Adventures in Journalism

by Philip Gibbs

One of the pleasantest jobs in pre-war days was a royal luncheon at the Guildhall, when the Lord Mayor of London and his Aldermen used to give the welcome of the City to foreign potentates visiting the Royal Family. The scene under the timbered roof of the Guildhall was splendid, with great officers of the Army and Navy in full uniform, Ministers of State in court dress, Indian princes in colored turbans, foreign ambassadors glittering with stars and ribbons, the Lord Mayor and Aldermen in scarlet gowns trimmed with fur, and the royal Guest and his gentlemen in ceremonial uniforms. In the courtyard ancient coaches, all gilt and glass, with coachmen and footmen in white wigs and stockings, and liveries of scarlet and gold, brought back memories of Queen Anne’s London and the pictures of Cinderella going to the ball. The gigantic and grotesque figures of Gog and Magog, carved in wood, grinned down upon the company as they have done through centuries of feasts, and at the other end of the hall, mounted in a high pulpit, a white-capped cook carved the Roast Beef of Old England, while music discoursed in the minstrels’ gallery.

Our souls were warmed by 1815 port, only brought out for these royal banquets, and we sat in the midst of the illustrious and in the presence of princes, with a conviction that in no other city on earth could there be such a good setting for a good meal. There I have feasted with the ex-Kaiser, the Kings of Portugal, Italy, and Spain, several Presidents of the French Republic, and the King and Queen of England. I remember the 1815 port more than the speeches of the kings.

I also remember on one occasion at the Guildhall that it was a brother journalist who seemed to be the most popular person at the party. Admirals of the Fleet clapped him on the back and said “Hullo, Charlie!” Generals and officers beamed upon the little man and uttered the same words of surprise and affection. Diplomats and foreign correspondents who had met “dear old Charlie” in South Africa, Japan, Egypt, and the Balkans, and drunk wine with him in all the capitals of Europe, greeted him when they passed as though they remembered rich jests in his company. It was Charles Hands of The Daily Mail, war correspondent, knight-errant of the pen, ironical commentator on life’s puppet show, and good companion on any adventure.

I once spent an afternoon with the King of Spain and his grandees, though I had no right at all to be in their company. It was at the marriage of a prince of the House of Bourbon with a white-faced lady who had descended from the Kings of France in the old régime. This ceremony was to take place in an old English house at Evesham, in the orchard of England, which belonged to the Duke of Orleans, by right of blood heir to the throne of France, as might be seen by the symbol of the fleur-de-lis carved on every panel and imprinted on every cup and saucer in his home of exile, where he kept up a royal state and looked the part, being a very handsome man and exceedingly like Henri IV, his great ancestor.

The Duke of Orleans could not abide journalists, and strict orders were given that none should be admitted before the wedding in a pasteboard chapel, still being tacked up and painted to represent a royal and ancient chapel on the eve of the ceremony.

For fear of anarchists and journalists a considerable body of police and detectives had been engaged to hold three miles of road to Wood Norton and guard the gates. But I was under instructions to describe the preparations and the arrival of all the princes and princesses of the Bourbon blood who were assembling from many countries of Europe. With this innocent purpose, I hired a respectable-looking carriage at the livery stables of Evesham, and drove out to Wood Norton. As it happened, I fell into line with a number of other carriages containing the King and Queen of Spain and other members of the family gathering. Police and detectives accepted my carriage as part of the procession, and I drove unchallenged through the great gilded gates under the Crown of France.

I was received with great deference by the Duke’s major domo, who obviously regarded me as a Bourbon, and with the King and Queen of Spain and a group of ladies and gentlemen, I inspected the pasteboard chapel, the wedding presents, the floral decorations of the banqueting chamber, and the Duke’s stables. The King of Spain was very merry and bright, and believing, no doubt, that I was one of the Duke’s gentlemen, addressed various remarks to me in a courteous way. I drove back in the dark, saluted by all the policemen on the way, and wrote a description of what I had seen, to the great surprise of my friends and rivals.

Next day I attended the wedding, and saw the strange assembly of the old Blood Royal of France and Spain and Austria. One of the Bourbon princes came from some distant part of the Slav world, and, in a heavy fur coat reaching to his heels, a fur cap drawn over his ears, a gold chain round his neck, and rings, not only on all his fingers, but on his thumbs as well, looked like a bear who had robbed the jewelers’ shops in Bond Street. At the wedding banquet one of the foreign noblemen drank too deeply of the flowing cup, and, upon entering his carriage afterward, danced a kind of pas seul and hummed a little ballad of the Paris boulevards, to the scandal of the footmen and the undisguised amusement of King Alfonso.

I made another uninvited appearance among royalty, and to this day blush at the remembrance of my audacity, which was unnecessary and unpardonable. It was when King George and Queen Mary opened the Exhibition at the White City at Shepherd’s Bush, London.

They had made a preliminary inspection of the place, on a filthy day when the exhibition grounds were like the bogs of Flanders, and when the King, with very pardonable irritation, uttered the word “Damn!” when he stepped into a puddle which splashed all over his uniform. “Hush, George!” said the Queen. “Wait till we get home!”