American Lady : The Life of Susan Mary Alsop (9781101601167) (21 page)

Two Houses of One’s Own

No tears were shed at Susan Jay’s funeral in Rye, New York. Surrounded by Joe, Bill, Anne and her husband George, and the tombs of the Jay ancestors, Susan Mary thought about her father and her own sad childhood. Of her mother, she would keep the memory of the invalid, paralyzed ninety-eight-year-old woman, a talkative and exacting snob to the last. Propped in bed, Mrs. Jay would tell people how she had attended the 1896 coronation of Czar Nicolas II wearing a green velvet dress that was later transformed into cushions—a model of the puritan economy that was typical of the Jay family, inspired not by poverty but by the rigid and virtuous rule that forbids waste.

Back in Washington, Susan Mary read the letters of condolence that had piled up on her desk, some five hundred pieces of evidence to the esteem that Mrs. Jay’s dignity and advanced age had inspired in others. Replying was painful. “As only you and Bill have understood,” she wrote to Joe, “I have been a distant, proper, efficient and rather unaffectionate daughter.”
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The only grief she felt was at feeling none.

Psychologically, Mrs. Jay’s death was not a liberation; the damage caused by a lifetime of judgmental remarks was too deep. It was, however, a considerable and much-awaited material relief. Susan Mary now owned a substantial sum of money and two houses, one in the heart of shady Georgetown, the other, called Blueberry Ledge, in Northeast Harbor, Maine. Susan Mary had never really felt at home in Blueberry Ledge, but Mrs. Jay had always reminded her that it would be hers in a plaintive litany that eventually made her daughter long for it to come into her possession.

At the age of nearly sixty, Susan Mary was eager to be financially independent. To lighten her burden on Joe, they rapidly transformed their separation into a final divorce. She hoped her newfound freedom would allow her to live comfortably, be of financial assistance to her family, and keep both houses. Georgetown was the perfect setting for dinners and receptions and would guarantee her position on Washington’s social chessboard. In Maine, her children and grandchildren would come to stay. These ambitions required careful investments. She took advice from Bill and her financial managers with the nervous anxiety of a child set loose in a candy store, money in hand, overwhelmed by the unaccustomed variety of choices and filled with the shy pride of having finally become a respectable customer.

The house in Georgetown at 1611 Twenty-ninth Street was in a sorry state. Large pieces of plaster fell sadly from the ceilings, and the walls were covered in an ancient, vague-colored damask that had never been very interesting. Susan Mary and her friend the New York decorator Nancy Pierrepont set to work. Upstairs, the bedroom and dressing room were redone in chaste simplicity. On the ground floor, they made the dining room cobalt blue to
match the Sèvres china; the large sitting room just off the garden was done in green; and the library, where tea or cocktails were served, was decorated in dark red. Every time the new interior was photographed for
House and Garden
, the
Washington Post,
or the
Washington Star
, Susan Mary would say that many of the portraits were fakes and that if the house looked Victorian, it was due to the involuntary accumulation of objects over time, not to money or taste. This was pure coquetry, for no visitor could miss the quality of the Persian rugs, the Sargent portrait hanging above the mantelpiece, and the fine furniture, some of which had been left behind by Betty de Rothschild when she moved abroad to follow her husband. Even if deep armchairs did jostle with Parisian bergères, easy, unaffected comfort was not Susan Mary’s way of doing things. Her new home had an elegance that was classically French—lean and stiff, with a gracious formalism livened up by strong colors, bow windows, and fresh curtains tied back like bouquets. The lamps had silk shades, and little porcelain containers filled with cigarettes sat on all the tables. The stage was set and ready for the actors.

“Many people have told us, Mrs. Alsop, that you’re in great social demand in this city. What do you think?”

“Really? I wouldn’t know. One never really knows when one is ‘in.’ Anyway, those lists, ‘in,’ ‘out,’ are often made up by journalists. Well, it’s probably because I got to know a great many people through my former husband, Joe Alsop. I’m still on excellent terms with him. I think he’s the best host in Washington.”

“That may be because you still often serve as his hostess.”

“What an odd idea. You are too kind. Take another cookie, my dear. No, thanks, not for me.”
²³

In truth, Susan Mary knew exactly who she was and where she came from—genealogical concerns were one of the rare insecurities to which she was immune—and was also keenly aware of the quality of the circles she frequented in the United States and in Europe. Journalistic flattery of her social achievements in Washington did not impress her. In February 1988,
U.S. News & World Report
published a special issue on “The New American Establishment,” in which seventy-year-old Susan Mary Alsop was placed among the fifteen most socially prominent people in the United States, in the company of Brooke Astor, Tina Brown, Malcolm Forbes, Ann Getty, Kay Graham, Norman Mailer, Jackie Onassis, Barbra Streisand, and Barbara Walters. Alphabetical arrangement put her at the top of the list. Pretending to be annoyed, she cut the article out, supposedly for her grandchildren.

What was her secret? Why did Henry Catto, the former chief of protocol to President Ford, the Kissingers, the Bradens, and the Brinkleys organize a book party for two hundred guests in honor of Susan Mary when
Lady Sackville
was published in October 1978? Why did so many foreign diplomats come to her house, such as Allan Gotlieb, Nicko Henderson, Michael Pakenham, and Hélie and Nadège de Noailles? Why was Nancy Reagan, who knew very few people when she arrived in Washington, keen to meet her? (Susan Mary gave a luncheon party for the First Lady in April 1981, shortly after the assassination attempt against the new president.) How was it that journalists like Jim Hoagland and John Newhouse, and political figures like Bob McNamara, Caspar Weinberger, and Brent Scowcroft, whom she thought the most intelligent among politicians,
²⁴
never turned down an invitation from Susan Mary? It was at her house
that Nigel Nicolson and Liliane de Rothschild came to stay. It was with her that young people arriving from Europe wanted to chat: Anne-Marie de Ganay, Bertrand du Vignaud, Nicole Salinger, and David Sulzberger, who was so funny, brilliant, and well informed. Sitting on the staircase, dressed in slacks and a cardigan, her hair parted on the side like a schoolgirl, Susan Mary would pull on the cigarette she held in her fingertips and say, “So, tell me what’s going on in Paris these days.”

Her charm and curiosity were still intact, as were the old-fashioned manners and the cut-glass diction that made her sound like a prewar movie star. She gave full, all-enveloping attention to her conversation partners—men in particular, but not exclusively—the kind of attention that made them sit up and feel more important, more alive. Subtly and firmly, she guided their performance. Those who did not want to deliver were not invited back, while those who were not capable of performing were not invited in the first place. She contributed to the show; history unfolded like a fan as she recounted stories about Roosevelt, Churchill, Ho Chi Minh, Greta Garbo in Chantilly, and Kennedy in the White House.

“What was I saying? Oh, yes, that weekend with the Windsors in Antibes. I was sick and they changed the sheets twice a day, which was rather tiring actually. Wallis forced me to come to the table for lunch even though I could barely sit upright. She wanted me to keep Paul Reynaud company because he didn’t speak English very well. We finally broke with them because they thought General Marshall was a Communist. But you know, Charlie de Beistegui also asked me one evening whether Marshall came from a good family. Can you imagine? Oh, the French. That said, I don’t want to get sentimental, I know them too well for
that, but I’m just much happier in France than anywhere else. Oh, maybe I’ll go back there one day.”

She paused, a touch of sadness in her voice.

“Get yourself another drink and tell me about Star Wars again. I don’t think I understood very well. What will become of the SALT agreements?”

There was something enchanting about Susan Mary. In the evening, the schoolgirl’s look disappeared, and she shone, still very thin, wearing haute couture that had aged as well as she had. Dresses, stories, friendships, love affairs. She did not speak about her private life, but many knew about it. Philip Ziegler published a book about Diana Cooper in 1981 that mentioned the British ambassador’s American mistress; however, Susan Mary and Diana’s relationship remained unharmed. Then, in early 1986, John Charmley published a biography of Duff for which Susan Mary gave permission to quote her own letters, although she had long ago burned the ones she had received from Duff. The book got around, with even Karl Lagerfeld admiring the photograph of Susan Mary “taken at a Volpi ball in Venice, in which I look as if an elephant with big feet was taking a rest.”
²⁵
Hardly an elephant, this slim young woman in a white bustier, leaning toward her lover. After seeing Diana in London a few weeks before her death on June 18, 1986, she noted, “I am lucky to have had forty years of her friendship.”
²⁶

By dint of her personality, exceptional talent as a hostess, and intelligent exploitation of her past, Susan Mary made her salon one of the centers of Washington social life, a place that evoked older, more civilized times, when money stayed in its place, political party affiliations were less important, and America got
along with Europe. Becoming a legend has a price, and it was one that Susan Mary paid willingly. By inviting only those who were well known or hoped to be, by entertaining only success and ambition, she deprived herself of the other, gentler kinds of company that these strict criteria often cast aside. No matter her mood, she allowed herself only corseted perfection, sacrificing spontaneity, emotional sincerity, and repose. Even among her close friends, like Lorraine Cooper, Polly Fritchey, Vangie Bruce, and the highly amusing Oatsie Charles, she was rarely willing to take off the smiling mask she removed only in the presence of Marietta. One of her friends said that she was never sure which Susan Mary to expect, “one’s old pal or the Duchess of Buccleuch.” This remark would have probably pleased Susan Mary. Still, there was a different title she preferred to be called by, of which she felt increasingly worthy.

Tea with Edith Wharton and Other Stories

Lobster was so plentiful during the nineteenth century that servants in Maine often had contracts stipulating that they not be obliged to eat it more than twice a week. It had since become rarer fare, reserved for special times. The historian Olivier Bernier’s 1979 visit was such an occasion. Susan Mary served the local delicacy before taking him to tea at Brooke Astor’s. Back at the house, they sat on the white veranda perched above the rocks and blueberry bushes. The tips of the spruce trees caught the light of the setting sun. Bernier looked at the ocean. The view was spectacular and the house was simple, airy, and comfortably worn in all the right places.

“It’s so lovely here in October,” said his hostess. She was wearing the Maine summer uniform—pants, polo shirt, a silk scarf around her neck, and a straw hat. “The sun sets in the middle of the afternoon and one doesn’t have to wait to have a martini. The sky’s not even red yet, but we’ll start now anyway. It will help us work.”

Two glasses appeared.

“So,
cher
Olivier, you were telling me about what traffic was like in Paris in 1780.”

“The carriages of the nobility clattered through at great speed, often causing loss of life and limb: there was actually a set tariff specifying the sum to be paid if you lost a leg, an arm, your life. Finally, the noise was so unbearable that straw was used to cover the street whenever people were ill. Of course, it soon decomposed and added to the mud.”
²⁷

“How fascinating.” Susan Mary was taking notes in a large black notebook. “Please, do go on.”

The noise in the streets, Louis XVI’s difficulty in consummating his marriage, competition among various Parisian salons: these were all details Susan Mary was gathering and weaving together into a new book, after having carefully verified their accuracy so the historians would not tear her to pieces.
²⁸
To do so, she consulted experts and read through old manuscripts with the help of her assistant, Mary Buell. She also traveled to Madrid in search of traces of John Jay, and to Edinburgh to do research on Lord Stormont, ambassador to the king of England. She even climbed up to the attics of Versailles to find out how ladies wearing dresses over wide panniers managed on narrow staircases. In Paris, Jacques and Marie-Alice de Beaumarchais showed her the papers
signed by John Jay in payment for the arms and ammunition shipment to the United States that their ancestor had organized and for which the American Congress later refused to pay, claiming the cargo was a gift from the French government.

Yankees at the Court
was Susan Mary’s third book. It told the story of the first American diplomats from the beginning of the Revolution to the end of Benjamin Franklin’s service as an ambassador in 1785. The subject combined everything Susan Mary liked best: Paris, diplomacy, and the feats of her glorious ancestor. Doubleday published
Yankees at the Court
in the spring of 1982, and it appeared in a French translation the following year. Susan Mary had not tried to uncover anything new; rather, she wanted to present, in a lively fashion, the main events of a little known episode in Franco-American relations, which was, moreover, relatively static, for much of a diplomat’s job is simply waiting as intelligently as possible. She explained the points still at issue among historians, and at times allowed herself to weigh in modestly and state her own position.