Chips (Channon) records Christmas Day in his diary: 1924 – 1935.
Thursday, 25th December, 1924.
Christmas – the gloomiest of days. I arrived from New York feeling very lonely and thinking of all the happy Christmases I have had in England and of Madresfield where I had promised to be now – a bitterly cold day. Father gave me a settlement of about $90,000 – which will bring me in £800 per annum or possibly more.
All my friends are scattered. I feel so homesick. I sent off a dozen cables to soothe my loneliness. Mrs Vanderbilt gave me a diamond tiepin; Mrs Corrigan a gold cigarette case, Tony Ashley a gold cigarette lighter, Grace Vanderbilt a small cigarette case.
Friday, 25th December, 1925.
Went to church, but did not take Holy Communion as I fear it would be hypocritical as I am so very nearly Roman Catholic. We are a large party – four Merry del Val’s, the Ambassadress piquante, outrageous, salacious as ever, the Ambassador grave and learned with a touch of hidalgo cruelty overshadowed by English nature – a brace of boys. Alfonso aged 21, gay and hedonistic and hot and Spanish, Paul handsome anf saintly with a tremendous heart and compassion. Ruby Peto and her bumptious children – little Rosemary already a beauty and domineering beyond anyone I have ever known, little Timothy black-eyed and charming – Lady Lowther coy and 52 and delightfully French with her heavy daughters. She is in love with Gerry Wellesley, cold, formal, unimaginative brilliant creature.
Christmas Day, 1927.
A quiet Christmas; bridge, churches and games. A gold clock came from George, he is at Cliveden and I miss him acutely. Every hour away from him seems empty, void, dull, uninteresting.
A silver lighter from the Spanish Ambassadress and family, four silver George III decanter labels shaped like ivy leaves from Lady Scarborough, and other presents too numerous to mention. How difficult it is to be alone even in a large house – people follow me, people at meals, people to watch me dress. Now I know why I was happy in America – I was so often alone. I get quite drunk with the volupté of solitude – people occasionally bore and grate.
Tuesday, 25th December, 1928.
I have had very different Xmas presents. Handkerchiefs, silk pyjamas, a set of Byron and a Blake from George, ‘bits of dirt’ from others; £250 from my father. George is at Cliveden. A lazy day passed with Gerry Wellesley playing golf and going for pornographic promenades with the (Spanish) Ambassadress.
Tuesday, 25th December, 1934.
A warm balmy Xmas with a merry party of virgins and veterans. I took my indigestion for a lovely walk along the grey sea, as far as Dinorwic (sic), the grey village of quarries and slates from which Michael Duff, our whimsical host, derives his vast wealth. My indigestion is bad, it has been for over a year now. Ever since my marriage. I have not been myself . . . less ‘flair’, less originality and spirits. I think it is perhaps due to less exercise and a richer diet and unchecked alcoholic consumption.
The party here amongst others consists of:
Maxine Elliott that ancient countenance of kings; she is still splendid, her vast distinguished body that once enthralled the great wobbles in, about seventeen stone of it. She eats pats of butter, plays backgammon and reads third-rate novels all day; but her eyes are the most magnificent in Europe. She is rich and glitters with Lord Rosebery’s diamonds and talks of King Edward in her deep, well-modulated, aristocratic voice. What a life. A great lady is Maxine.
Norah Lindsay, my adored Norah, 66 and wittier than ever, with her flow of words and rich vocabulary; her sense of beauty and the ridiculous. She has been an influence in my life and in that of many. She is poorer than ever; and supports herself and keeps up Sutton Courtenay by her labours as a professional gardener.
Wednesday, 25th December, 1935.
I got up and went to Honor, who had a stocking for me full of lovely presents. A gold cigarette case marked with election results, very splendid and grand; a gold champagne stirrer from Bundi; a Fabergé lighter from Honor; playing cards from baby Paul. I gave baby Paul a set of cat’s eyes and diamond waistcoat buttons and studs, which were made by Bolin, the famous Russian court jeweller. They belonged to King Peter of Yugoslavia who gave, or left, them to Prince Paul who gave them to me. To Honor I gave a Fabergé (Fabergé is so fashionable now) cigarette case, white and red, and also some pictures for her bedroom at No. 5.
We lunched (so as to give the servants a chance for their party) at the Berkeley Hotel. A few casual acquaintances, among them Ian Campbell-Grey, seemed surprised to see the fashionable Channons lunching at a hotel on Xmas day. No wonder! Hubert, Philip de Janzé, Aileen and Brinsley Plunkett, Brendan Bracken dined: we had the conventional Xmas meal, turkey and mince pies. A successful and happy Xmas. Everyone either called, sent a card (nearly a hundred) or gave us a present – roses from Lord Beaverbrook, slippers from Adele Cavendish. Only Paul of Yugoslavia has sent nothing; but he is usually later.
(To be continued)
Wonderful review of Christmases past, thank you. The casual luxury still staggers, and the character sketches amuse. Touching how he feels the need to record the number of cards received for posterity.
Merry Christmas! I’m off to take my indigestion for a pornographic promenade.