The 1911-1921 section of my grandmother’s memoirs is in a single document at home, but I’ve split it into three here for easier reading – and also moved the introductory section to the 1899-1910 section about her early life in Plainfield, where it seemed to fit better.
We pick up the story here with the news of her father’s remarriage to Sally Brooks, who lived across the street; Dorothy’s aunt Lily takes her on holiday to Europe for a year to let her father and stepmother “settle in together”; the one year trip turns into two years, in Paris and then in Rome (where Dorothy moved back to many years later); and then she returns home to disappointment.
Then in the summer of 1911 we were at Hot Springs, my aunt. my grandmother and I. We shared a house with a mother and a daughter who was the same age as I; her name was Letitia and she was a pretty little girl with fair curly hair.
There are a number of locations called Hot Springs in the United States and Canada. I’m inclined to think that this is the one in Virginia, which seems to be the closest to Plainfield. It’s still not very close at all – a six and a half hour drive even today.
One morning we were sitting painting on the verandah when Margaret our maid — we had each brought a maid with us — came to tell me that Aunt Lily wanted to see me. The post had come a short time before and Margaret had taken up my aunt’s letters to her.
The bedroom was almost dark when I went in. The shutters were closed to seep out the sun, and Aunt Lily was lying in bed with no light on, so that I had to grope my way towards her.
Lily Wickersham, known later as Zora and earlier as Ninnie, lived from 1870 to 1956; she was the ninth of her father’s ten children, the third of her mother’s four, three years younger than Dorothy’s mother Rebecca / Ruby. She never married. She will feature repeatedly in the memoirs, as she gave Dorothy an allowance until her marriage. She is buried in the same grave as her mother, her sister, her brother-in-law and her niece Dorothy in Brookwood Cemetery in Surrey; I tracked it down in September 2022, on the day of Queen Elizabeth II’s funeral.
“Darling, I’ve just had a letter to say that Papa is going to marry Mrs. Brooks – you know her well, of course, and I hope they’ll be very happy.”
Mrs.Brooks lived just across the street from us in Plainfield and I was quite fond of her and often ran over to see her; she had two grown-up sons, Ames and Van Wyck; the latter was married and was teaching in California but Ames lived at home; for some reason I used to love to get him to recite Greek poetry of which I didn’t understand a single word, but it was nice just listening to the sounds.
Sarah “Sally” Ames, born in Wisconsin in 1858, married Charles Brooks in Plainfield in 1881 and, as noted above, had two sons. Ames Brooks lived from 1883 to 1931. His brother Van Wyck Brooks, was a Pulitzer prize-winning critic, and lived from 1886 to 1963. Their father Charles Brooks died in 1906, and Sally married Henry Hibbard in 1911. She herself lived to 1946, outliving her second husband by three and a half years.
So at first I was quite pleased, but then suddenly I began to realise what it might mean.
“But will you be there too?” I asked anxiously.
“No, darling, Nama and I will have to go away,” she said, and at that I burst into tears and she held me and tried to make me think it would all be for the best. I don’t think she told me then, and indeed perhaps she hadn’t thought of it herself yet, but she later asked my father if she might take me to Europe for a year; it would give them time to settle down together and my grandmother would like to go.
“Nama” is Dorothy’s maternal grandmother, born Frances Wyatt Belt, who lived from 1837 to 1912. Her courtship with Samuel Morris Wickersham has been chronicled by my cousin Edward “Wick” Hoffmann, here and here.
And my father agreed so that we sailed in the autumn, Aunt Lily and Nama – as I called my grandmother – and I, and of course the invaluable Margaret, who had been my nurse and whom I loved dearly. We landed at Amsterdam and went to Brussels for a few days, and there the Comtesse de Buisseret, who was a great friend of my Aunt Bunnie’s, had engaged rooms for us in a very good hotel; we had a most magnificent suite of which the drawing-room was all crimson and gold. Madame de Buisseret came to see that we were comfortable and I felt very much in awe of her; she was American by birth, but had married a Belgian diplomat who was soon to be the Belgian Ambassador in Moscow.
Caroline Sherman Story (1870-1914) was the daughter of American general John Patten Story, and married Belgian diplomat Conrad de Buisseret (1865-1927) in 1896 – I am a bit puzzled as to how they might have met, because he was posted to Rio de Janeiro at the time. In 1900 he was created a count by the King of the Belgians, and he was known thereafter as Conrad de Buisseret Steenbecque de Blarenghien. The de Buisserets will recur in this narrative.
From there we went to Paris, where I had a governess, whom Madame de B had found; I forget her name, but she was elderly and fussy and had been for years with some paragons of children in England, children in every way preferable to me, I gathered. We had rooms in the Hotel France et Choiseul, and I was taken for walks in the Tuileries, and if it rained we walked along the Rue St.Honoré under the arcades. It rained a good deal, I think, and it wasn’t long before we went south; Mademoiselle left; I think my aunt had found her very difficult, and she was rather old to have a lively child of twelve to look after.
By weird coincidence I visited the Hotel Choiseul Opera, as it now is, in 2010 to meet with a delegation of ministers from South Sudan who were staying there.
That winter we spent at the Grand Hotel at Cimiez, on the hill above Nice. There was a building in the grounds called the Pavillon Victoria, since it had been built for the old queen: we had rooms there on the ground floor, since my grandmother always went out in a wheeled chair, and as there were no steps at the entrance she could easily be pushed into the garden. She must have been ill in Paris; indeed I seem vaguely to remember that we had a nurse there named Miss Young; I expect she had had a stroke. Her memory had almost completely gone, out she was gentle and lovable and always recognised her friends and relations. She had become bald — as I found out one day when the bathroom door had not been locked and I burst in while sne was being helped out of the bath. So she wore a wig and an elaborate cap of ruched tulle.
[1912]
Another governess arrived, younger and a good teacher, though not a very pleasant person. However she soon had me speaking French easily, and that, after all, was the reason for our having her. She was far from attractive, but she was quite convinced that every man who came near her was fascinated by her. Once when Bunnie and her husband Robert Hadfield came to stay at the hotel, Mademoiselle was asked to make up a tennis four with my uncle and two other people; she said to me afterwards that she felt sorry for my aunt who must be jealous. Bunnie, who never played herself, was only too delighted that Robert had found people to give him a game. Even at the age of twelve I realised how absurd the idea of her being jealous was, and I told Aunt Lily and we laughed over it together.
Sir Robert Hadfield (1858-1940) was a British metallurgist based in Sheffield, who invented both manganese steel and silicon steel. He married Frances Belt “Bunnie” Wickersham (1862-1949) in 1894; they had no children, but informally adopted Dorothy in her teens after her father remarried. She wrote at much greater length about them elsewhere.
The flirtatious governess turns up again in 1924, and is given a name: Mlle. Leroy.
All my life I had wanted a dog, but Papa was against it as he said I might be bitten. But Aunt Lily, who had always had dogs herself before she came to live with us, now got a French poodle, Gabriel, and he became my dog in all but name, and I loved him dearly though I bullied him a good deal. Poor Gabriel, he came to a sad end; he got at a box of chocolates wrapped in tinfoil and devoured the lot, but it wasn’t discovered for a day or two and then the vet couldn’t save him; he had lead poisoning and was in pain so that he had to be put down. But that was later, on Lake Como; while we were at Cimiez he and I were almost inseparable.
At Cimiez there were other children to play with, nearly all American children whose families were settled there for the winter. I made the most of that; I had been missing the company of other children. Also, though I did not consciously realise it then, I was no longer so close to Aunt Lily. While we were there there was another old lady with her two daughters; this was Mrs. Rigg with Dollie Sperling and Trottie Rigg; Dollie’s husband was in Malaya, rubber-planting, and he knew my future husband of whose existence I wasn’t then even aware. The two old ladies, Nama and Mrs. Rigg, made friends, and so did their daughters, especially my aunt and Dollie Sperling, though of the two at that age I liked Trottie better, as she paid more attention to me and sometimes took me, with any of the other children I chose to invite, down to Nice to have a gorgeous tea at Rumpelmayers. She also gave me a big white toy dog which I named Trottie after her.
Mrs Rigg was born Mary Selina Davys (1843-1918) in Peterborough, England. She married William Thomas Rigg (1840-1892) in 1864. She would have been 69 in 1912, widowed for twenty years, and was six years younger than “Nama”, Dorothy’s grandmother.
Dollie, her younger daughter Blanche Lucy Rigg (1872-1946), married Frederick Harvey Erskine Sperling, known as Harvey (1868-1921) in 1906. She was two years younger than Zora. She does not seem to have had children.
Trottie, the older daughter Mary Beatrice Rigg (1868-1955), does not seem to have married or had children.
Mrs Rigg had two sons as well, who both appear to have living descendants.
Up to that time Aunt Lily had been wrapped up in me. My mother was her favourite sister, and Lily herself was my godmother, and she once told me that she had promised my mother that whatever happened she, Lily, would look after me. When my mother was dying she said:
“Lily, remember!” and Lily took it to mean to remember her promise to look after me. But now that I was to go back to my father and stepmother before very long, she must have felt bereft, and it was a great thing that she made this new friend; they were to remain devoted friends till Dollie’s death many years later.
One day I ran in from the garden with Gabriel beside me, and there was a placard hanging in front of the hotel desk which said in large letters:
“Titanic sunk with great loss of life.”
In our sitting-room my grandmother was in her wheel chair, with tears rolling down her face. I was rather awe-struck; it all meant very little to me. But to the grown-ups it was a dreadful thing. Since then there have been so many horrors that it is hard to imagine just how people felt then. The Titanic had been supposed to be unsinkable, and on her maiden voyage to New York she was crowded with passengers. The story now is well known; there were not enough life-boats and because of the severe list [the angle of the ship as it sank] not all of them could be launched, and the loss of life was appalling. We had no intimate friends aboard, but there were many people that my aunt and grandmother knew slightly, or at least knew of, and apart from that it was such an unexpected disaster; this wonderful new ship that was intended to survive any possible hazards. Not, though, it seemed, could she survive ramming an iceberg.
That was in April, and soon after that we left for Lake Como. Nama had always wanted to go there, and though her health had deteriorated and Aunt Lily knew that her mother would not survive another stroke, she was determined that Nama should have her wish. So off we set, and the Sperlings came too; by this time Harvey, Dollie’s husband, had joined her, and he had a car with a chauffeur named Prank; the car, painted brown with bright brass fittings, was whimsically called “The Chocolate Soldier.” We went in a hired car as far as Genoa, where we joined them at a hotel and had a day or two of sightseeing; then they went on by car but we took the train, I think that my aunt felt it was less tiring for Nama.
We stayed at the Villa d’Este, but there were no other children there and I had only Gabriel. Mademoiselle didn’t come with us; by that time I was speaking French easily and there was no particular point in keeping her, especially since no one liked her very much. But as a result, with no lessons to do, and no one to play with, I began to get very homesick for America. Margaret was scandalised when I told her that and exclaimed at my ingratitude and was most insistent that I should say nothing to my aunt. Of course I wouldn’t have done that anyway, but I went on longing for all the things I missed so much, my playmates and my toys, and also my father, whom I loved dearly.
After a very few days my grandmother died of another stroke, but at least she had had those days sitting at the window looking over the blue lake add murmuring gently how beautiful it was. Then one morning when Margaret was just bringing her breakfast she collapsed and was dead before Lily could get to her, though she was just in the next room.
Dorothy doesn’t do much introspection, but let’s just reflect that she lost her mother suddenly aged six and was then in the next room when her grandmother died six years later.
Lily was heart-broken, and so was Bunnie, who came from London as soon as she heard the news. It was decided that Nama would be buried in the Hadfield plot at Brookwood, near London, and Lily and I went back with Bunnie; my grandmother’s body had been embalmed and must have been or the same train, I imagine. I wasn’t allowed to see her, nor did I go to the funeral in England; Instead I was sent to stay with the Buists, great friends of Bunnie’s, who had a girl six years younger than I, and a baby boy, and two older sons. Marion Buist, who was herself American by birth, was the first person I had met to whom I could talk of my homesickness and who sympathized and said it was not only natural but that she herself would have felt the same.
Marion Carruthers Smythe (1875-1953) married Frederick Braid Buist né Sparks (1861-1946) 1894. Their oldest son was Colin (1896-1981); Dorothy’s recollection of the youngest, Malcolm (1913-1965) as a baby in mid-1912 must be incorrect as he was not born until a year later. Their daughter was Diana Hermione Frances Buist (1906-2000). I have not been able to find the name of the middle son, nor do I know why the father changed his surname from Sparks to Buist.
Then we went back to Lake Como and there we stayed till it was decided to make for Florence.
Just before we left Gabriel was ill, but I was told that the vet would cure him, and I went off fairly happily in the little brown car, with the Sperlings and my aunt; the maids – Dollie Sperling had a maid named Nellie, and we of course had our dear Margaret – would go by train, and bring Gabriel with them. But alas the vet had said that he could do nothing and the dog was in pain and the kindest thing was to end his suffering at once; I wasn’t told that for some time. How we all packed into that little car I don’t know, but somehow we did, and reached Florence safely. The room I had in the hotel had furniture which was painted white and which I reminded me of my room at home and I was looking forward eagerly to September when I was to go back to America. But Florence was interesting, and I loved the art galleries, especially the Uffizi; at that time Andrea del Sarto was my favourite painter and I went again and again to look at the Madonna of the Harpies.
From Florence we went to Perugia, where Harvey Sperling’s sister, Lettice, lived with her Italian husband; their name was Moro.
Dorothy has the wrong sister here, and has mangled the Italian surname. Mary Lettice Sperling (1865-1943) was married to Richard Temple West (I think the churchman of that name who lived 1827-1893); her sister Rachel Sperling (1863-1948) was married to the Italian general Prospero Marro (1854-1949).
We stayed in an hotel, but lunched with them, and of course went to Assisi. Then on to Rome, to stay at the Quirinale for a few days, and then to Naples; from there I was to sail, presumably with Lily, though she didn’t at all want to leave her new friends, nor did she want to go to America again just then. Of course she never told me any of this, and I was glad to be going home with her. If I’d known what home was going to be like I wouldn’t have been quite so eager, but I didn’t know. Anyway, in the end, we didn’t sail from Naples. Aunt Lily had written to my father asking to seep me a bit longer, and he agreed. So we all went back to Rome for the winter. Harvey Sperling had left, but Dollie and her companion, Lily and I and our maids all stayed at the Quirinale and I was sent to school at the Trinità dei Monti, as I spoke French, and at that time all the teaching there was in French, and we weren’t allowed to speak anything else. Every morning Margaret walked with me there, and at the top of the steps we paused and looked over the city towards St. Peter’s – that view doesn’t seem very different now from what it was then, although so many other views have changed.
One of Dorothy’s classmates at Trinita dei Monti was Flora Marie Alice Louise “Babs” Ryan (1899-1992); she was the first cousin of Dorothy’s future husband, my grandfather., though of course my grandparents would have been unaware of each others’ existence in 1916. I am indebted to Desmond Ryan for letting me know of a photograph taken iin Rome half a century later, with the former schoolmates Dorothy and Babs, with their slightly older friend Tattens Downie, all meeting Pope John XXIII. Tattens Downie’s son Alastair was to marry Dorothy’s daughter, my aunt Ursula, in 1985.
There are photographs in Dorothy’s archives of a visit to Pompeii in winter 1912 with Ninnie/Zora, the Sperlings and a Nancy Ponton, but there is no mention of such a visit in her typed memoirs.
Then somehow I got jaundice, and there was no more school for me. It was a tiresome business; I was fed chiefly on Benger’s food and have hated it ever since. By Christmas I was up and about, and then it was hardly worth my starting school again as we were so soon going north, so I had a governess to take me for walks and talk French with me; she was Italian but spoke fluent French. She was a staunch Royalist and told me a lot about the Royal family. Rome was so picturesque in those days, with the guard at the palace being changed with great ceremony – sometimes the new guard was composed of Bersaglieri trotting up the hill with their cock’s feathers waving. All the different officers of different branches of the army had long cloaks. There was pale blue and royal blue and, I think, scarlet; the cloaks were very striking against the mellow stone of the old buildings. Then there were the German seminarists with their scarlet cassocks, and the Scots College with purple; so much colour! Traffic was almost completely composed of horse drawn vehicles; cars were still quite rare and also not very dependable. All chauffeurs had to be able to do minor repairs.
[1913]
I loved going about and seeing all I could; really I knew more then about artists and their works than I have ever known since. As I wasn’t allowed to go alone, and as most of the grown-ups had seen all they wanted to see, I usually got Margaret and Nellie to go with me, and dragged them all over Rome, but they liked it, or so they said. The daughter of the English doctor in Rome, Muriel Brock, was about the only child I ever saw except for the girls at the Trinità, and I never saw any of them outside of school. Sometimes I rode in the gardens of the Villa Borghese with Muriel; for that I had to wear a divided skirt and ride astride; to my indignation the riding-master kept me on a leading-rein, though I had already ridden a good deal at Hot Springs; always side-saddle, though, as Bunnie thought I should learn like that. Once at least we rode with another girl who was Italian but whose mother was American; she hated the idea of being half American and insisted in talking only Italian with Muriel, though she spoke perfect English.
George Sandison Brock (1858-1949) was not English but Scottish, and a long-term resident of Rome, and was decorated by both the Italian and British governments for his medical work in the First World War. Muriel Alice Brock (1900-1939) was his daughter by his second wife Lily Maria Butler (1865-1923).
Sometime in the spring we went north to Florence, and from there I went to London with Nancy Ponton, Dollie’s companion, and then Bunnie, who was going to New York, took me with her. I was very much thrilled at going home after such a long time, though the parting with Aunt Lily was a wrench. But I thought that once back at home I would have all my own friends again and lead the same sort of life I had led before. However things were to be very different.
Papa met me at the boat and took me back to Plainfield. On the way he told me that we were going out for dinner that night to some people whom I didn’t know, Mr and Mrs Ivins; I had so much been looking forward to an evening at home, telling of all my adventures and hearing all the home news; of course we had often written but talking was so much better. It seems a small thing now, but it brought home to me at once the realization tint everything had changed and my step-mother was at the helm. One mistake that was made was that I had to call her Mamma, as I had called my own mother. Lyman refused, and always called her “Mother” but for some reason I had to call her Mamma, and I always resented it; to my aunts I talked of her as Sally. I disliked that first evening, though the Ivins were a nice family and probably if l’d known them before I should have been quite pleased to see them again. They had a son about my age, and his mother and Sally thought it might be nice for us to be friends, but we disliked each other from the first.
The Ivins family seem likely to be DeWitt Clinton Ivins (1853-1919) and his wife born Louise Morton Fox (1861-1926). They had three children, the youngest indeed Dorothy’s age – Charles Fox Ivins (1989-1980), who went into the military in the end – but the other two much older. In the 1910 census they lived at 18b Hillside Avenue, fifteen minutes walk from the Hibbards on Seventh Street. His profession is given as contractor in the land-filling industry.
[Uploaded 2 June 2024]