Lady Catherine, the Earl, and the Real Downton Abbey

by The Countess of Carnarvon

  The service was conducted by the Reverend Isaac James. HRH Prince George had delighted Porchey and Catherine by agreeing to stand as godfather, though Reggie Wendell had to deputise for him when he was held up at a function at Windsor Castle and arrived just as the ceremony was finishing. Marian Wendell acted as proxy for Almina, in her role as godmother. Ian was too unwell to be left alone so she did not attend the ceremony, though she sent a very warm telegram of congratulations. Afterwards a large part of the congregation made for the house and drank Lord Porchester’s health in some of the finest vintages that Highclere’s cellars could provide.

  The focus of the event, meanwhile, was laid in the elaborate cradle in which his father and grandfather had slept before him. The nursery was on the second floor, a comfortable series of rooms comprising day and night nurseries, and a bed-sitting room for Mrs Sambell. Catherine had undertaken refurbishments between shooting weekends and house parties during the autumn of the previous year, so the wallpaper was fresh, as were the blankets and quilts and piles of baby clothes. Maud Stratford, the night watchman’s daughter, was taken on as nursemaid.

  Catherine’s album contains a series of photos of her and the infant Lord Porchester, taken to celebrate his birth and published, as was now customary for any significant event in her life, by the press on both sides of the Atlantic. In one, she is shot in profile, gazing down at her child, who lies on what appears to be a white rug. They almost fill the photo frame. She is wearing a white fur stole and pearls and a white satin evening gown and looks impossibly glamorous, like the 1920s equivalent of today’s Hollywood goddesses, back in slinky shape just weeks after the birth of their children.

  January 1924 was momentous for the country as a whole, as well as for the Carnarvons. There had been a general election in December of 1923, called by Stanley Baldwin, the Conservative Prime Minister, who was effectively seeking a referendum for his controversial protectionist policy. He had assumed the position of PM after the sudden death in May 1923 of the sitting Prime Minister, Andrew Bonar Law, who, though also a Conservative, had held the opposite view on the vexed question of whether or not to reform Britain’s trade laws. Stanley Baldwin felt it was essential to ask the electorate for its support rather than plunge into a policy for which he had no mandate. The result was the loss of its majority of seats for the Conservative Party, and a collapse among the Liberal vote from which the political descendants of the venerable Whigs never recovered.

  The precursor of the modern Labour Party had been founded in 1900 at a conference in Farringdon Street, London, which brought together left-wing organisations to sponsor Parliamentary candidates. It was now the second-largest presence in the House of Commons. When it became clear that there would be a hung parliament, and since Baldwin had suffered a comprehensive defeat and could not therefore credibly continue as Prime Minister, the King sent for the leader of the new opposition. In January, Ramsay MacDonald became the first Labour Prime Minister of Great Britain.

  The political scene in the early and mid-1920s very probably struck anxiety into the hearts of Porchey, Catherine and most of the people they knew. As well as the moves towards limited independence for India, the jewel of the British Empire, the Irish Free State Constitution Act had been passed in 1922, granting independence to a dominion that would become, in 1949, the Republic of Ireland. The long and increasingly bloody struggle for Irish Home Rule, independence and full nationhood had taken its crucial turn. For the strong Unionist element in the Conservative Party, it was a betrayal of principle, and a buckling under to terrorism.

  Domestic politics was also undergoing a period of significant change. The interests of the landed classes had traditionally been allied with the Conservative Party, whilst commerce had found its representatives among the Liberals. Those distinctions, both between social classes and allegiance to political parties, had in practice been breaking down since the end of the nineteenth century. During the first three decades of the new century there had been periods of considerable fluidity between the Conservatives and Liberals, who at least viewed each other as known quantities. For six years from 1916, there was a coalition government, formed by the centrist wings of the two parties. But the emergence of the Labour Party, which sought to represent the interests of newly enfranchised working men, was a wholly new phenomenon. Some segments of the media and the people regarded the Labour Party as little better than a front for Soviet Russia but there were many, even among the party’s political opponents, who could see that its existence was both inevitable and necessary.

  Duff Cooper reflected on the emotional mood of the electorate in 1923 in his memoir, written some thirty-five years later. He observed that it was a time not of poverty but of plenty, but only for a very few. He was referring at least as much to those new men who entered the House of Commons on the back of the money they had made during the war, as to the aristocracy. There was a sense in political circles that, in the circumstances, the Labour Party deserved to earn its spurs, despite the fear of revolution that was very real in the wake of events in Russia in 1917. Duff Cooper expressed some slight disappointment that the Labour victory demonstration struck a note of ‘respectable middle-class non-conformity’ rather than anything more violent. As he says, he ought to have been relieved, and presumably, despite the rhetorical flourish, he was.

  On 14 October 1924, Philippa Wendell, Catherine’s little sister, married Randolph Algernon Ronald Stewart, 12th Earl of Galloway, at St Margaret’s Westminster. The bride and groom had met at Porchey and Catherine’s wedding. He was thirteen years older than her. If Jac Wendell had felt a twinge of misgiving about Porchey as a prospective brother-in-law, it was nothing to the outright suspicion with which he regarded Lord Galloway.

  The reasons for Jac’s unease are not obscure. Quite apart from the age gap, there was the fact that Lord Galloway spent a lot of time in London, where he enjoyed a great many women’s company. Jac saw no sign of him giving up the habit. In addition, although the Earls of Galloway are an ancient Scottish family, they had fallen on hard times. They lost their ancestral seat, Galloway House, in 1908, and relocated to what had once been a shooting lodge, Cumloden House, just outside the small market town of Newton Stewart. Of all the Wendell siblings, it had been Jac, as the eldest, who had seen most closely the effect that losing his wealth had on their father. Jacob Wendell’s self-reinvention after his bankruptcy was a brave act, but it had come out of a profound crisis. Perhaps Jac had an instinctive older brother’s fear that Philippa was exposing herself to a burden she did not really understand.

  In any case, the wedding went ahead. Catherine kept a photo taken some months later, of the newly married couple sitting on a garden bench. Philippa is in a striking embroidered blouse that looks like the sort of thing the artist Frida Kahlo would wear. Her strong features and the artful curls on her forehead contribute to the impression of Bohemianism. Her expression is intense, almost smouldering. Lord Galloway is far more conventionally dressed, in a three-piece suit. He looks distinctly pleased with himself, as well he might, given the presence of his beautiful young wife by his side.

  By the time her sister married, Catherine was pregnant again and Porchey’s debt to the Exchequer now urgently needed to be paid. The trustees had been accurate in their predictions of the sum required. The moment had arrived to take some difficult decisions about what to sell.

  There was one particularly tangible and valuable asset, though he was loath to part with it: the famous Carnarvon pearl necklace. It had passed from generation to generation and can be seen adorning the neck of the 1st Lady Carnarvon in her 1638 portrait by Anthony Van Dyck, which still hangs in the Dining Room at Highclere. It pained Porchey greatly to lose the pearls and he felt badly for Catherine, who had worn them only once and would never wear them again. But she was brisk. ‘Don’t be silly, darling. I don’t mind at all and it’s so much better than the alternative.’ So Porchey’s first strategy was to head to Paris. He decided to negotiate in pe
rson with Jacques Cartier. In the end he received £55,000 for the necklace, a fantastic sum. Next he sold two farms bordering Highclere and some of the household’s better silver; then Bingham, a smaller estate in Nottinghamshire. It was not enough.

  Almost in despair, Porchey went to his mother. To his immense relief, she was quite breezy about everything. ‘We are in a far more fortunate position than many families, darling. It is simply a matter of deciding which pieces to sell. Of course I am happy to help.’ Good as her word, Almina began by gifting Porchey most of the 5th Earl’s collection of racehorses. Highclere Stud had been another of the 5th Earl’s expensive projects but, unlike Egyptology, was an interest that his son shared. Porchey was already something of an expert and was excited about building up the stud as a source of income. He was consequently very reluctant to sell the horses.

  Then Almina announced that she was arranging the sale of her husband’s beloved Egyptian collection. Howard Carter would help her catalogue it and it would probably raise the most money if sold to America. The next step would be to hold a sale of works from her father’s outstanding collection of paintings and antique furniture. Almina stipulated that Porchey also had to do his bit and should draw up a list of pieces to sell from Highclere. ‘Why don’t you start by asking Mr Duveen down to give you his opinion?’

  (Picture Acknowledgment 6.1)

  6

  Saving Highclere

  Mr Joseph Duveen was the leading art dealer of the age. He arrived at Highclere on an unseasonably warm day in early November 1924 and was shown into the Library. It was all part of his job to notice that the room was elegantly proportioned, grand but not too imposing, furnished with an exquisite Agra carpet; several magnificent desks, one of which, he knew, was believed to have been Napoleon’s, and a pair of exceedingly comfortable-looking red sofas. He suspected that there would be treasures indeed for him to acquire.

  Bright autumn sunshine streamed in through the double-height French windows that gave onto one of the finest landscaped parks in England. Mr Duveen admired the prospect of Capability Brown’s gently rolling lawns, neo-classical temples, and the stately cedars of Lebanon.

  These days Mr Duveen was a businessman before he was an aesthete, but he had a fine feeling and genuine passion for rare books, antiquities and, above all, paintings by the Old Masters. He could not have become as wildly successful as he had without excellent taste as well as sharp instincts.

  ‘A most beautiful room, Lord Carnarvon. A library such as this is the work of generations.’

  ‘Quite so,’ responded Porchey. He was sitting, not entirely at his ease, on the matching sofa on the other side of the splendid fireplace, facing his guest. Lord Carnarvon did not particularly relish making small talk with the man who had come to value his family’s assets.

  The art dealer took the cup of coffee offered to him by Fearnside. ‘Will you require anything else, my lord?’ the house steward enquired of his employer.

  ‘What do you think, Mr Duveen?’ said Lord Carnarvon. ‘Do you need anything in particular?’

  Mr Duveen returned the delicate bone-china cup to its saucer and placed it on the fine walnut table to his left. His expression had become focused, and he spoke plainly.

  ‘I need a stepladder, a footman to hold it, and a torch.’

  Lord Carnarvon looked at Fearnside, who nodded and removed himself to fulfil the request.

  ‘Right,’ said Porchey, relieved to be getting to the matter in hand. ‘I suggest we start in the Drawing Room.’

  By the time of his meeting with Lord Carnarvon, Joseph Duveen had already made a fortune on the back of a simple but powerful observation: ‘Europe has a great deal of art and America has a great deal of money.’ That had been true even before the First World War; by the mid-Twenties it was infinitely more so. Duveen cultivated the friendship of men like J. P. Morgan, William Randolph Hearst, John D. Rockefeller and Henry Clay Frick and inspired them with his taste for great art and beautiful things. These magnates might not be dukes or earls, but no matter: the portraits they acquired from the hard-up aristocrats of England had titles aplenty.

  In the green silk Drawing Room, Mr Duveen performed another expert initial assessment. Several exceptional portraits, presumably of family, and other paintings by eighteenth-century British artists of the first order that were sure to be of interest to his clients. He congratulated himself on the infallibility of his instincts. He was not above compensating the staff for specific information relating to the quality of artworks and the desperation of their owners to sell, but no such information had been required in this case. Highclere’s reputation as a treasure house preceded it, as did the reasonable assumption that its heir was still struggling to raise money to pay death duties. Mr Duveen had observed his host’s air of despondency as they drank their coffee.

  Eyeglass screwed in firmly, the better to inspect the brush-work in front of him, Mr Duveen wobbled atop the ladder. He squinted closely at the canvas. The Wood Gatherers by Sir Joshua Reynolds. ‘Shocking state. Needs to be cleaned,’ he announced. The art dealer restored and polished his clients’ acquisitions in his own studios before he despatched them. The new owners liked to be able to see themselves reflected in the varnished surfaces of the gleaming paintings, and he was happy to oblige.

  Charles, the footman holding the ladder, repositioned it for Mr Duveen’s next ascent. He had only recently joined the household and his real name was in fact George Widdowes, but by custom (baffling to our minds), all footmen were dubbed Charles, for the convenience of their employers. Widdowes was following the afternoon’s events with keen interest. He was also wondering whether he would still have a job in six months’ time.

  As Fearnside glided into the room to observe the comportment of his new member of staff, Mr Duveen inspected two very large portraits of eighteenth-century Carnarvon ancestors, by Gainsborough. ‘Twenty-five thousand pounds for the lady and seventeen thousand for the gentleman,’ declared the art dealer. ‘Men are never as valuable as ladies, you see.’

  Porchey turned away and looked out over the lawns.

  ‘What do you say?’ came the dealer’s insistent voice from behind him.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Duveen,’ he replied. Turning around to shake hands, Porchey was relieved to see that the man had at least descended to floor level to receive his answer. ‘I shall leave Fearnside to look after you as you finish up. I’ll have to consult my mother to discover her views, but doubtless we will speak very soon.’

  Porchey took refuge in the Smoking Room. He could not face Catherine until he had recovered a semblance of his good mood. Mr Duveen’s prices were not as high as he had hoped, or as he needed them to be. The dealer clearly had the instincts of a bloodhound, sniffing out a fallen man. His mother had suggested that if Joe Duveen proved unsatisfactory, they should try an auction house; he would have to telephone to Christie’s to ask them to send someone down as soon as possible to offer an alternative valuation.

  In the event, Mr Duveen didn’t directly acquire any of Highclere’s artworks. He did, however, negotiate with Almina Lady Carnarvon to purchase three superb full-length Gainsboroughs, two fine Holbein miniatures, a group portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence and various other works of art from her father’s collections.

  Christie’s, the august Mayfair auction house, was given the greater responsibility for gaining the best results for the Carnarvon family. Almina, who had a gift for what in modern parlance might be called ‘creating a buzz’, set about generating curiosity and excitement. She also extended a personal invitation to Mr Duveen to attend the auction, which he accepted with alacrity. This was no moment to bewail the fact he had lost out to a rival: the Carnarvon sale was set to be one of the most important of the decade. It included works by da Vinci, Botticelli, Van Dyck, Greuze, Guardi and outstanding paintings by François Boucher, Aelbert Cuyp, Philips Wouwerman and David Teniers. When Duveen, along with thousands of others, crowded into the auction rooms at Christie’s
in May 1925, he also spotted the works by Gainsborough that he had inspected at Highclere six months previously.

  According to The Times, the auction house resembled nothing so much as a private view at the Royal Academy; the great press of visitors meant it was nearly impossible to see the treasures. International dealers competed for Sèvres porcelain and fine French furniture. On the third day of the sale, an illuminated Italian missal made for Claude, Queen of France in the early sixteenth century, caused a frenzy of bidding. Alfred de Rothschild had spent his life building up the exquisite collection; now it was being dispersed in order to save Highclere. On 22 May alone, a total of 110 lots raised more than £54,000 (about £16 million in today’s money). The Times summed up its article by observing that ‘the sale has had no parallel in London for many years.’

  At the end of it all, when the debt was paid, Porchey and Catherine set about rehanging paintings to replace the ones sold. They brought some dusty relatives out of the attics and redecorated. To their young friends who gathered at Highclere in the years to come, the gaps on the walls would not even be noticeable, though after the 5th Earl’s death the house was never again the collection of museum-worthy pieces that it had been. The greater losses were at what was once Alfred de Rothschild’s home Seamore Place, though: it was Almina and her Rothschild inheritance that had saved the Carnarvons.

  Highclere was safe, but Porchey’s relationship with his mother, which had not been easy for some time, was really fraying. So were his nerves. In the aftermath of the sale of the bulk of the Egyptian collection to the Metropolitan Museum in New York, Porchey came across a few pieces that Howard Carter had judged could be left at Highclere. Irritated by this reminder of the 5th Earl’s decision to settle so many assets on his wife rather than his heir, Porchey asked Fearnside to have them bundled up and put away at the back of cupboards.