Once the principle was explained, it seemed so simple and so obvious as to defy criticism. On Granville’s advice, Paxton had his men at Chatsworth draw scale plans of his proposal, and only ten days after his meeting with Granville he sent them to the Building Committee. The Building Committee threw them out – by now they wanted their own design or nothing; so on the 6th of July (two days after the debate on the site) Paxton by-passed them by having his designs published in the Illustrated London News. They took public opinion by storm. Letters poured in, the papers took up the general delight with the idea, and the Building Committee, with Albert and Granville leaning on their shoulders and breathing in their ears, were forced to give in. On July the 15th they dropped their own plan and formally accepted a much smaller tender from a contracting company for Paxton’s design. The glorious creation which Punch, in November, christened the Crystal Palace, was born.
30th August 1900
IT WAS not the end of opposition. Colonel Sibthorpe continued to fulminate about the enormous cost of the scheme which must inevitably come out of the taxpayer’s pocket. The Times said that the glasshouse would leak when it rained, and when the sun shone would get so hot inside it would fry the paying customers. Others declared that the vibration of thousands of feet inside the building would shake it to pieces, a gale would knock it down, or a hail-storm would smash it up. As the building rose with astonishing rapidity, glittering and enchanting, above the trees, and the general public fell victim to a first love which quickly strengthened into glass-mania, the opposition gathered their forces in the hope of putting off potential visitors.
The Astronomer Royal was persuaded to write a pamphlet pointing out that Paxton had no formal qualifications so the building must be unsafe and would inevitably collapse on the heads of those foolish enough to enter it. Colonel Sibthorpe entered the lists again to protest about the destruction of the last of the elm trees, but Paxton had an answer for him: leave the elms where they are, he said, and I will build a semi-circular roof to the transept to accommodate them. (Thus these wretched trees became a delightful and most distinguished part of the exhibition itself. Sibthorpe was confounded and, I’m glad to say, very much ridiculed. I hated him particularly because it had been he who first moved that Albert’s pension should be reduced, back in 1839.)
Other Members of Parliament declared that the influx of foreigners into the country would start a red revolution, murder the Queen, and set up a republic. Economists calculated that the price of every commodity would increase to astronomical heights, and that the vast concourse of people descending on London would cause a shortage of food which would end in general famine. Doctors predicted that so many different races coming into contact with each other would result in a plague like the Black Death sweeping England. Theologians said that the Crystal Palace was a second Tower of Babel and would draw down the vengeance of an offended God on to the hapless nation of unwilling hosts.
Moralists cried out that English society would be infected by new wickednesses imported by the hateful foreigners, who everyone knew were not civilised like us; and the ratepayers of London predicted that Richard Mayne’s tiny police force would never be able to cope with the influx of vagabonds, thieves, burglars, pick-pockets, prostitutes, cozeners, swindlers, sharps, forgers, beggars and drunks who would come from every corner of the country – and indeed the world – at the beckoning of this irresistible bait, and that we should have to declare martial law before the exhibition was well opened.
And all this, of course, was Albert’s fault. While the senseless opposition and abuse were poured on his dear, lovely head, he laboured night and day with all the multitude of details that had to be taken care of. The exhibits had to be approved and classified; the space had to be agreed upon and allocated for each State, the punctual arrival of their contributions ensured; communication and transport had to be arranged; endless enquiries answered, jealousies calmed, mishaps dealt with. Russia had to send her contributions early, before her ports froze: where would they be stored? The Swiss republic was eager to exhibit cheeses along with her leathers, silks and cottons, but how were they to be classified? They weren’t vegetables, nor yet agricultural machinery – and would they stand up to five months on display? And if they were allowed in, would not English farmers want to put up their own cheeses, with serious consequences for the public nose? (The cheeses were withdrawn.) Then the Chinese government, which had shown utter indifference to the scheme, sent goods enough only to fill three hundred of the five thousand square feet allocated them. The public was eagerly looking forward to a fabulous oriental display: what was to be done? Albert suggested the commissioners scour the private collections of the great houses of England (where indeed more Chinese art had probably accumulated than was to be found in China itself) so as to get together a sufficient collection.
Others worked hard, but none worked harder, or worried more, than my darling, for while they each had their own concerns and areas of responsibility, he was responsible for the whole. He was the only person who had the complete picture in his mind’s eye, and yet was still aware of all the detail: a feat of comprehension, memory and concentration so enormous as to defy belief. Without him, Granville said afterwards, the scheme would have fallen to pieces in confusion, bickering, and dreadful damaging muddle; but he held all the threads together, and finally brought into being the greatest expression of human hope, skill, and peaceful endeavour the world has ever seen.
Everything had been thought of: fire precautions, public lavatories, refreshments, ticket prices, floor sweeping, transport, policing – everything. Even through the very day before the Opening, his attention was constantly being sought over some little difficulty or hitch, every moment some new question was being put to him; but though he looked fagged to death, he met every one with the greatest good temper. And though the whole triumph of the scheme must be his, he never spoke a word about himself, but laboured quietly on, satisfied simply to promote the good of the people and the glory of the country.
But at what price?
Seventeen
2nd October 1900, at Balmoral
HOW THIS war seems to drag on and on – and how right I was to warn Salisbury against too much enthusiasm too soon! It is good to know that we have Kitchener out there – his unflagging energy and attention to detail are just what is wanted in this ‘cleaning up’ phase of the war, which might last for many months yet. All the same, the Government has called a General Election, hoping that the popularity of our victories and the people’s relief over the returning soldiers will increase their majority, which has taken rather a ‘knocking’ over the past five years. It is Chamberlain’s idea first and last, and I must say it does not seem to me quite the thing. I am sure Albert would deplore it as not being ‘fair play’. Besides, it is surely unwise to presume on the single issue, for the Government can hardly claim afterwards that it has been given a mandate for its other difficult measures – though I don’t suppose that will prevent it from doing so!
I have left my writing untouched for some weeks, but now we are back up at Balmoral, and the air is so pure and fresh that I feel a great deal better, and have taken it up again. The colours are so wonderful at this time of year, and sitting here in my little hut I can look up and out of the open door and see purple and green and gold and blue, the colours of nature as sumptuous as any of the treasures of the Orient. It is a Feast for the Heye – as one of my footmen described the display at the Crystal Palace those many years ago.
The Duke’s interest in the Great Exhibition had from the beginning been one of apprehension about the number of people who would be gathered in one place, and the inevitability of their misbehaving themselves. Whenever Albert dilated to him on the beauty, harmony and peacefulness of the idea, the Duke would reply gruffly with some suggestion about keeping the roads open to facilitate the passage of soldiers. When Albert said, ‘But surely you cannot believe that on such a peaceful, innocent occasion as this there could
be anyone bent on mischief?’ the Duke would simply stare into the middle distance and say, ‘Better to be prepared, sir.’
At all events, the Duke spoke to Lord John Russell, and Russell consulted Richard Mayne and then shook his head and went to the commissioners to say that the opening ceremony had better be private. For safety’s sake, he said, I had better declare the exhibition open to a handful of officials, and be got right away before the public was let in. In view of the strange faces seen all around London, the beards and fezzes, the baggy pantaloons and low-crowned hats, I had nothing to say to the decision. I was always ready to take my chance of being shot at in the line of duty, but it was not my business to ignore the advice of my ministers; and Albert seemed relieved that there would not be a public ceremony to organise on top of everything else.
The announcement was made in the press in the middle of April, and at once there was another flood of letters to the commissioners and fierce editorials in the newspapers. It had been assumed all along that the opening was to be public, and eight thousand holders of season tickets had made arrangements to be present. Many, it seemed, were planning to come up from remote parts of the country solely for the purpose of seeing me.
‘Listen to this, my love,’ Albert said over breakfast, folding The Times into a more convenient shape. ‘It says, “We believe that Her Majesty would be in no greater danger inside than outside, for Socialists, whether French or German, who intend an attack have no need of entry into the Building in order to carry out their purpose.”’
‘Well, that’s true enough,’ I said, ‘though I don’t know that it makes me feel more comfortable.’
‘They are very free with your safety,’ he agreed, and read on. ‘“Is our gracious Queen a Tiberius or a Louis XI that she should be smuggled about under a bodyguard? And what satisfaction would she obtain by entering a monster warehouse of upholstery and machinery attended by none but a few Silver Sticks? The safest place for Her Majesty is where she belongs, in the midst of her loyal subjects.”’
‘That strikes home!’ I said. ‘I have always maintained that the people are very good, and that they love me.’
‘It is not our people the Government fears,’ Albert pointed out, taking up another paper. ‘Well, they are all at one about this, at all events. The Chronicle says that the decision to hold a private ceremony shows an insulting lack of confidence in the public. And the Globe believes that the best exhibit of all in the palace of wonders would be the Queen of England displayed in the midst of her people.’
I was indignant. ‘They want to sit me on a throne, I suppose, nicely roped off, so that everyone can walk past me and stare!’
He put down the paper. ‘Perhaps they would like you to move a little, like one of those automata.’ And he lifted a hand stiffly up and down while turning his head from side to side with an idiotic grin, just like a mechanical toy, and it made me laugh very much.
Later that day Granville came to see us. He had been out of London for a few days, and on his journey through London he had heard but one opinion. ‘From Bishopsgate to Bays-water it is all indignation and disappointment.’
‘Yes, we have been looking at the newspapers,’ Albert said. ‘The Globe actually uses the word “betrayed”.’
‘Is feeling really so very strong?’ I asked.
‘They seem to feel, ma’am, that there is little point in a celebration of national pride without the Queen at its centre.’
‘It is an exhibition of the skills of all mankind,’ Albert pointed out sternly. ‘It is meant to transcend national feeling.’
Granville smiled his gentle, attractive smile. ‘Yes indeed, sir. But our own people can’t help wanting to show off a little to Johnny Foreigner – and they have so very much to be proud of, don’t you think?’
‘Well, Granville, I am willing to do whatever is necessary,’ I said, ‘but Russell will not have it, you know.’
‘Oh, I think he may be persuaded, ma’am,’ he said drily. ‘He does not at all want to upset the middle classes.’
‘That is all very well,’ Albert interrupted, ‘but there is no reason for the Queen to be there – not as Head of State. What ceremonial is to be used? What form of words? She cannot just walk about looking at things.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ Granville said, ‘I have already had a word with Cole, and he has an idea about that. How would it be if the commissioners as a body – with you at their head, of course, sir – handed some sort of official document, a Report, say, on the completion of the work to Her Majesty, indicating that the royal sanction was essential to the enterprise? Something large and impressive with ribbons and seals – and a speech on the importance and true significance of the exhibition, finishing up, perhaps, with a reference to Her Majesty’s peaceful and glorious reign.’
I liked the idea of that – my beloved standing forth alone, the centre of attention, the object of every eye, his voice filling the breathless, waiting silence, his ringing words inspiring every heart and mind to a greater appreciation of what he had achieved. ‘Yes,’ I said eagerly, ‘a speech by the Prince. That would sound very well.’ And I looked across at him and smiled, and saw that he was reading my mind perfectly: he gave a little rueful shake of the head, as though reproving me for wanting to push him forward.
But the public feeling was so strong on the subject that after a series of agitated letters and earnest meetings, it was arranged as Granville suggested. The ceremony was to be simple and solemn but not religious (though the Archbishop would speak a special prayer of thanksgiving) and there would be music. Russell, to save face, said his fears had been about overcrowding rather than any danger to the Royal Person, and asked for admission to be limited to season-ticket holders, which was agreed. When the announcement was made in the press, there was a sudden rush for season tickets, and four thousand were sold in four days, bringing the total to twelve thousand.
‘However will so many be accommodated?’ I wondered when I heard.
‘We will have to have the constructors build stands,’ Albert said, with a sigh at the thought of the extra work involved. ‘They will have to be taken down again before the general opening, of course. And we will have to decide what to do about the diplomats: a public opening of an international exhibition gives almost unlimited scope for errors of protocol. Oh, and there will have to be an ante-room provided for the royal party – if you will excuse me, my love, I had better go and write some letters.’
There were only ten days to go before the opening day. Everything simply seemed to make work for Albert.
But the great day came at last – May the 1st, 1851, Arthur’s first birthday and the Duke’s eighty-second – and it dawned fair, rather chilly at first, but broadening as the sun rose higher and the mist burned off into a brilliant early summer day of the best, English sort. Albert went early to the Crystal Palace to see that all was in order, and returned in a mood of fatalistic calm, which contrasted with my growing agitation on his behalf. I so desperately wanted everything to go well, and when I remembered my Coronation, there were plainly so many things that could go wrong!
We were in the carriages at twenty minutes to twelve, I and Albert and Vicky and Bertie, and a little rain fell just as we set off up Constitution Hill, but it passed after a few minutes and the sun came out again, and we had ‘Queen’s weather’ all day. There were such crowds everywhere, greater, I think, than for my Coronation, packing the pavements, streaming through the Park, hanging from the windows. Apsley House and St George’s had not a window vacant, and every face looked so cheerful and happy. In Hyde Park there were carriages and equestrians, boats crowded with spectators on the Serpentine, and the glorious chestnut trees were loaded down with boys, whistling and waving their caps. We trotted down Rotten Row with our cavalry escort behind us, and there before us was the great, glittering edifice of glass, shining in the sun, half-hidden amongst the trees and with its surfaces reflecting the sky and the Park so that it became curiously hard to
take in, as if it were a magic palace caught half-way through some mysterious transformation.
At exactly noon we descended at the north entrance and went in to the ante-room to remove our shawls and straighten our dresses. I was wearing pink watered silk brocaded with silver, with the Garter ribbon, and a diamond tiara, and looked very well, I thought. Vicky was in white satin and lace, with a wreath of wild roses on her head and looked so sweet and pretty, and Bertie looked very nice in Scotch highland dress. In the ante-room Mamma and Mary Teck were waiting for us with other members of the family, and the Crown Prince and Princess of Prussia with Fritz – they had been invited to the opening as our private guests, so as not to annoy the King of Prussia.
Albert gave me his arm, we took Bertie and Vicky by their hands, and our procession started forward, entering the north nave. There were tall, wrought-iron gates across the end of it, and the glimpse of the transept through them – the waving palms, flowers, statues, myriads of people filling the galleries and seats all around – gave me a sensation I shall never forget, and I was much moved. Then there was a flourish of silver trumpets, and the gates were flung back by the attendant Yeomen of the Guard, revealing the whole scene.
It seemed incomprehensibly vast, the luminous distances made soft and hazy by the unrestricted light and space. The air was warm and serene, as though by magic a world of perpetual summer had been created within the delicate bones and translucent walls of the palace; and everywhere the eye fell on tropical foliage, trembling palm trees, banks of flowers drowning the senses with their colours. Before us was a dais under a gold-fringed canopy decorated with white ostrich feathers, and beyond, in the very centre of the transept, the heart of the whole exhibition, was a vast fountain carved out of pure transparent crystal, from which the glittering jets of water leapt fifty feet into the air. The stalls had been covered and the galleries draped in warm red Turkey cloth, comfortingly solid in all the dazzle and indistinctness, and against the strong colour a multitude of statues stood out dead white, most startling and impressive. And standing guard over all were the elm trees, soaring serene and mysterious to spread their lofty canopies of leaves across the lucent regions far above us.
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