Frances of Warwick

LIFE'S EBB AND FLOW--Frances, Countess of Warwick--Morrow ($5.00).

The Story. The author's father, who was estranged from her grandfather, was a great athlete and a Colonel of the Blues. Once he jumped a horse over a glittering banquet table and never stirred a saucer. Once he rode a bull around a ring in Spain. Upon the death of her grandfather, Viscount Maynard, the author's newly widowed mother went to hear the will read. Surprisingly, Frances was named the heiress. The other relatives present slung pats of butter at grandfather's portrait.

In 1879, Queen Victoria wanted her Leopold to marry Frances, comely and rich. There followed a course of petty intrigues in which Jane Austen would have delighted. In the end Leopold married the lady of his choice and Frances got his equerry, Lord Brooke ("Brookie"). ". . . Owing to an ill-timed attack of measles our wedding did not come off until the following April." With trumpet's clap and liturgy they were wedded in Westminster Abbey, surrounded by people with fairy-book names.

Brookie and Frances led a good life. They knew everybody, they went everywhere; to the Rothschilds' in France, to the Duke of Edinburgh's, to see the Queen in London. At Warwick they kept the castle full of relations and bigwigs, gave sumptuous parties, showed visitors a little elephant that roamed in the house, an ant bear that slept with the Countess.

One evening in 1895 there was revelry in the castle. Outside, the land lay sickening under black frost. A ballroom was remodeled for the party, costing thousands of pounds. The next day Robert Blatchford, in his Clarion, savagely attacked the hostess and her guests for making merry at so desolate a time. Frances went to London indignant, returned thoroughly Blatchfordized. Since then she has established eleemosynary institutions on her estates (Crippled Children's Home, Needlework School at Easton, Bigods School, The College for training women in horticulture). All of them have failed; the benevolent countess has dissipated a large fortune. She now limits her charitable efforts to the preservation of birds and small game.

The Significance. Hierarchical reminiscences are not novel but, in some cases, entertaining. Such is the case with Frances of Warwick's book. Her self-centred, upper-class attitude makes itself pleasant and charming. The Victorian era, now assuming historical prominence, she pictures with fervor and delightful intolerance.

Some conclusions of her long, full life (she is now 67) include: "I prefer their [moderns'] frankness to the old hypocrisy. . . . New York did not impress me. . . . [Lily Langtry was] the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. . . . I cannot pretend to be a judge of my own beauty . . . . When 'they' write my obituary notice, it should be the record of a woman who feverishly designed many things for the betterment of human lives. . . . I regret the passing of the horse. . . ."

Recently Lincoln MacVeagh, president of Manhattan's Dial Press, claimed that Frances of Warwick had contracted five years ago to write her memoirs for him. He sued William Morrow & Co., publishers of Life's Ebb and Flow, for $2,872.13, principal and interest on advance royalties which he declared he had paid Frances at that time. Her London agents promptly quoted her as denying knowledge of any such contract.