Glamis Castle
Among the high points of a recent cinematic rampage, during
which I saw more first-run films in a fortnight than I am used to seeing within
a three year period, Michael Fassbender’s Macbeth
was conspicuous. Filming Shakespeare is
a tricky business. Far too many
directors try to compete with Shakespeare rather than to amplify him with the technical
magic they command; but here I found a nearly perfect symbiosis of word and
image, as well as superb acting in two of the hardest roles ever invented by
genius to test talent. The camera could
present as powerfully as the Bard himself the harsh topography and even harsher
built environment of that ancient Scotland of the poet’s imagination. The Glamis Castle of the Fassbinder film is a
dark and gloomy heap of Pharaonic ashlar set in a wilderness of moorland. The film gives generous license to the
imagination, but mine was drawn back only as far as the winter of 1959.
Marion Cotillard, Michael Fassbender in cinematic Macbeth
When I
arrived in Oxford in the autumn of 1958, England was in the last stages of a
postwar austerity that had lasted more than a decade. There was still bomb damage to be seen in
London. Other vestiges of the war
mentality included a popular pro-Americanism that seems amazing in
retrospect. There were several
institutions, including a very active English Speaking Union, designed to keep
fresh the spirit of “Hands Across the Water.”
One particular organization whose bounty I enjoyed was the Dominions
Fellowship Trust. This charitable
organization was the interwar brainchild of two formidable grandes dames, Lady Frances Ryder and “Miss Macdonald of the
Isles”, who though she operated out of a house in Cadogan Square in London, was
a prominent member of the Clan Macdonald of Sleat from the Isle of Skye. The original brief of the DFT was, I think,
to extend hospitality to students from the Antipodes temporarily resident in
British universities.
During
World War II the focus changed to Allied military officers, especially American
and Canadian airmen in need of rest and relaxation between harrowing bombing missions. The DFT coordinated a network of big houses
in England, Scotland, and Ireland, whose civilian owners graciously offered
hospitality to their Anglophone comrades in arms. The war ended, but the Dominions Fellowship
Trust continued. The focus was once
again foreign university students, and especially Rhodes Scholars. There are very long vacations between Oxford terms. I suppose the thinking was that the closest
thing to a shell-shocked bombardier was an American undergraduate faced with a
plateful of Spotted Dick.
I was
invited by Warden Williams of Rhodes House, who had been the general officer in
charge of intelligence for Montgomery in his duels with Rommel in North Africa,
to look into this scheme of stately home hopping. I suggested that I’d
like to make a specialty of Scotland.
This very much pleased Miss Macdonald of the Isles, who interviewed me
personally, and sent me off for R and R at huge and frigid piles of stone
belonging to her most trusted Trusters all over Caledonia. My special friend and frequent hostess was
Betty Sitwell of Lennel House of Coldstream, Berwickshire. Betty was some kin to the famous and
famously eccentric literary Sitwells. We
really hit it off, and there was always a table full of Evelyn Waugh characters
talking about things I didn’t understand, laughing at jokes I didn’t get, and
gossiping about people I had never heard of—all of which made me feel very
important indeed. I regret that as the
years passed and I succumbed to Real Life, I lost all contact with Betty
Sitwell. The carelessness of youth is
simply mind-boggling. Much later I
learned that Lennel House had in 1995 become a continuing care facility. I also
enjoyed the hospitality of a wonderful house called Shewglie in the minor
metropolis of Drumnadrochit, practically atop Loch Ness.
Lennel House, Coldstream
But the
anecdote around which this post is built began at a house I no longer remember
very clearly, except that it was near Arbroath, on the Scottish east
coast. It was a rather Jamesian place
with two permanent residents—an elderly, wealthy widow woman and her equally
elderly servant woman. One day my
hostess asked me if I wouldn’t like to visit Glamis Castle, where the Queen
spent a happy childhood. Within seconds
of hearing my affirmative response she was on the phone talking with her friend
the Countess, at Glamis Castle. That
would be the Countess of Strathmore, who at that time was a delightful
red-haired Irish woman who was, I was told by the gossipy servant, considerably
younger than her husband the Earl, whom she had met when he was a hospital
patient and she a nurse. (Think of Tom,
the Irish chauffeur at Downton Abbey).
My stay at
Arbroath fell in the winter vacation, when at that latitude darkness descends
at about three in the afternoon, and our tour of the nooks and crannies of
Glamis required the use of several “torches” (flashlights). The inchoate, rapidly changing shadows
contributed significantly to the creep factor as the red-headed Countess, who
was in great shape, raced us, puffing, through turrets and stairwells and
dungeons. Now in coarse historical fact
most of these buildings at Glamis dated from the seventeenth century. Furthermore the historical Macbeth had
nothing to do with Glamis Castle any more than he had much to do with most of
the stuff in Shakespeare. As usual,
Shakespeare was getting his material from Holinshead, who was a stern moralist
rather than an even vaguely accurate historian. Still, I was prepared to see the ghost of
Banquo at the top of every breathless flight, and perhaps even Macbeth himself
muttering “…I know I am the thane of Glamis; but how of Cawdor?...”
Lady Frances Ryder, founder of the Dominions Fellowship Trust (National Portrait Gallery, London)
