Le style, c’était l’homme

We live in a demotic age. How is it therefore that by the beginning of the 21st century the Duke of Devonshire had become a national institution? If you doubt that fact you need only refer to Patrick Leigh Fermor’s lyrical account of the funeral in this magazine or the hundreds of column inches devoted to His Grace’s passing. There were hardly any sour notes from the commentariat. On the whole the Dutt-Paukers of Marxmount were silent and the new ruling class for once forbore to spin.

It is not explanation enough to say that Devonshire was a kind and generous man with a witty turn of phrase and a Whiggish sense of style. He was indeed all of that and more. He had a beautiful and witty wife with the self-confidence and charm to complement him and at times to outshine him as the public face of the family ‘firm’. He possessed the courage to admit the considerable difficulties of his private life to a press and public that he disarmed with his apparently artless frankness. Above all, in spite of his guilt at his unexpected inheritance, he came to enjoy the opportunities the dukedom gave him to do good and to follow his interests. For instance, he enjoyed a party and it was a typically inspired idea to celebrate his golden wedding by asking every other Derbyshire couple doing the same that year to Chatsworth.

If he was Whiggishly equivocal about his party allegiance, he was unwavering and generous in his support for the causes he believed in. I for one shall never forget the immediate and unconditional response from both him and his wife when I impertinently asked them whether they would hold a dinner at Chatsworth to raise money for the ‘No’ Campaign against the Euro.