perfect self-possession and patience.

She loved dialectics and could put her case logically, plausibly and eloquently; and, although quite as unemotional as her brothers, she had more enterprise and indignation. In her youth she was delicate, and what the French call tres personelle; and this prevented her going through the mill of rivalry and criticism which had been the daily bread of my girlhood.

She had the same penetrating sense of humour as her brother Raymond and quite as much presence of mind in retort. Her gift of expression was amazing and her memory unrivalled. My daughter Elizabeth and she were the only girls except myself that I ever met who were real politicians, not interested merely in the personal side--whether Mr. B. or C. spoke well or was likely to get promoted--but in the legislation and administration of Parliament; they followed and knew what was going on at home and abroad and enjoyed friends.h.i.+ps with most of the young and famous men of the day. Violet Bonham Carter has, I think, a great political future in the country if not in the Commons. She is a natural speaker, easy, eloquent, witty, short and of imperturbable sang-froid.

Life in the House is neither healthy, useful nor appropriate for a woman; and the functions of a mother and a member of Parliament are not compatible. This was one of the reasons why my husband and I were against giving the franchise to women. Violet is a real mother and feels the problem acutely, but she is a real Liberal also and, with gifts as conspicuous as hers, she must inevitably exercise a wide-spread political influence. Her speeches in her father's election at Paisley, in February of this year, brought her before a general as well as intellectual audience from which she can never retire; and, whenever she appears on a platform, the public shout from every part of the hall calling on her to speak.

Raymond Asquith was born on the 6th of November, 1878, and was killed fighting against the Germans before his regiment had been in action ten minutes, on the 15th of September, 1916.

He was intellectually one of the most distinguished young men of his day and beautiful to look at, added to which he was light in hand, brilliant in answer and interested in affairs. When he went to Balliol he cultivated a kind of cynicism which was an endless source of delight to the young people around him; in a good- humoured way he made a b.u.t.t of G.o.d and smiled at man. If he had been really keen about any one thing--law or literature--he would have made the world ring with his name, but he lacked temperament and a certain sort of imagination and was without ambition of any kind.

His education was started by a woman in a day-school at Hampstead; from there he took a Winchester scholars.h.i.+p and he became a scholar of Balliol. At Oxford he went from triumph to triumph. He took a first in cla.s.sical moderations in 1899; first- cla.s.s literae humaniores in 1901; first-cla.s.s jurisprudence in 1902. He won the Craven, Ireland, Derby and Eldon scholars.h.i.+ps. He was President of the Union and became a Fellow of All Souls in 1902; and after he left Oxford he was called to the Bar in 1904.

In spite of this record, a more modest fellow about his own achievements never lived.

Raymond was charming and good-tempered from his boyhood and I only remember him once in his life getting angry with me. He had been urged to go into politics by both his wife and his father and had been invited by the Liberal a.s.sociation of a northern town to become their candidate. He was complaining about it one day to me, saying how dull, how stupid, how boring the average const.i.tuents of all electorates were; I told him I thought a closer contact with common people would turn out not only more interesting and delightful than he imagined, but that it would be the making of him. He flared up at once and made me appear infinitely ridiculous, but being on sure ground I listened with amus.e.m.e.nt and indifference; the discussion ended amicably, neither of us having deviated by a hair's breath from our original positions. He and I seldom got on each other's nerves, though two more different beings never lived. His arctic a.n.a.lysis of what he looked upon as "cant" always stirred his listeners to a high pitch of enthusiasm.

One day when he was at home for his holidays and we were all having tea together, to amuse the children I began asking riddles.

I told them that I had only guessed one in my life, but it had taken me three days. They asked me what it was, and I said:

"What is it that G.o.d has never seen, that kings see seldom and that we see every day?"

Raymond instantly answered:

"A joke."

I felt that the real answer, which was "an equal," was very tepid after this.

In 1907 he married, from 10 Downing Street, Katherine Horner, a beautiful creature of character and intellect, as lacking in fire and incense as himself. Their devotion to each other and happiness was a perpetual joy to me, as I felt that in some ways I had contributed to it. Katherine was the daughter of Laura's greatest friend, Frances Horner, and he met her through me.

Raymond found in both his mother-in-law and Sir John Horner friends capable of appreciating his fine flavour. He wrote with ease and brilliance both prose and poetry. I will quote two of his poems:

IN PRAISE OF YOUNG GIRLS

Attend, my Muse, and, if you can, approve While I proclaim the "speeding up" of Love; For Love and Commerce hold a common creed-- The scale of business varies with the speed; For Queen of Beauty or for Sausage King The Customer is always on the wing-- Then praise the nymph who regularly earns Small profits (if you please) but quick returns.

Our modish Venus is a bustling minx, But who can spare the time to woo a Sphinx?

When Mona Lisa posed with rustic guile The stale enigma of her simple smile, Her leisure lovers raised a pious cheer While the slow mischief crept from ear to ear.

Poor listless Lombard, you would ne'er engage The brisker beaux of our mercurial age Whose lively mettle can as easy brook An epic poem as a lingering look-- Our modern maiden smears the twig with lime For twice as many hearts in half the time.

Long ere the circle of that staid grimace Has wheeled your weary dimples into place, Our little Chloe (mark the nimble fiend!) Has raised a laugh against her bosom friend, Melted a marquis, mollified a Jew, Kissed every member of the Eton crew, Ogled a Bishop, quizzed an aged peer, Has danced a Tango and has dropped a tear.

Fresh from the schoolroom, pink and plump and pert, Bedizened, bouncing, artful and alert, No victim she of vapours and of moods Though the sky falls she's "ready with the goods"-- Will suit each client, tickle every taste Polite or gothic, libertine or chaste, Supply a waspish tongue, a waspish waist, Astarte's breast or Atalanta's leg, Love ready-made or glamour off the peg-- Do you prefer "a thing of dew and air"?

Or is your type Poppaea or Polaire?

The crystal casket of a maiden's dreams, Or the last fancy in cosmetic creams?

The dark and tender or the fierce and bright, Youth's rosy blush or Pa.s.sion's pearly bite?

You hardly know perhaps; but Chloe knows, And pours you out the necessary dose, Meticulously measuring to scale, The cup of Circe or the Holy Grail-- An actress she at home in every role, Can flout or flatter, bully or cajole, And on occasion by a stretch of art Can even speak the language of the heart, Can lisp and sigh and make confused replies, With baby lips and complicated eyes, Indifferently apt to weep or wink, Primly pursue, provocatively shrink, Brazen or bashful, as the case require, Coax the faint baron, curb the bold esquire, Deride restraint, but deprecate desire, Unbridled yet unloving, loose but limp, Voluptuary, virgin, prude and pimp.

LINES TO A YOUNG VISCOUNT, WHO DIED AT OXFORD, ON THE MORROW OF A b.u.mP SUPPER (by the President of his College)

Dear Viscount, in whose ancient blood The blueness of the bird of March, The vermeil of the tufted larch, Are fused in one magenta flood.

Dear Viscount--ah! to me how dear, Who even in thy frolic mood Discerned (or sometimes thought I could) The pure proud purpose of a peer!