The Glitter and the Gold Read online

  I was impressed by the splendor of the receptions I attended. The stately houses in which they were given had a lordly air, though they could not, I thought, compare with the lovely homes the French aristocracy had built entre cour et jardin in Paris. Nevertheless, they were ideal for entertaining and in their galleries and drawing rooms one could admire treasures from Italy and France often acquired on the European tours young noblemen of the eighteenth century considered the fitting climax to their education.

  In Devonshire House, which no longer stands behind its gates in Piccadilly, the Duke and Duchess had always ruled the more liberal circles of society but in my day the Duke's party was Liberal-Unionist and his Duchess was no longer a passionate Whig—nor would her kiss have won an election as did Georgiana Duchess's in the Westminster Election of 1784 when

  Arrayed in matchless beauty Devon's fair

  In Fox's favor takes a zealous part;

  But oh! where'er the pilferer comes, beware!

  She supplicates a vote, but steals a heart.

  Just behind stood Lansdowne House. Alas, that so perfect an example of an Adam House should have been demolished! In its fine rooms the Marquess of Lansdowne, Queen Victoria's Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, entertained everyone of importance. Montagu House in Whitehall which in Stuart days stretched its gardens to the River Thames still stands, but in shrunken grounds. At a ball given there by the Duchess of Buccleuch, the Queen's Mistress of the Robes, a typical Victorian scandal occurred. An Indian shawl presented to her by the Queen, which the Duchess had, with several others, kindly provided for any guests who wished to sit in the garden, was not returned by its wearer. The affair became as it were a symptom of the downward glide of modes and manners and shocked great ladies into startled disapproval.

  At Apsley House which overlooks Hyde Park and Rotten Row I recall a ball given some years later by the Duke and Duchess of Wellington at which King Edward VII, Queen Alexandra, the Duke and Duchess of Sparta and a vast number of Royalties were present. The Waterloo Gallery, in which it was held, was hung with red damask and with the pictures belonging to the Royal Spanish Collections captured from Joseph Bonaparte at the Battle of Vittoria and subsequently presented to the Duke by the King of Spain. As always in those days, there was a royal quadrille in which only those invited took part. A colorful figure at the ball was the Austrian Monsignor Vay de Vaya, Apostolic Protonotary. I knew him well, for he often came to Blenheim where in his violet cassock—made, it was rumored, by a celebrated Paris couturier—his jeweled chain and pectoral cross he gave just the right note of eighteenth-century ecclesiastical elegance. There were also present two great foreign ladies of considerable beauty—the Princess di Teano, later the Duchess of Sermoneta, who in her Memoirs describes this evening, and Princess Henry of Pless—the golden-haired Daisy Cornwallis West. I thought the women had never looked lovelier—perhaps because the rooms were lit by candles. The Duke had prepared a bridge room for the King's use with cards of the kind he was supposed to prefer brought specially from Vienna. The procession into supper— strictly in order of precedence—consisted of the seventy or eighty most important people at the ball. It was arranged at five tables in the dining room where dinner had previously been served to seventy-two guests. As was customary then the dinner had an endless number of courses which were served on silver platters and plates presented to the first Duke of Wellington. The family owned a series of such services; one presented to the Duke by the Portuguese government after the Indian campaigns, the service he used when Ambassador in Paris, and still others given to him by foreign sovereigns.

  The foreign embassies were houses of importance. The ambassadors then were aristocrats and diplomats of the old school. They belonged to a world which was European and aloof. One met them at Marlborough House rather than at Buckingham Palace, for the Queen lived at Windsor in the seclusion of her widowhood and Marlborough House had become the real seat of the Court.

  At Marlborough House one saw not only ambassadors and statesmen but the gay social set which the Prince and Princess of Wales delighted to entertain. It was a cosmopolitan circle in which Count Albert Mensdorff, the popular Austro-Hungarian attaché, and the Marquis de Soveral, Portugal's Minister to the Court of St. James's, were invariably seen. They were both agreeable, amusing and gay, both bachelors and both courtiers, and both had a fund of good stories and an inexhaustible store of gossip which they imparted with the necessary spice a mischievous delight in certain peccadilloes gives. Count Mensdorff was proud of his Coburg blood and claimed a distant relationship to the royal family. Gifted and discreet Monsieur de Soveral, who was dubbed the Blue Monkey by those who envied his success, knew more about the affairs of the great than any Father Confessor. He made a point of always addressing the Princess of Wales in the third person, as is customary in France with whose exiled royal family he was on friendly terms.

  In those days fashionable society was to be seen in Hyde Park, where in the mornings we rode thoroughbred hacks and looked our best in classic riding habits, and where again in the evening, elaborately bedecked in ruffles and lace we drove slowly back and forth in stately barouches. At a given hour we lined up near Grosvenor Gate to see the Princess of Wales pass, lovely and gracious as she bowed to right and left. Few people had barouches, however, for it was difficult to find a fine pair of seventeen-hand horses, and I regretted the day Marlborough decided we must have one. The caleche sprung on C-springs had a swinging motion; the coachman perched high in front obstructed one's view and when one wished to alight one had to wait for the footman to open the door and let down the steps. Circulation in the London streets was rendered dangerous, for the horses with true patrician pride objected to anything as plebeian as an omnibus. Whenever possible I surreptitiously took a hansom and went shopping.

  Marlborough, who liked doing things in the grand manner, had ordered himself a cab and, when going for a drive in this beautiful little mailphaeton, sometimes invited me to accompany him. There was a hood over the seat and behind it a platform on which stood a diminutive groom, or tiger as he was called. To drive in such elegance one naturally wore one's best clothes, and Marlborough had a gray swallow-tailed jacket and a high gray hat. A white gardenia in his buttonhole gave the finishing touch.

  A crimson state coach had also been ordered. This was a resplendent affair, with the coachman in a beautiful livery of crimson cloth with silver braid on which were stamped the double-headed Eagles of the Holy Roman Empire, of which Marlborough was a Prince. The coachman wore a white wig under his hat and had white plush knee breeches and silk stockings and a fine red coat with capes. On the platform behind the coach stood two powdered footmen similarly attired. One evening on our way to dinner one of them ignominiously fell off. Knocks behind us called our attention to the fact that something had gone wrong, and when the coach drew up the remaining footman got down to explain that the other had lost his balance at a sudden turn. Fortunately the delinquent arrived at a run, none the worse for the mishap which, although it annoyed my husband, was to me but a cause for amusement.

  In this magnificent equipage I went with my mother-in-law to Buckingham Palace where I was to be presented at an afternoon function known as a Drawing Room. The Prince and Princess of Wales stood deputy for Queen Victoria, who had withdrawn from such mundane and tedious duties. The Princess of Wales—Queen Alexandra as she soon became—was, as everyone knows, a beautiful woman. Like the Empress Eugenie she had sloping shoulders, and her breasts and arms seemed specially fashioned for a fabulous display of glittering jewels. When she entered the ballroom at Buckingham Palace, her hand lightly resting on her husband's, she always seemed to me the personification of grace and dignity. I can still feel the little thrill of excitement the roll of the drums and the National Anthem gave me as the royal procession entered the ballroom. The great Officers of State were then the Earl of Lathom, the Lord Chamberlain, and the Earl of Pembroke, the Lord Steward. They were both over six feet in height and, be
ing exceptionally handsome men, in their Court uniform looked magnificent as with their staves of office held before them they walked in backward, facing the King and Queen. I did not realize until told by Lord Pembroke how difficult it is to keep a straight line when walking backward and to execute a turn in unison without ever looking to right or to left. I could never take my eyes from the lovely Queen as she approached the dais and bowed proudly and yet with such grace first to the Corps Diplomatique on the left then to the peeresses on the right of the Throne, and finally to the assembled company. She was most often dressed in white with the blue ribbon of the Garter. On her head glittered a tiara; pearls and diamonds cascaded from neck to waist. The lovely oval of her face, accentuated by a built-up coiffure, the faint smile, the little arrogant nose were so perfect one could not have dreamed of a fairer Queen.

  For my presentation, my wedding dress had been cut low and with the court train looked bridal and festive. Around my waist was the diamond belt my husband had given me and on my head a diamond tiara; there were also pearls in profusion. Later I received the following lines signed "The Patriot" which appeared in an American paper. I include them in deference to their sentiment.

  OUR CONSUELO OUTSHINES THE COURT

  Our fair young duchess far outshone

  The royal dames about her.

  In grace and diamonds all her own

  Our Consuelo far outshone

  The greatest there, in regal tone-

  How can we do without her?

  Three cheers for her who quite outshone

  The royal dames about her.

  When my train was taken from my arm and spread I realized the ordeal had begun. In front of me, through the door, I saw a long row of royal personages to whom I should have to curtsy. Sensing that there was a natural curiosity concerning the debut of the American bride, I was anxious to acquit myself with dignity since it was no easy task to perform so many curtsies gracefully. I was glad, therefore, when Lady Blandford assured me that I had carried it off in the manner born, adding, "I must tell you that no one would take you for an American."

  Always susceptible to criticism of my compatriots, I said rather hastily, "I suppose you mean that as a compliment, Lady Blandford, but what would you think if I said you were not at all like an Englishwoman?"

  "Oh, that is quite different," she answered airily.

  "Different to you, but not to me," I countered, laughingly; but my mother-in-law then realized that there were certain reflections concerning Americans I would not tolerate.

  When we came out of the Palace the band of the Household Cavalry in their beautiful gold uniforms was playing and, as we swung down the Mall in our stately coach with the friendly crowds cheering and waving I felt the little glow of pleasure Cinderella must have experienced when her pumpkin changed into a coach.

  That first London season was a hectic time. We dined out nearly every night and there were always parties, often several, in the evening. Indeed, one had to exercise discretion in one's acceptances in order to survive the three months' season which ended with the ball at Holland House, the Earl of Ilchester's house in Kensington. It had been the home of Charles James Fox, and the old brick house with its fine library and paneled rooms had remained much as he had left it. That ball was always an event to look forward to, for there was a huge and lovely garden where couples could roam at will. Whether it was the moonlight or the end of the season and the dispersal of London society for the summer, no one knew; but it is certain that many marriages were settled at the Holland House balls, and the dimly lit gardens were more popular than the ballroom.

  A ball at Grosvenor House stands out partly because it was there that I first saw Gainsborough's lovely "Blue Boy," which is now in the Huntington Collection in California, and partly because of a curious incident which only royal prerogative could excuse. Interrupting a dance, an equerry suddenly approached and brought me to the old Duke of Brunswick, the father of the man who later married the German Emperor's daughter. He was Wind and asked me if I would object to his running his fingers over my face, since only so could he know what I looked like. It was an embarrassing procedure but I felt too sorry for him to refuse.

  In those days we danced quadrilles with an occasional polka and the intoxicating Strauss and Waldteufel waltzes played by Viennese orchestras. We took a frantic amount of exercise whirling around until too giddy to continue, for reversing, for some unknown reason, was tabooed in royal circles.

  A London ballroom was a sight worth seeing, with the lovely women the British aristocracy has always bred. Lady Helen Vincent, later Lady d'Abernon, was generally considered the most beautiful. Her skin was transparently white and she used make-up to enhance her ethereal appearance. Hers was not a classical beauty. It was the haughty carriage of her tall figure, the poise of her proud head, the arrogance of her up-tilted nose, the blue haze of her eyes, that made her the acknowledged queen. Lady Westmoreland, whose sisters Lady Warwick and the Duchess of Sutherland were also considered beauties, had perhaps the most perfect face. I can see her now in a Greek peplum impersonating Hebe at a Devonshire House fancy dress ball. The gray feathers of a stuffed but lifelike Eagle perched on her shoulder set off the glorious sheen of her red-gold hair. It would be tedious and invidious to enumerate them all, but there was a galaxy of lovely women whose beauty was enhanced by an aristocratic distinction.

  The opera season at Covent Garden owed its success to Lady de Grey and to Mr. Harry Higgins. Lady de Grey, who later became the Marchioness of Ripon, was a tall, remarkably handsome woman, and like her brother Lord Pembroke, had a regal bearing. When she entered a room her presence at once made itself felt not only because of her astonishing beauty which was haughty and aristocratic, but also because of some strange attraction in her curious eyes and eager lips. She had a Bohemian circle of friends in which the de Reszke brothers and Nellie Melba were often seen, and she dominated the frivolous set as Lady Londonderry dominated the political. Her little informal dinners were invariably gay and amusing. She was one of the favorites of the Princess of Wales, who loved practical jokes and so delighted in an informal atmosphere that her hostesses were sometimes put to it to supply just the right touch in the way of amusement. I recall one of Lady de Grey's dinners at which we were all startled by a frightful clatter of broken china. I was amazed to see the Princess in fits of laughter while Lord de Grey, our host, remained unmoved. It appeared that at a previous dinner a footman had dropped a tray of Lord de Grey's valuable china, producing the amusement that the misfortunes of others usually create; since then the incident had been repeated, with the china specially bought for making a noise.

  So great was Lady de Grey's social prestige that she inspired an unmusical but snobbish public to attend the opera, a task in which she was assisted by Mr. Harry Higgins. He was a popular member of society, and was married to the former Mrs. James Breese, an American widow whom as a child I used to watch playing croquet with my mother. Thanks to him and to Lady de Grey we had Wagner cycles conducted by Hans Richter; Verdi, Gounod and Meyerbeer operas. Carmen with Calve, and contemporary works by Massenet and Puccini.

  The famous Gaiety Theatre patronized by the young bloods had no need of a social Egeria. Mr. George Edwardes had an infallible flair for a potential theatrical star, a faculty that later brought him a knighthood. To him we owed George Grossmith, Edna May in The Belle of New York, Gerty Millar who later became Countess of Dudley, and Joe Coyen with whom Lily Elsie shared the honors of The Merry Widow. The Empire Theatre which also belonged to Mr. Edwardes had such outstanding performances that it became the first music hall to be attended by royalty and the Prince and Princess of Wales's presence effectually counteracted Lady Lansdowne's admonition against music halls. Then was His Majesty's Theatre with Sir Herbert and Lady Tree in the plays of Pinero, Stephen Phillips, Galsworthy, Ibsen and Oscar Wilde. The latter had lost his lawsuit against the Marquess of Queensberry in 1895 and had been incarcerated in Reading Gaol. When Sir Herbert T
ree produced The Importance of Being Ernest the author's name was not announced and, although the secret of Wilde's pseudonym was known to many, London society flocked to the first night. The brilliant audience seemed to contain everyone of note, from the Prince of Wales to Sir Ernest Cassel, then in the heyday of his financial success. A few days later he was dubbed "The importance of being Ernest Cassel" by some wit who facetiously added, "for God blessed Egypt but Cassel damned the Nile."

  In the afternoons we would drive to Ranelagh, to Roehampton and to Hurlingham. Ranelagh had been the resort of fashion in the eighteenth century when Richard, Viscount Ranelagh, had built a mansion there and had laid out gardens which in 1742 were thrown open as a proprietary place of entertainment. Its vogue had been short lived, but in my day it had once again become fashionable, with the addition of modem sports as entertainment. There we watched Inter-Regimental Polo matches, which were slow-motion affairs compared with the International matches. But they were gay, intimate and friendly, and women wore the badges of their husbands' regiments or, in the case of a flirt, sported a more discreet ribbon.

  There were serious days when Parliament claimed our attention and we sat behind the Grille in the Speaker's Box listening to Mr. Arthur James Balfour, leader of the Conservative party in the House of Commons, winding up a debate in the elegant and scholarly manner still in practice; or perhaps in the Peeresses' Gallery, looking down on the Lords, we heard Lord Rosebery castigating the government and the venerable Marquess of Salisbury's dignified but no less caustic defense. When the Archbishops of Canterbury and York rose to intervene they were listened to with all the respect their lordships owed their spiritual rulers. When the Chancellor on his Woolsack raised a point of order it was immediately subscribed to, for, even in the heat of debate, courtesy ruled in this august assembly. There were so many noble lords that only the ministers or the best speakers attempted to hold the ear of the House, and, when a young peer was chosen to move or second Her Majesty's address at the opening of Parliament, he knew that with his maiden speech he could either make or mar a future political career. A full dress debate in the House of Lords was an event to be looked forward to, for, whatever the subject, there would be speakers of renowned eloquence and erudition. Experiencing the excitement the Greeks must have felt when matching one orator against another, one strained to hear every word, for it would never do to miss a point or to fail to appraise an eloquent peroration. The English language never seemed so rich and so beautiful as when spoken by these cultivated men who owed their education to the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge. The polished elegance of their phrases, the purity of their diction and the pleasant pitch of their voices made of these debates something more than the mere expression of political loyalties. It was as if a standard of excellence had to be maintained and a forum created for the perfect presentation of any opinion. One of the finest speeches I ever heard was delivered by the old Duke of Argyll against "The Deceased Wife's Sister's Bill" which sought to do away with the ban on the marriage of a widower with his dead wife's sister. The combined eloquence of the Duke and of the Bishops did not prevent the passing of the Bill, but the debate furnished a flow of oratory reminiscent of the best days of the eighteenth century.