110 years is a weird span of time – right on the advancing wavefront of oblivion. Technically, it's within living memory – but there's no one person* you could have a decent conversation with at both ends. Whereas when this book came out, 15 years ago (and not 10, as I'd assumed), which I still think of as making it a recent publication, there'd have been hundreds, thousands, who fit the bill. Now, though, it's very much an attempt to catch a lost age in amber. "The season from May to September 1911 was one of the high sunlit meadows of English history. It was a time when England – rich, happy, self-indulgent and at least slightly decadent – was most contentedly itself. And yet the exuberance and self-congratulatory spirit of those few months was in many ways illusory." Almost an Adam Curtis opening, isn't it? Except better, obviously. Not that Nicolson's prose is without its own occasional lapses, but as you'd expect from a Bloomsbury descendant, it's more a case of slipping into Tatler-ese, or getting a little too utterly utterly. Mostly, though, she does a wonderful job of stirring the ashes into a seductive semblance of life, setting solid biographical and historical facts against "the background sounds of Ragtime and Stravinsky, humming bees and the fizz of champagne". The story is told relay race fashion, each chapter centred on a different figure of the time, and if some of them are the royals, writers and general gilded souls the title suggests, they don't get it all their own way. This was, after all, a year when the Shop Act and the Parliament Bill were chipping away at the long-established stratifications of English life. So yes, we spend time floating elegantly around with Virginia Stephen, soon to be Woolf; with Rupert Brooke, already seen as some half-pagan incarnation of youth; with the impossibly glamorous Lady Diana Manners (and of course John Julius Norwich's mum would be a great society beauty, given to mild scandal, who once beat Anna Pavlova in a fancy dress competition). But here too are the far more popular and less respected writer Elinor Glyn; pioneering union man Ben Tillett; and ambivalently embittered butler Eric Horne. Dotted around them, a world of supporting detail takes in the name of the person still being punished with 'loo', the Russian ballet costumes impounded for being suspiciously revolutionary, and the delicious detail of Beecham's pills being advertised with a suffragette – who knew the Spectacle had commodified revolution so early? I had also been unaware that the fashionable cleavage of the time was partly possible through garments being supported by rings clamped on the nipples; in amongst several outbursts of genteel raciness here, that still probably makes the top three of 'Oh, I say!', alongside the mention of the magnum bonum potato, and the unfortunately named Mr Piddlecock.
I suspect I have a much higher tolerance for moneyed decadence than many people I know (one of my big objections to the modern rich is that they mostly seem to be so thoroughly boring and/or vulgar about it; not a trace of élan about them). But all the same, there are some moments which are breathtaking for all the wrong reasons. In the literal sense that would go for reminders of how poor hygiene was in 1911, even among the rich, but the most horrific detail was Princess Kawanako of Honolulu's cape at one of those same grand balls Lady Diana Manners attended. Part of a costume intended to recall Honolulu's flag, it was made of yellow feathers, enough to extinguish the luckless species of bird whose heads supplied one feather each. Monstrous, undoubtedly – and yet how many more species are we wiping out now without even a cloak to show for it? Similarly, when the PM of 1911 leaves a nurse at death's door, it is at least only one nurse thanks to a spot of careless driving, not dozens on account of systemic incompetence and corruption. Over and over there's a sense of 1911 mirroring 2021, but the comparison is rarely to our advantage. It was a time of great inequality, with gaps on shelves and the poor starving – but this was in large part down to a successful strike which would ameliorate that inequality and lead to a marked increase in union power, not self-inflicted fuck-ups like a botched Brexit. There was a sense of a new age dawning after a time in stasis, but it was ushered in by a coronation, not coronavirus. The papers ran a column featuring deaths of heat, only discontinued once they grew too many to be remarkable, and succeeded by one featuring deaths of water – but these were thought of as anomalous events, not the first few names on lists that are just going to keep getting longer every year. For all that 'Dancing Into Shadow' of the subtitle, there's at least something enviable about their ignorance; despite rumblings in Agadir, most people then could be legitimately unaware that their society was headed for a terrible reckoning. Lucky bastards.
*Or, notes the part of me still fascinated by the likes of Fulcanelli and St Germain, nobody officially recognised.