The Glitter and the Gold

by Consuelo Vanderbilt Balsan

  Despite the interest of our visit we left Russia with no regrets. The wastelands of its plains where every sign of life was muffled in snow chilled me and I was happy to return to the scenes of domestic contentment that the little villages and fields of England bespoke.

  My thoughts turned to the imminent Coronation, for Queen Alexandra had honored me by selecting me as one of the four duchesses who were to be her canopy bearers during the ceremony. The Duchesses of Portland, Montrose and Sutherland were the others. We were summoned to Buckingham Palace for our first rehearsal. Colonel B., a tall distinguished officer in command of the Guards, informed us he had been deputed to drill us and confessed that our task would be difficult since the canopy was both tall and heavy. We were well matched in height but our strength was unequal to the effort of holding the canopy taut while walkins and I ventured to observe that with trains three yards in length those behind would surely step on the trains of those in front. It was decided therefore that the canopy should be carried by pages and placed over the Queen, and that then only should we take our places.

  London was in a ferment of excitement. Patriotic crowds come from the outermost parts of the Empire filled the streets. Every day the arrival of a new foreign potentate increased the tension. The metropolis was gay with royal equipages in which princes and maharajahs, kings and queens drove in state accompanied by military escorts. Never had London been so festive, so be-flagged, so impressively the capital of a far-flung empire.

  There were state dinners at the Palace and every night we were bidden to a reception or a ball given by those whose rank entitled, and whose fortune permitted, the entertaining of royal personages.

  Then suddenly, like a thunderbolt, came the news of the King's illness and of an emergency operation. The great tide of popular rejoicing changed overnight to one of anguished anxiety. The same cheering crowds now stood outside the Palace in woeful solicitude awaiting the hourly bulletins, discussing the ominous presage. It was said that the King would never be crowTied. One heard that Sir Frederick Treves, the royal surgeon, overcome with emotion, had not been able to complete the operation and had turned to his assistant. No one knew what to believe but everyone gossiped, while foreign kings, princes and special ambassadors departed and London once again became normal.

  In due time we heard that the appendectomy had been entirely successful and that the Coronation, shorn of the glamor of foreign royalty, would take place on August 9th in a shortened form, to spare the King's strength. There was general thanksgiving; and the English, being a clannish race, rejoiced rather than mourned the fact that the ceremony would therefore be a strictly British one.

  On the appointed day we dressed early in red velvet robes trimmed with miniver and put chocolate into our pockets, for it was said we would be five hours or more in the Abbey, including the wait before and after the ceremony and the crush of getting away. The Marlborough colors are crimson, not unlike the royal scarlet, and as we drove in our state coach from Warwick House to the Abbey we were cheered by the assembled crowds who had spent the night camping there to have a better view. When we reached the Abbey, Marlborough left me, for he was to take part in the royal procession. The long length of the Abbey stretched before me with spectators ranged in tiers on either side of the gangway. A page spread the velvet train of my robes; and with head held high and eyes straight before me, lost in the sense of solemn splendor the scene evoked, I reached my place in the transept where massed in scarlet flashing with diamonds England's peeresses sat.

  It seemed hours before the trumpets announced the royal arrival. We had been riveted to hard chairs, rising occasionally as some royal personage passed to his appointed place. As the peers came to their seats on the right of the throne opposite to us they provided the laugh that always greets a dog lost in a solemn procession. There were those whose ancestral robes were much too big and long. Quite unconscious of the merriment they created, they passed, solemn and disdainful, holding their coronets and their robes tucked up under their arms. But the most hilarious moment came when the King was crowned and, as tradition decreed, the peers placed their coronets on their heads. For in some cases the coronets—made for ancestors with larger heads—slid down to the chin of the unfortunate peer, completely hiding his face behind the velvet cap with which the coronet was lined! I had taken the precaution to have a very small coronet made to fit inside my tiara so that when the Queen was crowned I fitted it deftly to its place and watched with amusement the anguished efforts of others whose coronets were either too big or too small to stay in place.

  But now the trumpets were blaring, the organ pealing and the choir singing the triumphant hosannas that greeted the King and Queen. The long procession was in sight—the Court officials with their white wands, the Church dignitaries with their magnificent vestments, the bearers of the royal insignia, among whom was Marlborough carrying the crown of King Edward on a velvet cushion, the lovely Queen, her maids of honor holding her train, and then the King, recovered, solemn and regal. I felt a lump in my throat and realized that I was more British than I knew.

  The beauty of the service was heightened by the fine traditional liturgy, the piercing sweetness of the choristers' notes, the gorgeous vestments, the sacramental vessels of gold and precious stones, the jewels and scarlet robes of the assembled company. When the Queen left her throne to kneel before the aged Archbishop to be anointed, we rose to hold the canopy over her. From my place on her right I looked down on her bowed head, her hands meekly folded in prayer, and watched the shaking hand of the Archbishop as, from the spoon which held the sacred oil, he anointed her forehead. I held my breath as a trickle escaped and ran down her nose. With a truly royal composure she kept her hands clasped in prayer; only a look of anguish betrayed concern as her eyes met mine and seemed to ask, "Is the damage great?" I shall always remember that look of gentle resignation and then later the great peal of acclamation that rose from the assemblage as the King was crowned. It shocked my sense of fitness for it seemed almost as if the earthly symbol of majesty had superseded the divine-but then I was not English and could not feel the same pride in the tradition of unbroken lineage the act of crowning symbolized.

  That same summer of 1902 Marlborough was made a Knight of the Garter and we were invited to spend a weekend at Hatfield, the ancient seat of the Cecil family, where Queen Elizabeth had spent part of her childhood in the care of Prime Minister Cecil. There was again a Cecil as Prime Minister and the Marquess of Salisbury was no mean successor to his ancestor; indeed he seemed to me the finest type of Englishman and his family a perfect example of the best English tradition. His eldest son Viscount Cranborne was in the House of Commons; Lord Hugh, the Benjamin, later became Provost of Eton College; Lord Robert Cecil, in diplomacy, was to become identified with the League of Nations; Lord Edward's career lay in the Army; and Lord William was soon consecrated Bishop of Exeter. There were many amusing anecdotes concerning the latter's vagueness, and I was told that once while traveling to a Church conference he lost his railway ticket, and much perturbed apologized to the conductor. "Never mind, my Lord, we know you and trust you." To which the Bishop answered, "But don't you realize, my good man, that I have not the faintest idea where I am going!"

  On the first night of our visit Lord Salisbury took me in to dinner and I succumbed to the charm of his courteous and polished discourse. There was indeed something very like a benediction in the ancient and serene ritual of that house to which I must unconsciously have subscribed, for he told someone that my language had a Biblical turn. With a twinkle in his eye he approached the reason for our visit—"I am, I believe," he said, "to present the Order of the Garter to the Duke, but I have not the slightest reason wherefore." Sorely tempted to reply with the old quip, "We know there is no damned merit to it," I nevertheless abstained.

  With my husband embarked on a political career it seemed advisable to have a permanent establishment in London rather than to lease a different house every year. I only
had to mention our wish for my father to promise its fulfillment. Unable to find a building to suit us we acquired one of the rare real estate sites in the market. The west end of London where the "best people" lived belonged to the great landlords, the Duke of Westminster, the Lords Portman and Cadogan, whose policy was to lease their lands, sometimes for as long as ninety-nine years, but never to sell. To find a freehold, however small, was therefore an achievement. There was a chapel on the site, which in the eyes of the superstitious it was considered unlucky to demolish, but there was a wine cellar situated in the basement. The rhyme "spirits below—spirits of wane, spirits above—spirits divine" gave us hope that by abolishing the temptations in the cellar we might conciliate the spirits above; and as the chapel was torn down, neighboring clergymen, whose congregations had been attracted by the more popular preacher of Curzon Chapel, thanked us for causing deserters to return to their folds. Curzon Street was close to the slum known as Shepherd's Market, and we built a gray stone house sixty feet wide and one hundred deep, linking the street to the Market. It was designed in eighteenth-century style by Achille Duchene, a French architect, better known as the landscape gardener who, with his famous father, had restored many of the ruined gardens of France to their former glories. We had not yet decided on a name for the house when, during a dinner at Marlborough House one night, the Prince of Wales with a malicious smile inquired, "What name are you giving your house—since you cannot very well call it Marlborough House?" I ventured Blandford or Sunderland House as other family names it could bear, but he was not to be denied his bon mot or his criticism for an ill-chosen site and with a chuckle, referring to one of John Duke's famous battles, he asked "Why not Malplaquet?"

  When we settled in Sunderland House the first floor with its long gallery and two salons had not yet been decorated. The entrance hall with a white and red tiled floor, a small morning room, Marlborough's sitting room and a dining room were decorated in the Louis XVI manner. Later, when I lived there alone and Sunderland House became mine to dispose of I finished decorating the reception rooms on the second floor. The architect wished to place bas-reliefs at either end of the long gallery, and in a spirit of bravado, not untinged with humor, I had one made of the Great Duke and one of my great-grandfather, the "Commodore," who just one hundred years later founded my family's fortune. The shocked sardonic glances of my English guests provided a certain relish as I realized what their caustic comments must be; and when in the numerous crusades, undertaken on behalf of social reforms, I stood on the platform with my back to John Duke and my eyes on the Commodore I wondered which of the two would most radically have disapproved my speeches.

  When Marlborough became Under Secretary for the Colonies and a member of the government my duties as hostess included entertaining guests from overseas. Long lists of important officials and guests had to be memorized for Colonials were proverbially touchy and had Mr. Smith from New Zealand been presented to Lady Snooks as coming from Australia or vice versa the result would have been disastrous. These receptions were by no means a pleasure, and I turned to debates in the House of Commons with interest and relief. Occasionally, I had the privilege of a seat in the Speaker's Gallery. The debates known as full dress were very particular occasions. One knew that one would hear the chief protagonist of whatever legislation was to be discussed and that Parliament's most eloquent orators would take part in the debate. The Liberal party's espousal of Home Rule had brought that furiously contested measure again to the fore. At that time Irish Nationalist members were a formidable and strong minority in the House of Commons. John Redmond was then leader with Timothy Healy and John Dillon as able lieutenants. They never lost an occasion to harass the Conservative government in their tactics to secure Home Rule. Mr. Balfour, as leader of the government in the Commons, was ably seconded in the Home Rule debates by Sir Edward Carson. He was the member for Ulster and also chief advocate for the continued union of Ireland with England. How well I remember those exciting debates and the roars of anger emitted by the Home Rulers whenever Sir Edward touched a vulnerable spot. He was a brilliant and practiced Councillor at the Bar and never rushed his kill. On the contrary, he seemed to play with his opponents as he restated their case and freed it from bias; then with ruthless thrusts and bitter scorn he would castigate the Home Rulers as traitors to England and to Ireland as well, since they spoke for but a part of that distraught land. There were times when, sitting in the Speaker's Gallery between Lady Londonderry, whose sympathies were for Ulster, and Margot Asquith, an ardent Home Ruler, I found it difficult to keep an impassive neutrality. It was a relief when Mrs. Lowther, the Speaker's wife, imposed the silence it was the rule to observe.

  Lady C, as Lady Londonderry was still called by those who had known her as Lady Casdereagh, should have been born in the eighteenth century. Descended from England's first earl, impressed by her splendid lineage, she made great play of those rights which the governing classes still possessed, and sought to impress others with the importance of her position. Intelligent and ambitious, she exploited her husband's position in the Conservative party in order to influence the trend of politics. Preeminently the Egeria of the Unionist Cause, she made of Londonderry House the rallying point of all conservatism. It was a fine mansion with suites of drawing rooms overlooking Hyde Park. As is the fashion in English homes, flowers were massed on every table, together with an array of autographed photographs. Political receptions were numerous and so crowded that when Lord and Lady Londonderry and the Prime Minister received, the staircase which led up to the handsome picture gallery had to be supported by scaffolding, so great was the weight of the crowds. This scaffolding and the revolting tripods placed about for the stubs of cigarettes and cigars spoiled for me the elegance of the scene. I imagined that the great Lord Castlereagh, handsome and stately in his Garter robes in Lawrence's portrait, looked down from the walls with equal disfavor on such practical concessions to our times.

  Some years later, after my separation, I was better pleased to wait upon my hostess alone in those friendly rooms while she dispensed tea and counsel. She knew that my life was a lonely one and her shrewd worldly wisdom proved a wholesome antidote to any sentimental tendencies on my part. At times her frank materialism shocked me for, to her, social and political power were all that mattered.

  Her friendly attempt to reconcile me with my husband proved abortive but on one occasion we both attended a dinner she gave in honor of King Edward and Queen Alexandra. Since separated couples were not received at Court this tacitly created an exception in our favor. It was at this dinner that the following incident so typical of a past century occurred: The ladies had moved up to the drawing rooms, leaving the men below. Coffee was about to be served when Lady Londonderry suddenly seized the royal cup from her astonished butler and with a sweeping curtsy presented it to the Queen. Startled as we all were by this curious departure from precedent, we with difficulty suppressed our amusement; but quite unperturbed our hostess explained that it was a tradition in her family thus personally to serve one's Sovereign.

  Lord Londonderry was as ardent a champion of the prerogatives of birth and position as his wife, and I remember a dinner at the German Embassy when I managed to avert what might have become a diplomatic incident. In the controversy over Home Rule which reached its heights in the years preceding World War I, Lord Londonderry who was a Unionist in the family tradition, since his ancestor. Lord Castlereagh, had brought about the Union, bitterly opposed the Prime Minister's policy of Home Rule. When Prince and Princess Lichnowsky, who were friends of mine, gave their first official dinner at the German Embassy, in honor of King George and Queen Mary, I was among those invited, and in the circle awaiting Their Majesties I found Lord and Lady Londonderry. Suddenly the doors opened and the Prime Minister and Mrs. Asquith were announced. With a snort of indignation Lord Londonderry turned to me, his face crimson with rage, and announced that he was leaving since the Ambassador had insulted him in asking him to meet Mr. As
quith. It was with the greatest difficulty that I made him realize that at a dinner in honor of the King a foreign Ambassador would have to invite the Prime Minister, that he himself should have been aware of this and that moreover he could not expect a foreigner to realize how deeply he felt the partition of Ireland. Thus was the scandal of his leaving prevented at a time when relations between Germany and England were already strained. Such incidents, revealing the idiosyncrasies of friends I loved, can in no wise detract from their sterling qualities in which courage, loyalty and kindness predominated. I have related them because they seemed to me to portray the modes and manners of a vanished past. They lived in another era and if their conceits now awaken a smile let us remember all they gave to their country in public-spirited service.

  The year following the Coronation we were invited by Lord Curzon, the Viceroy of India, to be his guests at the Durbar which was to be held in celebration of Edward's accession. Although I had known Lord and Lady Curzon only for two short years before he was, at the age of forty, appointed to this exalted position, they had always evinced a warm friendship for me which I particularly cherished. Lord Curzon's wife, Mary Leiter, was a compatriot of mine, and a dazzling beauty. I thought that she had shed her American characteristics more completely than I was to find myself able to do. Wholly absorbed in her husband's career she had subordinated her personality to his to a degree I would have considered beyond an American woman's powers of self-abnegation. I was moved by the great love they bore each other. Her admiration for her brilliant husband's conspicuous attainments, her strong partisanship, her sympathetic understanding of his faults, the humor with which she accepted the secondary role he assigned her, even in the domestic duties usually delegated to women, were altogether admirable. Indeed, as she sometimes confessed to me, her only reproach was that he would not allow her to take on the burdens that should by right have been hers alone, for the insistent and meticulous attention he gave to minor and prosaic chores often robbed him of the rest he owed his health. It was a weakness he never learned to cure. It stemmed from a deficient sense of proportion, perhaps originally due to his strict upbringing in the atmosphere so vividly described by his friend and secretary Harold Nicolson in his sympathetic book on Curzon: