Authors: Paul Spicer
For Alice, this must have been a period of extraordinary heartbreak and confusion. She was a thirteen-year-old, on the brink of puberty, accustomed to her father’s affection and indulgences. She would have been oblivious to the questionable morality of her relationship with William. She only knew she adored this man who had been the one constant in her life since the loss of her mother. Now Alice was sent to live with relatives whom she barely knew, in unfamiliar surroundings. Although William was far from an ideal parent, the effect of this severance on Alice was dramatic and damaging. She went from being the object of her father’s constant attention and care to being a complete exile from his presence and love. It's no wonder that as an adult Alice could react with astonishing violence when the men in her life threatened to leave her.
It was left to Aunt Tattie, Alice’s legal guardian, to look after her, to arrange for her to be educated, and to prepare her for adulthood. Aunt Tattie had no children of her own and no experience of child rearing. Although she was a kindly and well-meaning woman, she hoped to fashion her young charge into an obedient debutante, someone who would slip easily into Chicago’s elite circles. Alice had other ideas. She was entirely accustomed to a life lived on her own terms and did not adapt well to the limits imposed on her by her aunt’s vision. Doubtless exasperated, Aunt Tattie thought it best to send Alice away to boarding school. Alice was uprooted again, sent this time to Mount Vernon Seminary, a school for girls in Washington, D.C. A nonsectarian private school, it had been founded in 1875 by Elizabeth Somers. (The school has since been absorbed into George Washington University.) Alice stayed at Mount Vernon for the next four years. As a student, she excelled at English, and began to develop an interest in writing, publishing short stories and verses in the school’s magazine. One of her poems, which appeared in the Mount Vernon Seminary magazine in 1917—the year that the United States entered World War I—gives us an insight into her state of mind at this time.
The Storm
BY
A
LICE
S
ILVERTHORNE
A chill light shines in the sullen sky
With an angry sulphurous glow.
And a sharp wind sifts
Through the mountain rifts,
And whirls the leaves in eddying drifts,
To die on the earth below.
The grim-voiced winds are approaching fast,
Lean clouds slink out of the sky.
And a terror reigns
Amid the hurricanes
That whip the trees with the lash of rains
As the storm goes sweeping by.
So when you come, like the great red storm,
My cares, like the clouds, flee too.
And my heart leaps high,
With a happy cry,
Toward the turbulent blue of the wind-streaked sky,
Swept free of the clouds by you!
The poetry, although obviously amateur in nature, reveals a troubled sensibility and an intense longing in Alice. By the age of sixteen, she had suffered the death of her mother, separation from her father, and displacement on a number of occasions. It is hard to imagine that such a headstrong personality, who was used to being constantly appeased, would have adapted easily to the structured environment of a traditional girls boarding school. In her poem, when she longs for the clouds to be “swept free,” it is easy to interpret this as a cry for help to her father, whose leniency she must have sorely missed.
In fact, the turbulent weather Alice described in her poem had a direct correlation in her emotional life. Around the time of “The Storm,” she attempted suicide. Patsy Chilton—the former wife of Dr. Roger Bowles, who served as a part-time doctor to Alice in Kenya and who knew her well between 1938 and 1941—remembers being told by an American friend that Alice had tried to slash her wrists as a young girl at school. The attempt may have been simply a cry for help, inspired by the hope that her father would come to her rescue. There is no doubt that Alice was lonely and missing William during this period of her life, but it is also likely that she was already suffering from cyclothymia, a strain of bipolar disorder, or manic depression, which would afflict her for the rest of her life. It is extremely common for sufferers of this disease to first experience its symptoms during adolescence, at which point stress or trauma can easily trigger its alternating periods of lows and highs. Although Alice’s attempt to kill herself failed, it had an immediate impact on her life. Shortly afterward, she was taken out of the school and went to live with Aunt Tattie in Chicago.
Alice was now seventeen years old, extremely pretty, and advanced for her years. At Aunt Tattie’s, she quickly made a new friend, her cousin, the debutante Lolita Armour. Two years older than Alice and already a minor celebrity in Chicago, a young woman whose every appearance was reported in the newspaper gossip columns, Lolita was immediately attracted to her troubled but highly attractive younger cousin. Lolita’s mother, Mrs. J. Ogden Armour, was a patron of music and the arts and spent the war years raising money and helping to boost the morale of the troops. Alice was enlisted to help with the war effort by selling programs at charity events, knitting hats and scarves for the soldiers, and serving tea and coffee at church functions. Lolita also began introducing Alice to Chicago’s debutante circles, filling her in on all the latest gossip and goings-on among the most fashionable families in the city. Despite Alice’s recent difficulties, she found she socialized easily and, thanks to her good looks, was an appealing new presence on the Chicago scene. She was given her own “coming out” ball, after which she was quickly invited to all the good parties and social occasions, attracting the attentions of many of the city’s well-to-do young men in the process. Alice was now a full-fledged member of the Chicago elite. She served as bridesmaid at many of the Armour and Chapin family weddings during this time and appears in formal photographs, an especially attractive girl with a pout. She soon began to outshine all the other debutantes, even her cousin Lolita.
A newspaper illustration from her debutante years shows Alice’s early beauty to great effect. In the picture, her distinctive wide-set almond-shaped eyes are enhanced with mascara, kohl, and shadow. Her lips—painted and defined—form a perfect bow. Her hair is bobbed and waved, worn to one side, giving her the look of a silent film star, a Clara Bow or a Louise Brooks. Even at such a young age, her gaze in the illustration is assured rather than demure (if perhaps a little sullen). Now in her late teens, Alice had already learned to use her eyes in a highly seductive way, and she had no trouble getting the young men of Chicago to notice her: She would bow her head and look up, without diverting her gaze from the object of her attentions, allowing her suitor to talk, and continuing to look at him while inclining her head from side to side, giving herself an air of wonderment. This technique was highly effective and became a trademark with Alice. She was also nearsighted, but she rarely wore glasses, which gave her gray eyes an especially dreamy expression. Another distinctive feature was her voice, which, by late adolescence, was already lowering in tone. She had a ready and captivating laugh, and threw her head back as she did so. The only aspect of her physical appearance with which she struggled was her hair; it was thick, curly, and hard to control. She changed her hairstyle numerous times during her youth and adulthood, sometimes parting it down the middle, other times braiding it into buns on either side of her head. With the help of a maid or hairdresser she achieved the most glamorous effect by straightening her hair so that it was either sleek against her head or loose around her shoulders.
Initially, Alice enjoyed the attention she received at parties and in the press, but as she became more accustomed to the Chicago social whirl, she quickly began to tire of it. She possessed an adventurous spirit and hated to be placed in a box. Evidently, she was frustrated by the restrictions and unspoken codes of the debutante lifestyle, where she could barely move without being spotted and recognized. This was a somewhat shallow world ruled by somewhat shallow people who placed enormous value on the “right” makeup and clothes, and who cared most of all about whom you were seen with and where you had gone for dinner the previous night. No end of effort was made to look attractive. Chicago debutantes were known to take the train to New York just to have their faces, hair, eyebrows, and lips made up by Elizabeth Arden on Fifth Avenue before dashing back to Chicago in time to get dressed for the next ball. Alice, a natural beauty, had no such compulsion. She began to find the rounds of debutante parties unspeakably dull. It was at this point in her life that Alice began to explore Chicago’s seamier sides.
The novelist F. Scott Fitzgerald dubbed the decade to follow the “Jazz Age,” but Chicago was ahead of the game. In 1918 and 1919, when Alice began to frequent Chicago’s nightclubs, jazz was helping to create a new atmosphere of postwar optimism and liberation that crossed racial and class boundaries. Partygoers were unhindered by Prohibition, which would begin in 1920. Alice learned to hold her liquor and loved to dance until the early hours. She was moving away from her elite circle and beginning to explore her identity outside of her family and their expectations for her. She was also meeting some decidedly shady characters. Organized crime was rife in Chicago. James “Big Jim” Colosimo, the most powerful mobster in the city, ran “the Outfit,” as it was known. His gang of Irish, Italian, Jewish, and Greek cohorts controlled the fourteen gangland districts of the city and all of the vice, gambling, and labor racketeering. When Al Capone fled Brooklyn in 1919 for Chicago, it was to join Colosimo’s ranks. Jazz clubs like the Green Mill, where Alice was a regular, were the places where the leading mobsters went to socialize and operate.
Around this time, rumors began to circulate that Alice was stepping out with a good-looking man of Italian descent with a doubtful reputation. The mobster in question has never been named, but later in life Alice spoke of him to her friend Margaret Spicer. This unnamed character couldn’t have been Al Capone, because he arrived for the first time in Chicago in 1919 (at which point he was newly married to an Irish girl baptised Mary but known as Mae), but there were plenty of other candidates. Whatever the exact identity of this new boyfriend, Uncle Sim and Aunt Tattie were, quite naturally, alarmed. It was feared that the gang member in question might begin to exert pressure on the wealthy Armour and Chapin families. Worse, the sensitive Alice could be dragged into a mire of criminality. Alice was popular with all her relations, who felt, quite rightly, that she was vulnerable. What’s more, she had recently come into her inheritance, and although the exact degree of her wealth is unknown, it is assumed she was worth several million dollars. In order to put some distance between Alice and the growing scandal, Uncle Sim and Aunt Tattie decided that the best course of action was to remove Alice from Chicago for a time. Aunt Tattie had an apartment in Paris, so it was decided that Alice should be taken there immediately.
Alice arrived in Paris with Aunt Tattie early in 1920, a few months before her twenty-first birthday. The two women installed themselves in Aunt Tattie’s apartment, close to the Bois de Boulogne, at 115, rue de la Pompe, from which Alice could explore the city. Paris had rebounded from World War I in spectacular style. The cafés of Montparnasse were awash with artists, composers, poets, and writers. In the city’s
bals musettes
and nightclubs, the strains of the same jazz music that Alice had loved in Chicago could be heard. Alice took to the city immediately. She was young and adventurous, keen to assert herself beyond the limited role established for her by her family. Aunt Tattie had friends who ran a small fashion house called Arnot in rue Saint-Florentin, near la place de la Concorde. Alice had always loved dresses and was already showing an excellent eye for fashion, and so Monsieur Arnot employed her as his head manageress in the shop and enlisted her help on buying trips. This was Alice’s first job and her first taste of an identity for herself as a woman with her own career and interests. The 1920s were an exciting time to be involved in dress design: These were the interwar years, a time of regeneration and abundance, and those in the fashion industry were taking full advantage of the new and exuberant mood. Waistlines were dropping, hems were rising, and corsets were being cast off. Alice thoroughly enjoyed the time she spent working at Arnot. During the day she worked, but in the evenings she socialized, eating in the best restaurants, mixing with artists and local celebrities, and visiting nightclubs and late-night bars, always dressed exquisitely.
Then, just as Alice began to take flight, she was brought quickly back down to earth. She was about to meet the man she was going to marry.
I
N
M
AY
1921, A
LICE
S
ILVERTHORNE WAS INTRODUCED
to Count Frédéric de Janzé in a Paris antique shop. She was twenty-one. Frédéric was twenty-five. The count was tall and good-looking, with acutely blue eyes. A sensitive man and an intellectual, he read voraciously, wrote a daily journal, and later published autobiographical works in the guise of fiction. Alice’s obvious sense of style and her American manners and accent immediately set her apart from the other women of Frédéric’s acquaintance. It is possible that even from their first meeting he detected in her a rare combination of fragility and brazenness that appealed to his romantic nature.
Frédéric was born on February 28, 1896, in Paris, the elder son of Count François Louis Léon de Janzé and Moya de Janzé, née Hennessy. The family’s nobility originated in 1815, when the first count de Janzé, a lawyer from Brittany, was given his title by Louis XVIII after he helped the duke de Rohan safeguard his considerable power and wealth in the aftermath of the 1789 revolution. The title was passed down to Frédéric via his uncle, Count Albert de Janzé. Frédéric also had strong American connections on his maternal side. His mother, born Moya Hennessy, was from a well-connected Irish-American family in Connecticut—her own mother was Charlotte Mather, a descendant of Increase Mather, the American Puritan minister and father of the influential author and minister Cotton Mather. The young Moya had met the count de Janzé on a trip to France, and after their marriage, the couple settled at the de Janzé ancestral estate, Château de Parfondeval, in Normandy. Their two sons, Frédéric and Henri, both inherited the title of viscount at birth, and after the death of their father in 1921, Frédéric, being the elder, took on the title of count.
Frédéric grew up in Paris but attended Cambridge University, where he read English literature and discovered a proclivity for writing prose and poetry in English. Thanks to his time as a student, he spoke English with barely a hint of a French accent. He left Cambridge in the early part of World War I to serve as an officer in the French air force. By 1917, he had been appointed aide-de-camp to Maréchal Lyautey in Morocco, but after contracting malaria, he was sent back to Paris to convalesce. On his return, Frédéric continued to pursue his interests. He frequented literary circles and developed close friendships with Marcel Proust, Maurice Barrès, and Anna de Noailles. He also became romantically involved with an American girl. On March 31, 1918, the
New York Times
reported his engagement to a twenty-three-year-old nurse from New Jersey by the name of Ruth Fiske, whom he had met during his stay at the Astoria Hospital in Paris. After much pressure from his mother, who believed that a “mere” nurse was an unsuitable bride for the viscount, he was persuaded to call off the engagement. Moya de Janzé had clear ambitions for her son. She wanted him to marry well, preferably a wealthy heiress who could help restore the de Janzés’ crumbling estate and fortunes.
Moya liked Alice from their first meeting, not only for her money but also for her style and liveliness. An immediate bond was formed between these two women who spoke the same language and came from the same part of the world. Moya vigorously encouraged Frédéric’s courtship of Alice Silverthorne, although it was doubtful that he needed too much persuasion. Frédéric was already smitten with the beautiful American heiress. Alice’s enthusiasm for the count was more muted, but she was intrigued. Frédéric was likable, shy, and unassuming but also clever and charming. The new couple complemented each other. She was the poor little rich girl from Chicago; he was the elegant, sophisticated aristocrat from Europe. He was timid; she was bold. She lacked constancy; he provided stability. Both parties were aware that the outside world deemed this to be a “good match.” He would bring aristocratic credibility to the marriage, while she would provide him with her considerable wealth. But although there was a degree of affinity between the two—and certainly a good deal of eagerness on the part of Frédéric—it seems passion was never a major feature in their relationship. They were, from the beginning, excellent friends.
With Moya's encouragement, Frédéric pursued Alice in earnest. He escorted her to restaurants and nightclubs. He introduced her to members of his aristocratic and literary French set and met her wealthy American expatriate crowd in return. During the summer of 1921, Alice accepted an invitation by her old friends from Chicago, the Spauldings, to go on a motoring tour in the south of France. By the time they had reached Biarritz a fortnight later, Frédéric was waiting there with a marriage proposal. Alice accepted and wired Aunt Tattie in Chicago with the news. Alice’s aunt was delighted. Like Moya, she agreed that Frédéric and Alice were an excellent match, evidently approving of the count’s aristocratic credentials. The engagement was announced on August 10, 1921, in the
Chicago Daily Tribune.
“Interest in the announcement is not lessened by the fact that it has been expected daily,” it reported, “rumors of the young Viscomte’s attachment to Miss Silverthorne having reached Chicago society some time ago.”
Aunt Tattie hurried to arrange the wedding, which she insisted should take place in Chicago. For her part, Alice was stipulating that she wanted to be married by the end of September, in only a few weeks’ time. It appears that Alice’s haste to marry had less to do with her eagerness to become the countess de Janzé and more to do with her fear that she would change her mind. On the one hand, she wanted to marry Frédéric, as this was her chance to escape from Aunt Tattie and her family. On the other hand, she wasn’t in love with Frédéric and she knew it. It is possible that Alice’s reaction also had to do with fear of her wedding night. She was almost certainly a virgin—young girls of Alice’s background and upbringing were allowed to be flirtatious and sexy to the point where kissing and heavy petting were permitted, but it went no further. Virginity was prized and essential for marriage, which meant that Alice was most probably completely inexperienced. The thought of going to bed with Frédéric may have been extremely alarming to her, especially as she did not find him particularly attractive. On two separate occasions she told Aunt Tattie that she wanted to pull out. Pat Silverthorne, Alice’s half sister, remembers Alice’s tantrums during this period and poor Aunt Tattie’s exasperation as a result.
Alice’s trepidation and ambivalence continued, but the engine of the wedding had been set in motion and could not be stopped. In order for Alice—who was Presbyterian—to marry in a Catholic church to a Catholic man, she had to be given Catholic instruction. Father Casey and Father Shannon of East Lakeview, a section of Chicago, carried this out in some haste. Father Casey informed Alice that any children of the union were to become Catholic and they must be baptised as Catholics. By now, the invitations and guest list had been agreed upon, the church was booked, and Frédéric and his family were already in New York, preparing for their journey to Chicago. On their arrival, even the aristocratic de Janzés would have been impressed by the vast means of the Armour and Chapin families, and by Aunt Tattie’s lavishly appointed home.
The wedding took place as planned on September 21, 1921, at five in the afternoon at the Church of Our Lady of Mount Carmel in East Lakeview. It was a small but elegant affair. Guests included various Armour and Chapin family members as well as some notable society friends. Alice looked the picture of sophistication in a white satin gown with a court train and bouquet of lilies. Her floor-length veil was made from lace that had been her mother’s and was held in place with a band of medieval pearls. The matron of honor was Alice’s cousin Lolita Armour, who wore a simple beige gown of satin and a hat of brown velvet. Her two bridesmaids were her cousin Elizabeth Chapin and a friend, Mary Baker. Following the ceremony, there was a small reception at Aunt Tattie’s lakeside Chicago apartment on Sheridan Road. The event was reported in the
Chicago Daily Tribune
alongside a photograph of the newlyweds. Although Alice looks stunning in her long gown and veil, there is little evidence of the exuberance or radiance that is normally associated with a bride on her wedding day. In fact, Alice looks positively morose.
Although Alice’s stepmother, Louise, traveled to Chicago for the occasion, William Silverthorne was not invited to his daughter’s wedding. In her father’s absence, it was left to Uncle Sim to give Alice away. Did Alice appeal to her Armour and Chapin relatives to allow William to attend? She had long since come of age, and was about to become a newly married woman, therefore possessing a newfound degree of independence. She could have requested that he be invited. In fact, there is every possibility that she simply did not want William there. In the coming years, Alice did not attempt to reconcile with her errant father, and it seems that, for whatever reason, William was disinclined to play an active part in his daughter’s life. Since his separation from Alice, he had continued with his business interests, experimenting in patenting various inventions, including new pour-outs for bottles and ways of treating paper to make it waterproof; he was also instrumental in developing several mining prospects in Canada. Alice and William certainly corresponded during the ensuing years, but they would rarely meet. Their estrangement, if not complete, was effective.
After the wedding, Alice and Frédéric spent two weeks at the Armour house on Long Island. There is a photograph of Alice from this time that can still be found in the de Janzé family albums at their ancestral estate, Château de Parfondeval, in Normandy. She is sitting cross-legged on a rumpled bed at the house on Long Island, wearing nothing but her nightdress, big windowpane reading glasses on her nose. On her face is a look of wry bemusement, an expression that seems to be saying, “Is that all? What a big fuss over nothing!” If Alice had been at all nervous about marriage and the necessity of entering into a sexual relationship with Frédéric, then her timidity soon turned to disappointment. While Frédéric was clearly very attracted to Alice, his new wife could not return the compliment, and in all likelihood, the consummation of their marriage was a tepid affair. Frédéric was an instinctive gentleman, only a little more experienced than his new wife, someone who would never be able to match the powerful masculinity and sexual chemistry Alice later enjoyed with subsequent lovers.
Nonetheless, the newlyweds were about to become very happy traveling companions. They set sail for France on October 5, 1921, en route to Morocco, where they would spend most of the winter. Frédéric had been stationed in North Africa during the war and was keen to show his new wife around. Since the cessation of hostilities, Morocco had begun to be a popular tourist destination, and the de Janzés stayed in five-star hotels, visiting the cities of Agadir, Casablanca, and Rabat, as well as smaller outlying townships. They wandered through the rabbit-warren streets of the Marrakesh souk, absorbing the sights and smells of saffron, orange flower, almonds, dates, and olives, bargaining with the vendors for leather goods, carpets, and ceramics. They marveled at the colorful medieval city of Fez and the historical wonders of Tangiers. They visited the Sarhro Mountains and took a short drive through the Sahara Desert to see the sand dunes in Merzouga, where Alice drank mint tea and ate some of the best olives, dates, and nuts she had ever tasted. Significantly, Morocco provided Alice with her first experience of Africa; it was during her honeymoon that she first became intoxicated by this vast and diverse continent, its raw energy, and the untamed spectacle of its landscapes. The Moroccan trip marked the beginning of a love affair with the continent, a place that was to play both blessed savior and cruel destroyer in her life.
Upon their return to Paris, Alice discovered that she was pregnant. Both the de Janzés and the Armour and Chapin families were delighted with this news, as was Frédéric. It is likely that Alice was more circumspect. She was a young woman with a penchant for freedom, and it’s highly possible just the idea of motherhood would have made her feel weighted down. There is no doubt that this woman who adored French fashions found the physical changes of pregnancy to be both unpleasant and unbecoming. What’s more, she was someone whose own mother had died at an early age. The process of becoming a parent was fraught with unresolved emotion and feelings of loss for Alice. While her new husband and relatives happily made plans for the baby’s arrival, Alice retreated, cutting herself off from those around her and from the inevitability of what was about to take place.
For the time being, at least she could distract herself with the matter of where she was going to live. Aunt Tattie had invited the newlyweds to move into her apartment in rue de la Pompe, in the fashionable and elegant sixteenth arrondissement. Frédéric’s mother, Moya Hennessy, urged them to come to Parfondeval, the de Janzés’ country home in Normandy. But Alice and Frédéric were keen to maintain a modicum of autonomy. With Aunt Tattie’s help, they opted to pool their resources and buy an apartment of their own in the rue Spontini, not far from the rue de la Pompe. For Alice, Paris was unquestionably the preferred option to Normandy. She had many friends in Paris and knew her way around; there were parties to attend, places to go shopping, and a lifestyle to maintain. Despite the fact that she was expecting a baby, she was not yet ready to give up her urban existence for the isolation of the northern French countryside.
Alice’s first child, Nolwen Louise Marie Alice, was born in Paris on June 20, 1922. Mother and baby both recovered quickly from the birth. A suitable nanny was found, and after only a few weeks of respite, Alice went on with social life in much the same way as she had before Nolwen’s arrival. From the beginning, Alice found it difficult to bond with her daughter. After the baby’s birth, the dark moods that had first plagued Alice in adolescence returned, and she may have blamed motherhood for their reemergence. No wonder she was keen to step out of her new maternal role, continuing to define herself as a social and independent creature. For Frédéric’s part, although he had long suspected that Alice might be somewhat unstable, he had secretly hoped that a child might cure her of her sadnesses. He loved Alice and was determined to support her in whatever she wanted to do, but he was also disappointed to discover that the birth of their first child had failed to revive her spirits. On the contrary, the arrival of Nolwen seemed to have made her more prone to withdrawal, and her estrangement from the baby disappointed him greatly.