There was a wonderful old girl called Alice Roosevelt Longworth. The daughter of the good Roosevelt president, Theodore, she was a formidable Washington political hostess until her nineties. The older she grew, the more fearless she became. By the end, she combined the plain speaking of her Dutch forebears with a wit and sharpness which would have delighted, and intimidated, any salon, anywhere, ever.
She also solved one of the greater minor mysteries of the 20th century. If any two human beings were fated to become staunch friends, it ought to have been Theodore Roosevelt and Winston Churchill. To win the second world war, Churchill had to get on with the lesser Roosevelt, FDR. By the end, the need to appease that Roosevelt’s feline vanities was an enormous strain on a man who was never at ease as a suitor. With the proper Roosevelt, everything should have been much simpler. Physical fearlessness, a grand sweep of intellect, a grandiose vision, grandiloquence: the two had so much in common. Yet Theodore Roosevelt never liked Churchill. (Churchill, securely rooted in his own egotism, probably never noticed.)
Asked to explain the estrangement, the appalling Alice was her usual crisp, concise self. ‘They were too alike.’ She also had a party piece which was especially successful with awkward youngsters whose faroucheness did not preclude social acuity. She would beckon such a one with her hawk’s claw. ‘If you have nothing nice to say about anyone — you come sit by me.’
I thought of her the other day when wondering how to balance truth and hypocrisy. I had been invited to taste some Glenfiddich whisky. There was only one problem. I had long regarded standard-issue Glenfiddich as a girlie-man’s malt: cloying, caramelly, ridiculously sweet — might do if poured over some ice-cream, but not for drinking.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in