Part 6

That night my husband said: “I forgot to tell you. They never talk across the table in England.” I chided him, and with some cause. I had soon discovered that in England, as in America, it was not enough to be “my own natural self.” But I came to love Mr. Gladstone. Long after that I told him the story of Mrs. Grant, who, when an awkward young man had broken one of her priceless Sevres after-dinner coffee cups, dropped hers on the floor to meet him on the same level. “Any woman who, to put any one at ease, will break a priceless Sevres cup is heroic,” I said. His answer, though flippant, was pleasant: “Any man who would not smile across the table at a lovely woman is a fool.”

Mr. Gladstone always wore a flower in his button-hole, a big, loose collar that never fitted, a floppy black necktie, and trousers that needed a valet's attention. He was the greatest combination of propriety and utter disregard of conventions I had ever seen.

The event next in importance to a presentation at court was a tea at which the tea planter Sir Thomas Lipton was one of the guests. He was not Sir Thomas then, but was very much in the limelight, having contributed twenty-five thousand pounds to the fund collected by the Princess of Wales to feed the poor of London in commemoration of Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee.

The Earl of Lathom, then the Lord Chamberlain, who looked like Santa Claus and smiled like Andrew Carnegie, was among the guests; so were Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone. Since the night he had talked to me across the table I always felt that Mr. Gladstone was my best friend in England. He had a sense of humor, so I said: “Is there anything pointed in asking the tea king to a tea?” That amused Gladstone. He could not forgive Lipton parting his hair in the middle.

That night I repeated my joke to Tom. Instead of smiling, he said: “That's not the way to get on in England. It 's too Becky Sharpish.”

And then came the day of the queen's salon. Victoria did not often have audiences, the Prince of Wales or some other member of the royal family usually holding levees and receiving presentations in her name.

Tom had warned me that there were certain clothes to be worn at a presentation. I asked one of my American friends at the embassy, who directed me to a hairdresser--the most important thing, it seemed, being one's head. She told me also to wear full evening dress, with long white gloves, and to remove the glove of the right hand.

The hairdresser asked about my jewels. Remembering what Tom had said about “junk”, I said I would wear no jewels. She was horrified, I would have to wear some, she insisted, if only a necklace of pearls. She tactfully suggested that if my jewels had not arrived I could rent them from Mr. Somebody on the Strand. It was frequently done, she said, by foreigners.

My friend at the embassy was politely surprised that Tom's wife would think of renting real or imitation jewels. In the end I insisted upon going without jewels. I had the required plumes in my hair, and the veil that was correct form at court, and my lovely evening gown and pearl-embroidered slippers, which were to me like Cinderella's at the ball.

Before I left the hotel I asked Tom to look at me critically. I was still young--very young, very much in love, and unacquainted with the ways of the world, and so heaven came down into my heart when Tom took me into his arms and, kissing me, said: “There was never such a lovely queen.”

It was about three o'clock when we reached the Pimlico entrance. Guards were on duty, and men who looked like princes or very important personages in costume, white stockings, black pumps, buckles, breeches, and gay coats, stood at the door. Inside the hall a gold carpet stretched to the marble stairs. It was a wonderful place, and I wanted to stop and look. I was conscious of being a “rubber-neck.” I might never see another palace again.

We were guided up wonderful stairs and led into a sumptuous room, where, with the other guests, we waited for the arrival of the queen and the royal family. No one does anything or says anything at a salon. A “drawing-room” is a sacred rite in England. It is recorded on the first page of the news, taking precedence over wars, decisions of supreme courts, famines, and international controversies. Her Majesty receives. To the Englishman, to be presented at court is to be set up in England as class, to be worshiped by those who have not been in the presence of the queen, and to pay a little more to the butcher and milliner.

I should have loved that “drawing-room” if I could have avoided the presentation. It was an impressive picture--the queen with a face like a royal coin, a fine, generous forehead and beautiful nose, her intelligent and kindly eyes, her ample figure, her dignity come from long, long years of rule. Back of her the Prince of Wales and the Prime Minister, who in later years I found myself always comparing to little Mr. Carnegie, the Viscount Curzon with his royal look, and in the foreground Sir S. Ponsonby-Fane, in white silk stockings, pumps and buckles, with sword and gold lace, and high-collared swallow-tailed coat. I admired the queen's black moire dress, her headdress of priceless lace, her diamonds, her high-necked dress held together with more diamonds, and her black gloves, in striking contrast to our own. I was enjoying the picture.

Then my name was called.

I had been thinking such kindly things of England--Mr. Balfour fighting for general education; Mr. Gladstone struggling to make England push Turkey back and save Greece; all England raising money for the fire sufferers of Paris and the Indian famine. What a humanitarian race they were! I felt as pro-England as any of the satellites in that room, and almost as much awed. But back of it all was a natural United States be-natural-as-you-were-born impulse. Neither Back Bay Boston nor Tom's Philadelphia friends had been able to repress it. When my name was called and I stepped up, I made the little bow I had practised for hours the day before and that morning; and then, as I looked into the eyes of the queen, I held out my hand! It was the instinctive action of a free-born American.

I have realized in the years since what a real queen she was. Smiling, she extended her hand--but not to be touched. It was a little wave, a little imitation of my own impulsive outstretching to a friend; then her eyes went to the next person, and I was on my way, having been presented at court and done what “is not done” in England.

Tom's mission in England was important. He had friends, and there were distinguished people in England who regarded him and his family of sufficient value to “take us aboard.” They were most gracious and kindly. But Tom's eyes were not smiling.

That night my husband said some very frank things to me. His position, and even the credit of our country to some extent, depended upon our conduct. He did not say he was ashamed of me, and in my heart I do not think he was; but he regretted that I had not been trained in the little things upon which England put so much weight. He suggested my employing a social secretary.

“What I need, Tom,” I said, “is a teacher. You have told me these customs are not important. They are important. I need some one to teach them to me, and I propose to get a teacher.”

In the personal columns of the Times I had read this advertisement:

'A lady of aristocratic birth and social training desires to be of service to a good-paying guest.'

I swallowed my pride and answered it. I was not her paying guest, but I employed this Scotch lady of aristocratic birth and social experience.

On the first day at luncheon, which we ate privately in my apartment, she said: “In England a knife is held as you hold a pen, the handle coming up above the thumb and between the thumb and first finger.” My sense of humor permitted me to ask, after trying it once, “What do you do when the meat is tough?” The Scotch aristocrat never smiled. “It is n't,” she answered.

I was humiliated and a little soul-sick before that luncheon ended. I had been told to break each bite of my bread; a lady never bites a piece of bread. I had been told to use a knife to separate my fish, when I had learned, oh, so carefully, in America to eat fish with a fork and a piece of bread. I might have laughed about it all had not so much been at stake, even Tom's respect.

III.

The Scotch lady of aristocratic birth and social experience lived with me one terrible week. On the seventh day I came home from shopping with presents for the twins back in Wisconsin. A day or so earlier, while my mentor was out of the room, I had asked the chef waiter of our floor about himself and his family, and found that his family too included twins. So with the present for my family I also brought some for his.

Mr. MacLeod, the member of Parliament from Scotland, and Lord Lansdowne happened to be calling when I arrived, and Tom and the Scotch lady were there. The chef waiter was taking the coats of the gentlemen callers. I received the guests, acknowledged the introductions, and then, as I removed my own coat, I handed him the little package.

When we were alone the Scotch lady turned to me. “In England,” she said, “ladies never converse with their servants, particularly in the presence of guests.”