Storm in a Polish tea-cup
Marione Wallace
t-IPPer-class Poles have a favourite phrase Which they whisper in semi-detached drawing rooms from Ealing to Acton ,tnatka z domu' or loosely translated, was his/her mother?' Even the new roPe was tested on this aristocratic litmus Paper and found wanting. Last week, however, the elegant survivors of better days had more urgent Matters to investigate. For on Saturday (December 3) an emergency meeting was called at that haven of émigré hopes, the Ognisko or Polish Hearth Club, to resolve a question of honour more solemn than any the exiles have faced since the War. How was it that some of their Most distinguished aristocrats and even Prthee Sapieha, Vice-Chairman of the An glo-Polish Society, had taken part in an occasion graced (or disgraced) by the Ambassador from the Polish People's Republic? Who was the mother, they clamoured in telephone conversations which swept like a blizzard through the otherwise quiet and obscure community, of Mrs Elma Dangerfield, OBE, who had Promised them an `historic' evening, but ins,tead brought them dishonour? It has torn us apart', says Mrs Klima zymaniak, Honorary Secretary of the I.-ondon Branch of the Anglo-Polish Society. 'Either Prince Sapieha resigns, or the Chairman, Mrs Marcinek, and I go, and a lot more with us.' The offending ?,ccasion was an evening to commemorate the last public appearance, 130 years ago, of the dying Chopin. It had been the idea ,c;_f Mrs Dangerfield, Honorary Director of the Byron Society, to rent the Guildhall on 20 November to re-enact the last concert, with a similar programme and using the same piano (at least for the first two works, while its health lasted) which he had played there in November 1848 in a concert arranged by The Association of the Friends of Poland.' Mrs Dangerfield, a determined some say an indiscriminate collector of the rich and famOus, had set up an impressive list of patrons and committee members, and went about inviting an array of British and foreign grandees headed by the Duchess of Gloucester, the Minister for the Arts, Lord Donaldson, Lord and Lady Longford, the Lord Mayor and Sheriffs, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Chief Rabbi, the Apostolic delegate, 30 assorted ambassadors and a few musically minded politicians (Jeremy Thorpe's name was discreetly removed just before the invitations were posted). All would be offered the best seats and supper in the crypt for £11 a head in aid of the Byron Society and the Sikorski Museum. It was the ambassadors who proved Mrs Dangerfield's undoing. It took the Polish members of the organising committee some time to realise that she was including on her list of diplomats, those from Eastern Europe. It was on 6 November, almost two months after their first meeting, that they grasped the full implication. 'The Czech, Italian, Polish and Russian ambassadors and their wives, who have bought tickets,' she announced, 'will be in the second row, together with distinguished guests .. The news spread like the smell of boiling sauerkraut through the homes of Polish exiles. 'It was disgraceful', says Mrs Szymaniak. 'I rang up Mrs Dangerfield and demanded she withdrew the invi tations to the red ambassadors. How could we accept money from them? How dare she think we would be in the same room as them? I asked for an emergency meeting. She was very abusive to me.'
Prince Lubomirski had already telephoned Mrs Dangerfield. 'It was a very dictatorial call,' she says. 'He ordered me to ask for the return of the ambassadors' tickets. I said "Dear Prince, how can you order me to do such a thing and insult the Duchess of Gloucester let alone the diplomats. I am not prepared to cause an international incident".'
But Mrs Dangerfield had not reckoned with a nation which had unflinchingly gone into battle on horseback against the German tanks. Within days their reinforcements were arriving. Count Raczynski, former Polish ambassador from pre-communist days, announced he would not be attending. So did Prince Radziwill. Count Zamoyski sent a telegram asking for his name to be removed from the committee. Poles from all over the country rang up to abuse the organisers, ninetyfour in one day alone. 'Any Pole who goes to this concert is committing treason', said another leading émigré.
Mrs Dangerfield replied by denying that any ambassadors had been invited. They had all, she claimed, simply been notified. She even went so far as to get up on the platform at a concert of the Chopin Society to tell the audience this. They were outraged by her interference. Mrs Lucie Swiatek, a gentle, grey-haired woman who founded the Society was very upset. 'She got into our concert under false pretences and kept the pianist waiting half an hour while she gave a political speech. I'm very highly strung and this whole business will be the end of me.'
By now the Poles and Mrs Dangerfield were at war. Mrs Szymaniak telephoned the embassy and cautiously enquired if they had received an invitation from Mrs Dangerfield. 'Yes', came the reply, 'We had a very nice invitation.' But what could they do about it? Everyone awaited Prince Sapieha, the vice-chairman, who returned from Italy on 14 November in the thick of the row. He listened to the complaints and finally decided it was the duty of the Poles to attend and honour their composer hero. The news came like an axeblow on the Anglo-Polish Society, splitting it into two camps. The emergency meeting they had called for was held on 17 November. Responding to their angry demands, Lord Lytton, President of the Byron Society and Chairman of the Committee, insisted that Mrs Dangerfield produce a copy of the 'circular' she had sent to the embassies. It read: 'If your excellencies would be good enough to take tickets we would naturally reserve special places for yourselves and your party in the front rows.' Even Lord Lytton was heard to comment: 'If this isn't an invitation, I don't know what is.' But the Poles remained divided and the The militant Poles now considered what they should do. Mount a demonstration? They decided their best course was to show their disgust by boycotting the evening, keeping their tickets and leaving a hundred empty seats to speak for their feelings. Fearing some stronger demonstration Scotland Yard was alerted and offered Mrs Dangerfield's event full protection. But she had other ways of handling the affair. During the weekend she informed members of the public who had already sent cheques but had been 'disappointed' that there just might be some vacant seats if they turned up on the night.
Her ploy was a success. She was able to fill and indeed overfill every seat for the concert, although at the cost of disrupting the organisation. The caterers claimed that more than 100 extra people arrived in the crypt with tickets, demanding supper. Aristocrats queued resentfully for their food, and many got none. In fact, the food had all disappeared even before many on the top tables had tasted a mouthful. But that was not the end of the matter. Prince Sapieha, once a respected leader of the Polish community had fallen from grace. All those Poles who, like him, attended the concert have been sent to Katowice — or whatever the Polish equivalent is of Coventry — coldshouldered in the Polish Hearth and spurned by old friends. As for Mrs Dangerfield, she is unrepentant, although she has had her fill of Poles. 'I have had the most terrible time,' she says. 'I will never do anything for the Polish community again. As individuals I love them dearly — I could have even married one (thank heavens, I didn't) — but collectively they have tried to ,crucify me. They lie and lie and if they get caught out they blame someone else. This has been their hour of glory. They've had nothing like it to talk about since Yalta. But you can't go on fighting a 1939 war forever. They are pathetic and my heart bleeds for them. It has all been a storm in a Polish tea-cup.'
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