For Bessie, everything now had a rosy glow, from dinner en route with a retired general and his Afghan wife – ‘such a feast! Asparagus, ices, entrees, everything quite as grand as in Simla’ – to a fruitless search for flowers along a hillside path, ‘so we sat down & then the time passed so quickly that we were nearly late for luncheon’.
Once at Simla, the concerns of the world reasserted themselves. Tongues were wagging and though Bessie agreed with her fiancé and her father that the engagement should not be announced until the replies from home had been received, ‘so that it should be clear to all that H.E. is fond of him,’ she found it ‘horrid to be talked about’. She was also worried about deserting her father, to whom she was devoted and, with her mother so constantly ailing, who had come to rely on her companionship.
But eventually the day dawned, when the gossip and speculation surrounding her ceased. The engagement was announced in the papers on Wednesday 18 May, to be followed by a blizzard of letters of congratulation, all of which had to be answered, although she did manage to escape from time to time for some walks with Henry and a search for more flowers. Finally, after much discussion, it was decided that the wedding should take place in Simla in September rather than wait until they arrived home. For both Bessie and Henry it was a great relief that the engagement would not be prolonged. Her sisters were to be bridesmaids, together with four young friends.
‘Henry looks happy, always, now,’ she wrote to her Aunt Louisa, ‘and has arranged what he is to wear and what to buy. He thinks a frock coat and grey-blue silk tie for the wedding, and a grey or light brown suit for going away. Mother thinks for my going away dress a fawn stuff with a white velvet toque trimmed with fowl’s feathers. Then Mother thinks I should have a tailored gown of dark bluish grey lovat mixture for London and ordinary use here; a little gown of tussore silk trimmed with blue ribbons and insertions . . . Henry wants to give each of the bridesmaids a turquoise brooch.’ (These were made of three interlocking rings, shaped like a trefoil.)
A month before her wedding she was telling Aunt Louisa how fond her parents were of Henry. ‘They love Henry and they are always so pleased to see him . . . I cannot help looking back sometimes and being sorry that for so many years I have often imagined him proud or despising when he was all the time far too good for either. He naturally thinks “the kind thing” which again and again reminds me of father . . . he has decided with Father and Mother that I am not to take his name Babington which is only a Christian name.’
At the opening of the annual Simla Picture Exhibition she and Henry made their first public appearance as a couple. ‘H.E. drove with Her E. and I came after with Henry. He wore grey clothes and I had a white dress with small tan hat trimmed with feathers & a white ribbon to match.’
The next day, at 10.30 in the evening, as her father was playing patience, an office box was brought to him in the drawing room by one of the scarlet-coated orderlies – to disturb H.E. at such a time meant news of great importance. Lord Elgin opened the box and saw therein one telegram. Folding it and clasping it tight he left the room, saying in a low voice as he passed his wife the one word: ‘Curzon!’ Next day the news that Curzon was to succeed him as Viceroy was officially announced.
On Friday 16 September the staff of the Private Secretary’s Office and Printing Press laid on an elaborate entertainment in honour of Bessie and Henry. There were addresses, a concert, snake charmers, a flower boy who sang and presented flowers, songs by the bridesmaids and an appearance by the god and goddess of love. Henry was given a handsome salver, made a graceful reply and then God Save the Queen was sung.
At last the great day dawned. Thursday 22 September was a blue and cloudless day, the church was decorated with bamboos, pampas grass and big white and pink lilies. Bessie wore a white brocade dress draped with old Brussels lace, a Brussels lace veil held in place by a myrtle wreath, a bouquet of lilies and myrtle and the pearl necklace Henry had given her. Bride and groom left the church under the raised swords of a guard of honour from the Punjab Light Horse. The bridal party went to the reception by carriage; everyone else followed by rickshaw or on horseback.* The 700-lb wedding cake, for which 4,000 eggs had been used, was carried round on large silver plates. The presents were admired – the jewellery was not put out but there were three tables of silver things – business was suspended at the Government office and the employees given a half holiday, and the happy couple left at 5.15 in a carriage, to spend their honeymoon half at The Retreat and half at Naldera.
Henry Babington Smith turned out to be a prize Fishing Fleet catch: he went on to become one of the most successful civil servants of his generation, known for his sense of unselfish service. On their return from India he and Bessie were sent immediately to Natal (he went as Treasury Representative in the South African War). There followed a variety of posts, from President of the National Bank of Turkey to Minister Plenipotentiary on Lord Reading’s 1918 visit to the United States. He died at only sixty, loaded with public honours* but declined a peerage because he did not feel rich enough to support it and he wanted his nine children to make their own way in the world. Bessie survived him by more than twenty years but never remarried, dying at sixty-six.
9
‘There are so many “Ladies”’
Viceregal Entertainments
Viceregal entertaining was of a glamour unknown to the courts of Edward VII, George V and George VI, let alone that of Queen Victoria, thanks to the size and vistas of the viceregal palaces, the plethora of servants in their scarlet and gold uniforms moving noiseless and impassive among the guests, the scents of the flowers, the brilliance of the light and, above all, the presence of the princes.* Their dark skins gleaming in satin coats with jewelled buttons, diamond and emerald aigrettes that flashed in the light of the candelabra adorning their silk puggris, and swathed in ropes of pearls and diamonds worn with a regal insouciance, they were figures of dazzling exotica. ‘Pearls as big as thrushes’ eggs, uncut emeralds of enormous size lay on their chests like green lakes,’ wrote Gertrude Bell, one of the guests at the 1903 Durbar. Less flatteringly, of the dust she said: ‘You eat it, you drink it, you live in it.’
The greatest ‘party’ during the time of the Raj was undoubtedly the Coronation Durbar of 1903, held to celebrate the coronation of King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra as Emperor and Empress of India. It was devised in meticulous detail – as he did everything – by the then Viceroy, Lord Curzon. It lasted two weeks and was a dazzling, dramatic display of pomp and power, made possible by the precision of superb organisation and split-second timing.
In a few short months at the end of 1902, a deserted plain was transformed into an elaborate tented city, threaded with a temporary light railway stopping at sixteen ‘stations’ to bring the crowds of spectators out from Delhi, containing a post office with its own stamp, telephone and telegraphic facilities, a variety of stores, a police force with specially designed uniform, a hospital, magistrates’ court and complex sanitation, drainage and electric light installations. Tents, many with fireplaces, were laid out in streets that were outlined by plants in pots and lit by electric light. There were three tent cities, the Viceroy’s, the Commander-in-Chief’s, and that of the Bombay Presidency.
The ceremonies began on 29 December 1902, with a parade of elephants (the actual Durbar Day was New Year’s Day 1903). Then came rehearsals, reviews and parades, foot soldiers marching, drilling and presenting arms, mule batteries and teams of big white bullocks pulling guns, softly plodding camels, the cavalry galloping and wheeling, the glint of weapons, the gold and silver cannons of Baroda dragged by white bullocks caparisoned in gold and silver, rearing elephants, horses that walked on their hind legs and the flash of brilliant uniforms glimpsed through clouds of dust.
Ruby Madden, then aged twenty-six, was a fascinated but dispassionate observer. She had already been to an evening reception at Government House (‘I wore a black and white dress with cerise roses on the corsage’), whe
re she was introduced to the Maharaja of Mysore. ‘Quite young, with the most exquisite emeralds and diamonds you ever saw. He had a collar round his neck and then chains to his waist of huge pear-shaped stones, an aigrette in his turban and armbands to match and he was dressed in yellow satin. He speaks English beautifully and is so good looking.’
She had also had a ride on an elephant, climbing up a silver ladder on to a gold-clad one that belonged to the Maharaja of Kashmir, and she admired the bearing and splendid uniforms – white frock coats, glistening with gold embroidery, blue cummerbunds and turbans with diamond aigrettes – of the Imperial Cadet Corps, the sons of the Indian aristocracy, on their black chargers bedecked with the skins of snow leopards.
Yet despite their looks, wealth, power, breeding and exquisite courtesy, neither the Maharaja of Mysore nor any other prince could hope to pass through the portals of an English club – although they were welcome guests in viceregal palaces and Government houses. The feeling that the British were the superior race was so strong that it even marred Curzon’s Durbar.
Some time before, three British troopers of the 9th Lancers had beaten an Indian cook to death. When Curzon heard of this he was furious and when the men were shielded by their officers he became even angrier and insisted that they were punished. The 9th Lancers were a smart and popular regiment, and public sympathy for them, even in England, was such that there was a general outcry. In a Minute on this, Curzon wrote: ‘If it be said “Don’t wash your dirty linen in public”. I reply “Don’t have dirty linen to wash!”’
Curzon was undeterred by the general sentiments against him and the criticism that he was ‘on the black man’s side’; and he and the Commander-in-Chief, Lord Kitchener, decided to withdraw leave privileges for all the 9th Lancers for six months – a smarting public humiliation for such a proud and honoured regiment. There was also talk by the military authorities of not allowing them to take part in the durbar but, magnanimously, Curzon overruled this ban.
It resulted in a shaming display of disregard for natural justice and poor manners on the part of the British spectators. In the words of Dorothy Menpes:* ‘Just before the 9th Lancers passed, the atmosphere was electric. As the regiment came into view the whole stand rose and cheered itself hoarse; women waved their handkerchiefs . . . men flourished their sticks and shouted bravados . . . There is no doubt about it, the fact of the Viceroy’s guests standing up and cheering showed exceedingly little tact . . . this was hardly a fitting moment to give vent to their feelings. It was a distinct stab at the Viceroy . . . He did what from his standpoint he knew to be absolutely right. For his own guests to choose that moment to insult him seemed hard and ungenerous. Let me add that Curzon had spent £3,000 of his personal money to host these low people at the Durbar.’ (Curzon had the gift of facing embarrassment with equanimity: when he heard that on the last night of the durbar seven soldiers from a Welsh regiment had beaten a native policeman to death outside Delhi, he merely remarked to his wife Mary: ‘It is a pity that we cannot have another Review for them to receive a popular ovation.’*
Although most people arrived well beforehand, the durbar festivities – for that is how they were generally seen – began after the opening ceremony on 29 December 1902, with the state entry by elephant into Delhi, the Curzons themselves sitting in a gold howdah underneath a gold umbrella. There were cavalry and gymnastic displays, bands, parades and polo matches, with dinners and dances given by notables encamped in ‘tent city’ in the evening (it must be remembered that Eastern tents were so luxurious and sophisticated that Napoleon had one of his rooms at Malmaison decorated like the inside of one, with drums for occasional tables). There were firework displays, special medals were struck, and dinners and dances galore.
Ruby Madden was invited to one of the grandest dinners. It was given by Lord Kitchener, then at the height of his reputation. The victorious General of the South African War, he had been heaped with honours and he remained – in the eyes of the public – the pre-eminent military figure until his death by drowning in 1916. ‘I robed myself in my best black with velvet in my hair which went up rather nicely and white roses,’ she wrote on 23 December. ‘I looked quite nice and Claude [her brother-in-law] and I drove off in our Victoria, he looking a love in uniform.
‘I was opposite [Lord Kitchener] so had a good look at him. He is just like his pictures but with a dreadful squint in his left eye. It turns right out when he is talking at you. It fascinated me so I could hardly listen to what he was saying. The dinner was excellent and we ate off lovely silver plates, used for the first time . . . The candle sticks were all gold and huge urns and salt cellars were all gold, presentations from the different cities. He has all the late Queen’s Indian servants. They came to him and said they thought she would like them to serve him. They are all dressed in white and gold with a huge coronet and “K” on their chests.’ Later in the evening Lord Kitchener asked her to sing – there was even a grand piano in the tent – and came to stand beside her at the piano, listening. ‘He thanked me so nicely. It was a most successful evening and I enjoyed myself hugely.’
After the durbar came the state ball. Here, according to Ruby Madden, the rajahs looked like walking jewellers’ shops – one, in the Imperial Cadet Corps, could not wear his jewels himself so brought with him an attendant dressed in yellow satin to display them instead.
Although British India was ruled from Calcutta up to 1911, all of the three important durbars were held in Delhi. With its 3,000-year-old history and ancient buildings and its past as capital of the Moghul empire, it was the obvious choice for these later imperialists.
The first durbar, held over a fortnight during December 1876, marked the proclamation of Queen Victoria as Empress of India (on New Year’s Day 1877), and was largely an official occasion, although attended by about 100,000 people, all eager for spectacle. Again, it was a tent city, with the encampment of the Viceroy (Lord Lytton) illuminated by gas. Sixty-three princes were present as well as several hundred nobles. After the proclamation, which took place on an open plain, there was a feu de joie that caused the elephants to bolt, scattering the crowd in all directions.
Twenty years later, the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee was celebrated in Simla, where the Viceroy, now Lord Elgin and his family, had moved during the hot weather (the actual Jubilee Day was Tuesday 22 June 1897).
Gifts were presented by deputations from Bombay, Lahore, Calcutta, Benares, Allahabad. Next day attention was directed to Viceregal Lodge. ‘A dais was arranged in the big drawing room, which was covered with a gold carpet, and two chairs of state were behind,’ wrote Lady Elisabeth Bruce. ‘Everyone who comes to the reception tonight is to pass by and shake hands with their Exes [the Viceroy and his wife]. Then they can go into the ballroom and look at the caskets presented by the deputations. The English people shake hands and pass by; the natives are all to be announced . . . Her E wore her blue velvet gown with the tiara, diamond necklaces and order and looked very lovely indeed. She stood beside H.E. who was in uniform.’
The third grand durbar was the Coronation Durbar of 1911, attended by the newly crowned King George V and his Queen, Mary – the only one at which a ruling Sovereign was present. For this, a twenty-five-square-mile ‘coronation city’ of tents, many of the greatest luxury, housed potentates, participants and their visitors. There were dining tents, drawing room tents lined with pink brocades, smoking room, billiards room and banqueting room tents. By now motor cars were popular; along the forty miles of dirt road – covered with a thick layer of black oil to damp down the inevitable dust – drove the fleets of cars belonging to the grander princes.
Here Lilah Wingfield, accustomed to the conventions and etiquette of the British social Season, was a guest, with an ayah instead of a lady’s maid. ‘We each had a large tent to ourselves, which was luxuriously furnished. We had luncheon in the mess tent. Roads and railways built, post offices and shops erected and all for ten days’ festivities this huge amount of money
has been spent.’ Everyone brought their finery: one visitor noted that for the finals of numerous polo matches the onlookers wore ‘Ascot frocks’, as they watched and listened to the massed bands of 2,000-odd performers.
‘There are a good many women in camp, nearly all visitors, as few of the officers are married,’ wrote Lilah. ‘I heard jackals howling at night . . .’ The Delhi weather varied daily from hot to cold. ‘We take thick overcoats and furs with us when we go out in the afternoon with a boiling sun overhead and wearing a linen frock. It got bitterly cold when the sun went down at five o’clock. Basil [the brother of her friend Sylvia] and I call each other by our Christian names now, he treats me like another sister and it is delightful being able to treat him with no formality.’
One night they were asked to a dance by Lady Bute. ‘[It] was only from 9.30 until 12 as everyone had to get up early to be in their places for the King’s State Entry into Delhi. I found an old friend, Ronnie Fellowes, and I danced the first dance with him and he brought up two other men whom he said wanted to be introduced. Lady Bute introduced me to the Maharaja, a slim boy of about twenty-one, gorgeously dressed in pale blue satin brocade, pale blue satin trousers turban and wonderful jewels.’
Once again, Lilah found herself enjoying the experience – common to so many Fishing Fleet girls – of being mobbed by eager young men. So much so that when, after the State Reception she and her friend Judy went on to a dance at the club (‘with a Mrs Starkie, who promised to chaperone us’), she received a declaration from one of them. But the level-headed Lilah was not swayed. ‘Jorrocks thought he was in love with me and said so but I told him it was only moonlight and romance and the spell of the East, which offended him rather I’m afraid!’
The Fishing Fleet Page 15
