Header overlay
Slightly Foxed or the Widower of Bayswater, William Plomer - Issue 64

Slightly Foxed: or, the Widower of Bayswater

Decades ago wits, poets and dukes
Circled like planets round Gloria Jukes,
Bluestocking, tuft-hunter, grande amoureuse
Was ever a salon brilliant as hers?

Her name still turns up though she’s turned up her toes,
You meet her in memoirs, they still quote her mots,
And old crones remember her faults and her furs –
Such foibles, my dear, such sables were hers!

A wrecker of homes and a breaker of hearts
She talked like a book and encouraged the arts,
Political hostesses envied her poise,
And said they preferred conversation to noise.

Her cook was a dream, her pearls were in ropes,
She furthered ambitions, she realized hopes,
Lent Dowson a fiver, put rouge on her eyebrows,
Enchanted grandees and recon

Subscribe or sign in to read the full article

The full version of this article is only available to subscribers to Slightly Foxed: The Real Reader’s Quarterly. To continue reading, please sign in or take out a subscription to the quarterly magazine for yourself or as a gift for a fellow booklover. Both gift givers and gift recipients receive access to the full online archive of articles along with many other benefits, such as preferential prices for all books and goods in our online shop and offers from a number of like-minded organizations. Find out more on our subscriptions page.

Subscribe now or

Decades ago wits, poets and dukes Circled like planets round Gloria Jukes, Bluestocking, tuft-hunter, grande amoureuse – Was ever a salon brilliant as hers?

Her name still turns up though she’s turned up her toes, You meet her in memoirs, they still quote her mots, And old crones remember her faults and her furs – Such foibles, my dear, such sables were hers! A wrecker of homes and a breaker of hearts She talked like a book and encouraged the arts, Political hostesses envied her poise, And said they preferred conversation to noise. Her cook was a dream, her pearls were in ropes, She furthered ambitions, she realized hopes, Lent Dowson a fiver, put rouge on her eyebrows, Enchanted grandees and reconciled highbrows, Acclimatized novel Bohemian behaviour In the stuffiest house in Victorian Belgravia, And when St John’s Wood was abandoned to orgies Behaved like a dignified bride at St George’s. A Personage paid to her regal poitrine A compliment royal, and she looked like a queen – But of some Ruritanian kingdom, maybe – All plastered with gifts like a Christmas tree. When her guests were awash with champagne and with gin She was recklessly sober, as sharp as a pin: An abstemious man would reel at her look As she rolled a bright eye and praised his last book. She twitted George Moore, she flirted with Tree, Gave dear Rider Haggard material for She, Talked scansion with Bridges and scandal with Wilde, To Drinkwater drank and at Crackanthorpe smiled. Brzeska and Brooke were among those she knew, And she lived long enough to meet Lawrences too, D. H. and T. E. – she, who’d known R. L. S., Talked to Hardy of Kim, and to Kipling of Tess! Now she’s been dead for more than ten years We look round in vain to discover her peers; The Gloria (it has often been said) is departed And a new, and inferior period has started . . . But tucked right away in a Bayswater attic, Arthritic, ignoble, stone-deaf and rheumatic, There still lingers on, by the strangest of flukes, Yes, Gloria’s husband – Plantagenet Jukes! Ignored in her lifetime, He paid for her fun, And enjoyed all the fuss. When she died he was done. He sold up the house and retired from the scene Where nobody noticed that he’d ever been. His memoirs unwritten (though once he began ’em) He lives on a hundred and fifty per annum And once in the day totters out for a stroll To purchase two eggs, The Times, and a roll. Up to now he has paid for his pleasures and needs With books he had saved and that everyone reads, Signed copies presented by authors to Gloria In the reigns of King Edward and good Queen Victoria. They brought in fair prices but came to an end, Then Jukes was reduced to one book-loving friend, A girl of the streets with a smatter of culture And the genial ways of an African vulture. To this bird he offered the last of the lot, A volume of Flecker beginning to rot. She opened it, stormed: ‘Cor blimey, you’re potty! D’you think I can’t see that the pages are spotty! Your Flecker is foxed, you old fool, and I’m through!’ Then out of the door in a tantrum she flew, Leaving poor Jukes, in the black-out, in bed With his past, and the book, and a bruise on his head.

William Plomer (1903–73), from Collected Poems (1960). Reproduced courtesy of the William Plomer Trust


Comments & Reviews

Leave a comment

Sign up to our e-newsletter

Sign up for dispatches about new issues, books and podcast episodes, highlights from the archive, events, special offers and giveaways.