The Glitter and the Gold

by Consuelo Vanderbilt Balsan

  The fancy dress ball at Devonshire House was a fitting climax to a brilliant season. The ball lasted to the early hours of morning, and the sun was rising as I walked through Green Park to Spencer House, where we then lived. On the grass lay the dregs of humanity. Human beings too dispirited or sunk to find work or favor, they sprawled in sodden stupor, pitiful representatives of the submerged tenth. In my billowing period dress. I must have seemed to them a vision of wealth and youth, and I thought soberly that they must hate me. But they only looked, and some even had a compliment to enliven my progress.

  5: Red Carpet and Protocol

  ON SEPTEMBER 18, 1897, my first son was born. We had taken Spencer House overlooking Green Park for the event. It was fitting that Churchills should be born there since they were descendants of the Spencer family. The first Duke of Marlborough's two sons having died unmarried, a special act of Parliament granted succession through the female line; and the eldest son of one of the Duke's daughters who had married the Earl of Sunderland eventually succeeded to the dukedom.

  Spencer House was an eighteenth-century mansion partly decorated by the brothers Adam. As the bedrooms were small, I occupied a comer drawing room and from my bed could see the fine gallery with the vista of a further room painted in the Pompeian style. There were nights when a sudden cold draught would wake me; it was as if a presence had glided through the room. My mother, who had come from America to be with me, professed to have seen a ghost.

  After my son was born, she told me she had been surprised by what she described as the ineptitude of the obstetrician who attended me; yet he was then considered at the top of his profession. Comparing the antiquated methods then practiced with the painless births young women now are privileged with, it seems as if Eve, in spite of the curse imposed upon her, must have redeemed her original sin. On awakening from a week's unconsciousness, I found to my surprise the family doctor at my bedside. He had been summoned from Scotland where he was vacationing and had arrived just in time to order a partridge and bread sauce for my first meal—a prescription that cost us dear since he had the right to charge a pound a mile. It was only then that I realized that my condition must for a time have been cause for anxiety, but my recovery was rapid and the joyous approval of the family intensified the happiness motherhood brought me.

  The Prince of Wales had offered to be godfather to our son, who was therefore given the names of Albert Edward (we vainly tried to eschew the Albert), William after my father, and John in memory of the Great Duke. In spite of all these names he was called Blandford, for it was the custom in the family to name the heir by his title.

  The christening took place in the Chapel Royal, St. James's Palace. The sun, streaming through the oriel window, touched the gold vessels on the altar, the white lilies round the font and the scarlet tunics worn by the royal choristers. The Prince of Wales in a tight frock coat had a smile of gracious urbanity; my father, looking too young for his new responsibility, and Lady Bland-ford, with the baby in her arms, completed the group of godparents. In the pew opposite Marlborough, his sisters and me sat Lady Blandford's sister, the Duchess of Buccleuch. As Mistress of the Robes to Queen Victoria, she was very much aware of the dignity of her rank and position. When our housekeeper, superb in black satin, was ushered to a seat beside her I viewed with apprehension her surprised reaction; for never could she have supposed that anyone less than a Duchess would share her pew, and vainly did she try to place this new arrival among the twenty-seven ducal families she prided herself on knowing. Her astonishment was so visible that we were all at pains to hide our merriment. Our housekeeper alone with great dignity remained unperturbed.

  During my convalescence Marlborough had met a young woman named Gladys Deacon, who had come to London on a visit from Paris where she lived with her mother and sisters. Gladys Deacon was a beautiful girl endowed with a brilliant intellect. Possessed of exceptional powers of conversation, she could enlarge on any subject in an interesting and amusing manner. I was soon subjugated by the charm of her companionship and we began a friendship which only ended years later.

  When I recovered, we returned to Blenheim and to the routine of house parties, and I to the duties of a chatelaine. The added responsibility of motherhood was made easy by the robust health of my baby; and the happiness he brought me lightened the gloom that overhung our palatial home. But there followed another bleak winter in Leicestershire awaiting the birth of my second child.

  Ivor was born the following autumn. We had rented Hampden House from the Duke of Abercom and there my mother-in-law greeted me as I lay in my bed, exhausted but content, with, "You are a little brick! American women seem to have boys more easily than we do!" Thus having done my duty I felt I should now be allowed a certain measure of the pleasures of life.

  That third winter in Leicestershire I was able to hunt—no more walks on the High Road. I shall always remember the first meet with the Quom hounds when, perfectly fitted in a Busvine habit, a tall hat and veil, I mounted "Greyling," inwardly trembling with excitement and fear. Marlborough, as I have said, was a fine horseman and it was up to me to follow him. Ladies then rode side saddle and the Leicestershire people were hard riders. Mrs. Willie Lawson—"Legs," as she was known for the length of them—Miss Doods Naylor, Lady Angela Forbes and a host of others were eying me critically and so far, thanks to my tailor and a good seat, had found nothing amiss. But the great test was still to come. Hounds were moving off to covert. Then came the wait with the cold wind blowing me blue and numb, while Greyling trembled, his ears cocked for the find. Suddenly it came with the exciting cry of hounds in chase and we realized we were on the right side of covert. There was a gate through which a crowd was pressing; there was also a fence under arching branches with a drop on the other side. Marlborough chose the fence. With my heart in my mouth I followed. Greyling jumped in perfect form and I ducked in time to avoid the branches. When I looked back and heard Angela Forbes say, "I am not going over that horrid place," I felt my day had begun auspiciously. What a pity that we had a record run or rather that my strength did not last out. I must have jumped a score or more of those stake and bound fences which Greyling seemed to fly over—just brushing through the unbound tops like the clever hunter he was—when exhausted by such unusual exertion I reined him in and regretfully watched the hunt go by. I remember Lord Lonsdale who, with a passing word of praise for my dashing debut, thought it necessary to explain he had been held up by a riderless horse and an unhorsed lady. But it was our stud groom who gave me the most pleasure by his praise and the pride he took in Greyling's performance. "You fairly let him go," he said, "and he's a beautiful jumper."

  I never became completely addicted to hunting, and during those Leicestershire winters, bereft of congenial companionship, my chief interest was reading. My babies were too young to spend with me more than the accredited hours an English nurse allows a mother the privilege of her children's company. A horrible loneliness encompassed me. Reports from our agent at Blenheim told of unemployment and of its accompanying train of hunger and misery. When I announced my desire to provide work for the unemployed it was labeled as sentimental socialism; but unable to reconcile our life of ease with the hardships of those who, although not our employees, were yet our neighbors, I dispatched funds to institute relief work. Unfortunately the men, grateful for the help given them, sent a letter of thanks to my husband, who to his indignant surprise discovered that the roads on his estate had been mended and his generosity exalted. It was only then that I discovered how greatly he resented such independent action and that had I committed lèse majesté it could not have been more serious. The long winter ended at last and we returned home.

  It was in that summer of 1899 that the German Emperor, who was Queen Victoria's guest at Windsor, having expressed the wish to see Blenheim, came to lunch with us. We were given but a few days' notice, the arrangements suffering the constant changes the Queen's wishes decreed. First it was the Emperor and Empress, the Prin
ce and Princess of Wales and the Duke and Duchess of Connaught who would arrive by special train in time for luncheon. Hastily inviting the most important County dignitaries, we laid a long table in the painted saloon, which on occasions we used as a dining room. The demi-daumont with two horses and postilion and the daumont with four horses and postilions were ordered to meet our guests. Marlborough, preferring to ride escort, decided that I should accompany the royal visitors. Other carriages for their suites were in waiting. On the morning itself a telegram informed us that the Queen had decided to keep the ladies with her at Windsor and that we should only expect the Emperor, the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Connaught. All the carefully made arrangements were thus upset and we would be short of ladies. The table had to be reset at the last minute and the seating rearranged. But worst of all I suddenly realized that if I met our guests at the station, as my husband wished, the Emperor would have the seat of honor in the daumont next to me, and the Prince of Wales would, together with the Duke of Connaught, be seated with his back to the horses. At the time this appeared to me a minor calamity, for I knew that the Prince disliked his nephew and would resent being in a subordinate position during our drive through the throngs who were even then crowding the streets of Woodstock to greet him. I therefore begged Marlborough to let me remain at home and receive them on the steps, suggesting that he should drive in the daumont with them, an obvious solution, since the Prince and the Emperor could then share the seat of honor. However, he had made up his mind to ride escort. As we entered the waiting daumont the Prince eyed me resentfully while refusing, as I knew he would, the seat next to the Emperor. The arrangement no doubt suited the Emperor for he beamed approval. As we neared the house and he saw his Imperial standard being raised to our flagstaff, he saluted and then thanked me for that attention.

  Just before luncheon, perhaps in anticipation of further discomfitures, the Prince of Wales drew me aside and asked me how I had seated the guests.

  "The Emperor opposite Marlborough, myself at his right, Your Royal Highness at my right," I told him.

  "And where have you placed my brother?" he asked, stressing the r's in his German way.

  "Opposite you, Sir," I said, and when I added, "With your permission I will not come to the station," he smiled his approval. During luncheon I noticed how skillfully the Emperor concealed the uselessness of his withered arm, cutting and eating his food with a special fork to which a blade was affixed. His conversation was self-centered which is usual with kings and with him seemed to spring from a desire to impress.

  Later, during our tour of the house, he gave a lecture on the Great Duke's battles which are depicted in tapestries that adorn the rooms, capping his remarks with a dissertation on Prince Eugene of Savoy, the Allied Commander who shared in the victories. I was amused by his evident desire to shine, but William II seemed to me no more than the typical Prussian officer with the added arrogance and conceit his royal birth inspired. Indeed I was surprised by his undistinguished appearance, which was perhaps due to the fact that he was not in uniform, without which Germans usually appear at a disadvantage. Even his famous and formidable mustache which seemed to bristle in indignation could not confer dignity. He seemed to have inherited no English characteristics and had neither the charm nor the wisdom of his uncle, the Prince of Wales. During the South-African war, soon after this visit, his jealousy and hatred of England became evident.

  When we reached the Long Library Mr. Perkins (a famous organist) played a selection of German music which so pleased the Emperor that he invited him to give a concert in Berlin. This eventually took place. My sons, aged two and one, were brought down by their nurses; it was, I felt, just the sort of occasion Nanny enjoyed. Before leaving, the Emperor asked us to entertain the Crown Prince during the coming summer. He was, he said, planning some country-house visits for him since he wished him to see something of English life. We could but agree. Then, promising to send us the inevitable photograph, he departed, accompanied by somewhat disgruntled uncles and a subservient suite.

  The South African war, which began in 1899 and ended in 1902, gave me my first experience of war work when, with Lady Randolph Churchill and other American women, I helped to equip and send out a hospital ship to Cape Town. This ship, called the Maine, was the precursor of an endless tide of American generosity, which reached the high mark in World War II. Lady Randolph went out on the ship to join her son Winston. We knew that she was equally anxious to see young George Cornwallis-West whom she later married. The resistance the Boers were putting up proved unexpectedly successful and alarm at the English casualties and more especially at the loss of British prestige was becoming general.

  In 1900 Lord Roberts went out as Commander in Chief and on his staff went my husband. I was then living at Warwick House overlooking Green Park, a stone's throw from St. James's Palace, and I shall always remember the wild joy of the London crowds when the news of the relief of Mafeking became known, for its heroic defense by a small English garrison had awakened general sympathy. As I was driving home from the theater my carriage was caught up in the vortex of the crowds; feathers were pushed through the windows to tickle my cheeks, and if it had not been for a male escort in uniform I might have suffered further indignities, so bent were the people in their infectious high spirits to kiss and be friends with all they met. Under Lord Roberts and Sir Ian Hamilton the war was brought to a successful close, but to tell the truth no one was very proud of the campaign and the war was never popular.

  My husband returned before the end of the year. Winston's career as a war correspondent for the London Morning Post also ended after he had been taken prisoner by the Boers, and later managed to escape. Two brilliant books based on his war service with the Malakand Field Force attracted general attention, but we knew that his ambitions lay elsewhere and were not surprised when he decided to stand for Parliament.

  I remember my first experience of a British election with him at Oldham in Lancashire. Listening to his speeches or driving with him in an open carriage through cheering crowds was equally exciting for already he possessed the flame that kindles enthusiasm. I noted his frequent references to his father, Lord Randolph Churchill, and was struck by his evident admiration and respectful reverence for him; I had a presentiment that inspired with such memories he would seek to emulate him!

  Winston was then the life and soul of the young and brilliant circle that gathered round him at Blenheim; a circle in which the women matched their beauty against the more intellectual attractions of the men. Whether it was his American blood or his boyish enthusiasm and spontaneity, qualities sadly lacking in my husband, I delighted in his companionship. His conversation was invariably stimulating, and his views on life were not drawn and quartered, as were Marlborough's, by a sense of self-importance. To me he represented the democratic spirit so foreign to my environment, and which I deeply missed. Winston was even then, in his early twenties, tremendously self-centered and had a dynamic energy. He told me that he had learned very little at Harrow and that he wanted to do a course of the classics. I was then absorbed in Taine's History of English Literature and suggested that he read it. How I envied him his marvelous memory! How seemingly without effort he could recite pages he had but scanned! That he has studied the masters of English prose to good effect we know, and as proof of his memory I quote a letter I have received from a friend. Lady Katherine Lambton, while writing these memoirs. She says, "Sir Laurence Olivier and his wife expressed the wish that Mr. Churchill should come to see 'Richard the III* which they are now acting. During the whole play Mr. Churchill recited the words almost putting the actors out. At supper afterward, to the Oliviers' immense surprise he knew the whole of 'Henry IV' and 'Henry V by heart, and when Sir Laurence Olivier consulted him about how to say a certain speech Mr. Churchill gave his rendering and Olivier thinking it better than his own adopted it." The letter ends, "a great statesman, a master historian, a good painter, who knows perhaps also a master actor had the fa
tes so decreed."

  We had an Indian tent set up under the cedars on the lawn where I used to sit with our guests. We always brought out the Times and the Morning Post and a book or two, but the papers were soon discarded for conversation. We talked so much more in those days than we do now, when I find my guests stampeding for the bridge table as soon as they leave the dining room. We talked morning, noon and night, but we also knew how to listen. There was so much to be discussed. Politics were interesting, but so also were the latest novels of Henry James and of Edith Wharton—Americans who had the temerity to write of England and of the English. There were the plays of Bernard Shaw and Ibsen, the psychic phenomena of William James, and the social reforms of the Sidney Webbs and the Fabians. We talked endlessly, for the tempo of life was slow, gentle and easy; there was no radio to tune it up. Sometimes we played tennis or rowed on the lake, and in the afternoon the household played cricket on the lawn. The tea table was set under the trees. It was a lovely sight, with masses of luscious apricots and peaches to adorn it. There were also pyramids of strawberries and raspberries; bowls brimful of Devonshire cream; pitchers of iced coffee; scones to be eaten with various jams, and cakes with sugared icing. No one dieted in those days and the still room maid who was responsible for the teas was a popular person in the household.

  Our endless discussions on politics fostered a sense of civic responsibility, and I began to look beyond the traditional but superficial public duties expected of me. Opening bazaars and giving away prizes with a few appropriate words could be successfully done by a moron—indeed, I realized that my dress and appearance were more important than any words I could utter. The cinema star had not yet eclipsed the duchess and archaic welcomes were still in line: one day at a bazaar presided over by a clergyman I found myself greeted as typical of his favorite fruit; he alluded, he explained, to the strawberry leaves of a ducal coronet. So perhaps it was not surprising that I became inspired to turn to more serious efforts, and accepted an invitation to go to Birmingham to speak on technical education to a club of blinded men. It was, I think, my first real speech and I took endless trouble with it; Winston, who was kind enough to criticize it, laughingly added no professor could have done better! It was the kind of audience I liked—working men who would not doubt my sincerity. I immediately felt in touch with them. And when, at the end, they greeted me with a storm of applause it made all the nervous anticipation worthwhile and encouraged me to continue. Indeed, I never minded the endless trouble that preparing a speech required, but the twenty-four hours that preceded its delivery were always pure agony.