Simply de-lovely
Taki
I n his 1935 trip around the world, Cole Porter said he had heard so much about the glorious sunrise over the Rio harbour that he and his wife rose early to go on deck to witness it. There they encountered the great Monty Wooley, who had not been to bed and was slurring his witticisms. When dawn broke, Cole exclaimed, 'It's delightful.' His wife Linda added, 'It's delicious.' And tipsy Monty chimed in with, `It's de-lovely.' (The resultant song became a hit in the musical Red, Hot and Blue.) Well, I sounded like Monty Wooley last Sunday morning — without the wit, that is. But it certainly was all three, delightful, delicious and de-lovely. The Ben Goldsmith, Kate Rothschild wedding, of course.
Strange how our culture nowadays tries to belittle everything, including a love match between two very young and very good-looking people. Is there anything more natural than falling in love while young and getting hitched? Yet some press reports used the word merger, as if Ben cared that Kate was as rich as he is, and vice versa. Why is it that making the most of an attraction for each other is seen as having an ulterior motive by certain members of the Fourth Estate? The only thing I can think of is envy, a Greco-English disease if ever there was one.
H.L. Mencken defined weddings as a device for exciting jealousy in women and terror in men. Mencken, I suppose, was partly right, but he could not have been thinking of Kate and Ben-Ben. What I loved about the wedding and the party that followed was the lack of professional celebrities, girls, and the kind of slob rappers that nowadays are de rigueur in so called society bashes.
Let's take it from the top: St Mary's in Bury St Edmunds is a beautiful mediaeval church, and on Saturday afternoon it was packed with friends of the couple all dressed to the nines. (The 'Ave Maria' was a lovely rendition worthy of Callas.) The crowds that had gathered early gave me a large cheer as I entered — alas, it was meant for Imran Khan whom I was walking next to.
Everything went swimmingly and then it was time for the reception at Rushbrooke Hall, home of the bride. Three connecting tents, a moat, wines worthy of a Rothschild, and terrific fireworks preceded a wonderful speech by Zac Goldsmith. This was a pleasant surprise. It was witty and sweet and did not include the usual bad tasters so common in this day and age. Both the bride and groom lost their fathers early on, and Zac mentioned the fact and how sad everyone felt about their absence. One thing is for sure: Jimmy's presence was palpable. Half the kids there were his own, including Charlotte, his penultimate child, a very young and charming beauty. My biggest thrill was when Wagner came blasting over as the fireworks lit up the sky. I thought of Panzers and Jimmy and all the wonderful times I've had throughout the years, and how this party was bound to be very hard to beat, The trick is the mix, and the perfect mix is 60 per cent young, 40 per cent oldies.
Now I may sound like old Betty Kenward of 'Jennifer's Diary', but one simply cannot be waspish or cynical just for the sake of it. Kate's mother pulled out all the stops, as they say, and everything worked to perfection. Everything except for yours truly. Having missed the Annabel's bash, I decided to make up for it and started early. My big mistake was that I forgot how good the wine was, draining it as if there was no tomorrow. In no time I was gibbering. Long-suffering Jemima Khan, my dinner companion, took it like the lady she is, as did the wonderful daughter of David de Rothschild, Stephanie, to whom I proposed at least ten times. (David and I were friends 40 years ago in Paris, so I'm sure he won't mind.) Then I went and plonked myself next to two ladies, one of whom I was certain was a friend. She turned out to be Maya Schoenburg, sitting with Princess Michael, who, I am told, has been known to be able to get through the day without hearing my name mentioned. She could not have been more pleasant. It was that kind of party. Everyone loved everyone else, except for one old bag whose name I will not mention. Oh yes, and one fat slob. Two out of 600 is pretty good, n'est-ce pas?
The end came suddenly. As dawn broke, I was talking to Rose Hanbury, one of the prettiest and certainly the nicest girl there, when things began to swirl. It could have been love, even lust, but, alas, it was the firewater. As they say, I made my excuses and managed to find refuge somewhere near the moat where I slept like the proverbial 67-year-old baby that I am.
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