The King certainly never agonised about the contradictions on which his life was built. Indeed he did not notice that they existed. He was a man of his time – an era in which many women who would have been scandalised by female adultery were prepared to accept with equanimity what Henry Wilcox in the Edwardian Howards End regarded as the justification for his loose behaviour: ‘I am a man and I possess a man’s vices.’ To expect Edward VII even to think about the paradoxes of his existence would have been, within the mores of his time and circle, wholly unreasonable. Edward VII was not tormented by guilt or doubt. Subtlety was not a feature of either the man or the age to which he gave his name. Nor was he an intellectual. Indeed he despised intellectual pursuits. Back in 1876, Mr Gladstone had suggested that Queen Victoria persuade her son ‘to adopt the habit of reading’. He received a frank, but deeply disappointing reply. ‘She has only to say that the POW has never been fond of reading and that from his earliest years it was impossible to get him to do so. Newspapers, and very rarely a novel, is all he ever reads.’24 Forty years later – Edward dead and England allied to France in the war against Germany – A. J. Balfour was so irritated by the suggestion that the Entente Cordiale with France had been the achievement of the King rather than the Cabinet that he wrote to Lord Lansdowne (who had been Foreign Secretary in his government) to ask for a confirmation of his recollection. ‘During the years when you and I were ministers, he never made an important suggestion of any sort on large questions of policy.’25
The implication of Balfour’s demand was that the Prince of Wales did not possess the intellectual capacity to contribute much to the government’s programme. Sir Charles Dilke, a friend, although a radical, made a more charitable assessment of the Heir Apparent’s ability.
The Prince is, of course, a very strong Conservative and a still stronger Jingo, readily agreeing to the Queen’s politics and wanting to take everything if possible, but a good deal under the influence of the last person to talk to him. So he would sometimes reflect the Queen and sometimes reflect me, or Chamberlain or some other Liberal who had been shaking his head at him. He had more sense and more usage of the modern world than the Queen, but less real brain power. He is very sharp in a way – the Queen is not sharp at all, but she carries heavier metal, for her obstinacy constitutes the power of a king.26
Dilke claimed to have formed his ‘more accurate impression’ of the Prince of Wales during the reorganisation of Gladstone’s second administration in 1882. Because Dilke had earlier supplied him with information about the inner workings of the government, Edward was determined that a place should be found for him in the Cabinet. The Queen would not contemplate a Republican becoming Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster – in her view a ‘personal office’ within her gift – so the Prince tried to reorganise the whole government. He first suggested that Chamberlain should go to the Duchy and Dilke become President of the Board of Trade. Chamberlain declined with thanks. Then he proposed Dilke for the Admiralty. When that too was rejected (by the prospective incumbent as well as the Prime Minister), he reluctantly agreed to Dilke accepting the Presidency of the Local Government Board – at the very bottom of the Cabinet ratings.
Interference – at once so detailed, so prejudiced and so determined – would have been improper if carried out by the sovereign. For the Prince of Wales to behave in that way should have been intolerable to ministers and, therefore, not tolerated. They accepted the interference because, from time to time, Edward’s unconstitutional conduct assisted them. He helped persuade Rosebery to accept the Foreign Office (for a second time) after he had initially decided to give up politics, and he convinced the Queen that her cousin, the Duke of Cambridge, should resign as Commander-in-Chief of the Army after thirty-nine years in that appointment. Tolerating the promotions and honours which the Prince of Wales demanded should be awarded to his friends and favourites was a small price to pay in return for his assistance in the pursuit of ministers’ most elusive objective – persuading the Old Queen to change her mind.
Original thought, on any subject, was not Edward VII’s forte, but, from time to time, he did try to influence government by attempting to deflect it from the course which the Cabinet had set. In the early years of his reign, disputes between the monarch and his Tory ministers more often concerned personalities than policies. The King regarded the Army and Navy as royal fiefdoms and initially aspired to sign all military and naval commissions personally. He blamed the Army’s failure swiftly to overcome the Boers on Lord Lansdowne (Secretary of State for War at the time of the early defeats) and, to a lesser extent, on St John Brodrick* who succeeded him. Lansdowne’s promotion to the Foreign Office precipitated a series of head-on conflicts. Most of them were the result of the King’s conviction that his royal birth and upbringing at Court had given him a particular talent for diplomacy, which transcended the Foreign Secretary’s limited ability. That, when combined with the special relationship which he enjoyed with the sovereigns of the Great Powers, might have offered opportunities for beneficial international initiatives. The Kaiser was King Edward’s nephew and Queen Alexandra was the Csar’s aunt. But his status as ‘uncle of Europe’ did not equip him for the task of forging Britain’s foreign policy, particularly when his démarches were directed at monarchs whose negotiations, unlike his own, were not constrained by the tedious interventions of politicians.
There was speculation at Court that ‘Lansdowne may have become a little jealous at the King being supposed to run foreign policy’. One private secretary admitted, ‘I always had the impression that if the King ever made a false move, Lansdowne, so far from defending him, would stand and look on.’27 In fact, loyalty made him overlook the false moves the King did make. They began at the beginning of his reign, when he attended the funeral of his sister, the Dowager Empress of Germany. Lansdowne supplied him with briefing notes for any discussions he might have with the Kaiser on contentious subjects. The King handed them over to his nephew, who chose to represent them as official British policy. His error did not encourage subsequent foreign secretaries to believe that Lansdowne had been wrong to ignore the King’s diplomatic talents.
When Edward came to the throne England was still an imperial oligarchy, in effect ruled by groups of aristocratic and mercantile families who were separated more by interests than by ideology. Less than half the adult population had the vote. The monarchy remained the cornerstone of the constitution, with powers which Edward’s son and grandson would gradually lose. It was his destiny to preside over changes that culminated in a constitutional monarchy at the head of a pluralistic democracy. It was a role he rarely welcomed, sometimes resisted and occasionally refused to accept. A year into his reign, his patience, as well as his acceptance of a figurehead’s role, was put to the test by a dispute over a source of constant conflict between the monarch and his ministers – the award of honours.
Lansdowne, wanting to detach Persia from Russia as part of ‘the great game’ of securing India’s northern border, invited the Shah to London with the inducement that he was likely to be made a Knight of the Garter. The King rejected the suggestion out of hand, rightly claiming that the Foreign Secretary had pre-empted his prerogative and adding, with what at the time must have seemed equal justification, that the Shah was a Muslim and the Garter was an essentially Christian order of chivalry. Lansdowne, with the self-confidence of an Old Etonian who had gone on to be one of Jowett’s star undergraduates at Victorian Balliol, suggested that the statutes of the Order be revised to accommodate religions other than Christianity and, on his own initiative, arranged for sample insignia to be made to demonstrate how easy it would be to dispense with the cross which decorated the Garter Star and replace it with the crescent of Islam. The King was on the royal yacht when he received Lansdowne’s suggestion. He threw the letter and the picture it contained out of a porthole.
Meanwhile, the Shah made clear that he had been led to believe that the initials KG would soon follow his name and that
nothing else would induce him to visit London, matching, in obduracy, the King’s announcement that, on reflection, he was not prepared to award him any honour whatsoever. With the North-West Frontier in jeopardy, the Duke of Devonshire advised the King to accept his Foreign Secretary’s advice. After much agonising about his obligations to the powers and his dignity as monarch, the King capitulated. But his relations with Foreign Office ministers were permanently impaired. When, in 1903, he set off on his tour of European capitals, he chose not to be accompanied by the Foreign Secretary. Instead Charles Hardinge – assistant permanent under-secretary and the diplomat who, in Bucharest, had negotiated the marriage between the Crown Prince of Romania and one of Queen Victoria’s innumerable granddaughters – was given the constitutionally dubious title of Minister Plenipotentiary and the exacting task of constantly advising and occasionally restraining his monarch.
It was on the King’s own initiative, enthusiastically endorsed by the Cabinet, that the President of France was informed that Edward VII, at the conclusion of a series of visits to his European relatives, would be happy to visit Paris on his way home from Rome. It was a difficult time in Anglo-French relations, but there is no doubt that Edward’s exuberant style did a great deal to bring the countries closer together. His reception was initially cool. But during the interval of a performance of L’Autre Danger at the Théâtre français, he noticed Mlle Jeanne Granier standing in the foyer. Pushing his way past the other members of the specially invited audience, he kissed her hand and said, ‘I remember applauding you in London when you represented all the grace and spirit of France.’ It was the sort of flamboyant gesture which was reported and appreciated. As a result his popularity began to grow. He was applauded at Longchamps and cheered on his way to the state banquet at the Élysée palace. On his way back to the British Embassy, he was mobbed by crowds chanting, ‘Vive Edouard!’ The Ambassador attributed the success of the visit to ‘the indefatigable readiness with which he adapted himself to the overcharged programme of functions’,28 and Hardinge reported to Lansdowne the King’s invariable agreement – after a little arguing – to accept additional engagements which he ‘knew to be irksome’.29 So came about the triumph which, in its way, was the defining incident of Edward VII’s brief reign – the Entente Cordiale. The genial picture of a pleasure-loving monarch charming the previously hostile French has become the paradigm of all that Edwardian England seemed to represent. Even Victor Cavendish, son-in-law of the snubbed Foreign Secretary, noted that the ‘King has enjoyed an unusual success’; and up in Bradford, Rowland Evans recorded that ‘The King has been cheered to the Echo in France.’ The Parisians cried ‘Vive Edouard!’ and England echoed, ‘Good old Teddy.’ Queen Victoria had clearly underestimated her son.
*When, years later, Edward attempted to effect a reconciliation by inviting Beresford to dinner, Lord Charles replied by telegram ‘Very sorry. Can’t come. Lies follow by post.’ (The World of Fashion, R. Nevil, Chapter 5.)
*A grouse with plumage which changed from grey in summer to white in winter.
*Royal victories included the Grand National, the Two Thousand Guineas, the Newmarket Stakes, the St Leger and the Derby with Diamond Jubilee and its brother Persimmon.
*Only two great houses refused to entertain Mrs Keppel: Welbeck and Hatfield.
*Let us hope it was not ‘Mad Carew’ from the ‘Green Eye of the Little Yellow God’ who ‘for all his foolish pranks was worshipped in the ranks.’
*According to the OUP Concise Dictionary of National Biography, Brodrick also spelt his name Broderick.
CHAPTER 3
The Powers Behind the Throne
From his very earliest interventions in politics and the processes of government, Edward was fortunate in being surrounded by men who – putting aside what they knew to be defects in his character – thought it their duty to protect as well as advise the future king. In part he made his own good fortune. He possessed a natural charm which, when he chose to employ it, won over critics of his lifestyle and doubters about his capabilities. And he unscrupulously cultivated those from whose help he believed he would benefit.
Even William Ewart Gladstone – always too candid in his advice for Victoria’s taste – became a friend of sorts. When the Grand Old Man won his second term of office, and the Queen made plain that she would ‘rather abdicate than have that half-mad fireball Prime Minister’, it was her son who convinced her that neither Granville nor Hartington could be persuaded to usurp the Liberal Party leadership and that the rightful Prime Minister would not ‘ruin everything and become a dictator’. With the Prince of Wales’s authority, a message expressing hope of a reconciliation was sent to Granville in the knowledge that its contents would be passed on to Gladstone himself. Sensible people accepted that ‘if the Queen would only look upon Mr Gladstone as a friend instead of as an enemy of Her Majesty and the Royal Family (which Prince Leopold delights in persuading her he is) she will find him all that she could wish’.1 The Queen was infuriated by the doubts the message cast on both her judgement and the integrity of her younger son, but the Prince of Wales continued to cultivate Gladstone by sending him Christmas and birthday presents and inviting him to private dinner parties at Marlborough House.
Gladstone, classical scholar, part-time theologian and full-time prig, could never bring himself to approve of the louche prince. His attitude towards the Marlborough House Set is best exemplified by his arrival at a soiree at which Joe Chamberlain was already playing cards with His Royal Highness. ‘Behold,’ said the Grand Old Man, ‘the apotheosis of the Birmingham screw manufacturer!’ The Prince of Wales must have realised that only duty and deference reconciled Gladstone to his company. But he paid proper respect to the greatest of all British Prime Ministers – even when he had nothing more to gain by cultivating him. Much to Queen Victoria’s fury, the Prince of Wales acted as one of the pall-bearers at Gladstone’s funeral.
By the time of Edward VII’s accession to the throne, Gladstone had been dead for three years and Rosebery – the friend whom the King had persuaded Gladstone to make Foreign Secretary and then talked out of premature retirement after the death of his wife – had first briefly won and then permanently lost the leadership of the Liberal Party. Salisbury, as austere as Gladstone but, despite his politics, less agreeable to the King, was His Majesty’s First Minister. Because of his long apprenticeship, the new sovereign held strong and usually prejudiced views about all the great figures of Commons and Lords.
The first Cabinet of Edward VII’s reign was made up of men who had grown old in the service of Queen Victoria. Lord Salisbury himself was Prime Minister for the third time. He was seventy-one. It was thirty-four years since he had first accepted the Seals of a Secretary of State. The Duke of Devonshire, Lord President of the Council and Leader of the Liberals within the Unionist Coalition,* was sixty-eight. He had served as a junior minister in Lord Palmerston’s government in 1863. The Chancellor of the Exchequer, Sir Michael Hicks Beach, was a mere sixty-four and his ministerial experience stretched back for no more than a quarter of a century. His years in office had been interrupted by sudden blindness – a disability which mysteriously struck him down and then miraculously disappeared.
It was not only age which made Salisbury unsuitable to lead Britain into the twentieth century. He was instinctively in favour of allowing events to take their natural course. The result was splendid isolation abroad and masterly inactivity at home, a policy supported in his Cabinet as much by the Gladstonites who had deserted the Grand Old Man over Home Rule as by the Tories with whom they had made common cause. Few people doubted that the higher ranks of the government were in urgent need of new blood.
The two young Turks, A. J. Balfour and Joe Chamberlain, were both middle aged and each of them was handicapped by character weaknesses which were simultaneously attractive and destructive. It was assumed, on both sides of the House, that Balfour, Leader of the Commons and Salisbury’s nephew, would succeed his uncle as Pr
ime Minister. But his patrician view of government seemed increasingly outdated at a time when working men aspired to sit in Parliament. He had no doubt that the aristocracy had a duty to serve the nation and that no other class could adequately protect its interests, and he did not believe that men like him should demean themselves by struggling for office. His sister-in-law, Lady Frances Balfour, said that she had never met a politician who so lacked political ambition. ‘Arthur’s opportunities were all made for him. He did not push or pull himself into the Irish Secretaryship’,2 his first Cabinet appointment. But, once in Dublin Castle, he behaved with a brutality that caused his critics to change the sobriquet with which they characterised him from ‘Pretty Fanny’ to ‘Bloody Balfour’.
The Duke of Devonshire, who had himself twice declined the premiership because he thought that honour required him to stand aside, judged that Balfour’s only fault, ‘if fault it could be called, [was] a sort of indolence and strong contempt for popularity – but his sense of duty [was] strong enough to overcome all this’.3 That sense of duty encouraged him to return to the Cabinet as First Lord of the Admiralty in Lloyd George’s Great War coalition, ten years after the government he led was defeated. When he died, Ramsay MacDonald, paying tribute to him in the House of Commons, caught his whole character in one brilliant sentence. ‘He saw a great deal of life from afar.’4
The Edwardians Page 5
