The Log-Cabin Lady | Page 9

line across the table is foreign soil and must not be shouted across.
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