On the day of the opening, vast crowds had assembled in the grounds, but were not allowed to enter the exhibition buildings until the royal party had passed through. The press were kept back by a rope at the entrance way, in a position from which they could see just nothing at all. I was peeved at this lack of consideration for professional observers, and when the royal party entered and a cordon of police wheeled across the great hall to prevent the crowd from following, I stepped over the rope and joined the royal procession. As it happened, the police movement had cut off one of the party—a French Minister of State who, knowing no word of English, made futile endeavors to explain his misfortune, and received in reply a policeman’s elbow in his chest and the shout of “Get back there!”
I took his place. The King’s detective had counted his chickens and was satisfied that I was one of them. As I was in a new silk hat and tail coat, I looked as distinguished as a French Minister, or at least did not arouse suspicion. The only member of the party who noticed my step across the rope was Sir Edward Grey. He did not give me away, but smiled at my cool cheek with the suspicion of a wink. As a matter of fact, I was not so cool as I looked. I was in an awkward situation, because all the royal party and their company were busily engaged in conversation, with the exception of Queen Alexandra who, being deaf, lingered behind to study the show cases instead of conversing. Having no one to talk to, I naturally lingered behind also, and thus attracted the kindly notice of the Queen Mother, who made friendly remarks about the exhibition, not hearing my hesitating answers. For the first time I saw a royal reception by great crowds from the point of view of royalty instead of the crowd—a white sea of faces, indistinguishable individually, but one big, staring, thousand-eyed face, shouting and waving all its pocket handkerchiefs, while bands played “God save the King” and cameras snapped and cinema operators turned their handles. When I returned to my office I found the news editor startled by many photographs of his correspondent walking solemnly beside Queen Alexandra.... The French Minister made a formal protest about his ill treatment.
King Edward was not friendly to press correspondents, especially if they tried to peep behind the scenes, but many times I used to go down to Windsor, sometimes to his garden parties, and often when the German Emperor or some other sovereign was a guest at the castle. I am sure there was more merriment in the Castle Inn where the journalists gathered than within the great old walls of the castle itself, where, curiously enough, my own father was born.
These royal visits were generally in the autumn, and the amusement of the day was a battue of game in Windsor Forest, in which the Prince of Wales, now King George, was always the best shot. The German Emperor was often one of the guns, but seemed to find no pleasure in that “sport”—which was a massacre of birds, and preserved an immense dignity which never relaxed. Little King Manuel, then of Portugal, shivered with cold in the dank mists of the English climate, and only King Alfonso seemed to enjoy himself, as he does in most affairs of life.
Another journey to be made once a year by a little band of descriptive writers—we were mostly always the same group—was when King Edward paid his yearly visit to the Duke of Devonshire in his great mansion at Chatsworth, in the heart of Derbyshire. Always there was a torchlight procession up the hills from the station to the house, and the old walls of Chatsworth were illumined by fireworks which turned its fountains into fairy cascades, and the great, grim, ugly mansion into an enchanter’s palace. Private theatricals were provided for the entertainment of the King—Princess Henry of Pless and Mrs. Willie James being the star turns. The performances struck me as being on the vulgar side of comedy, but King Edward’s love of a good laugh was a reasonable excuse, and surely a king, more than most men, gains more wisdom from the vulgar humor of people than from the solemnities of state.
I used to be billeted in a cottage at Eversley near Chatsworth, while other members of the press put up at an old hotel kept by an old lady who had more dignity even than the Duchess. She insisted upon everybody going to bed, or turning out, at eleven o’clock, and this was a grievance to a young journalist named Holt White, then of The Daily Mail, who was neck and neck with me in a series of chess games. One night when we were all square on our games and walking back together to the cottage at Eversley, he said: “We must have that decisive game. Let’s go back and get the chess things.”
I agreed, but when we returned to the hotel, we found it in darkness and both bolted and barred. By means of a clasp knife, Holt White made a burglarious entry into the drawing-room, but unfortunately put his foot on a table laden with porcelain ornaments, and overturned it with an appalling crash. We fled. Dogs barked, bells rang, and the dignified old lady who kept the hotel put her head out of the window and screamed “Thief!” This attempted burglary was the talk of the breakfast table next morning at the Devonshire Arms, and was only eclipsed in interest by a “scoop” of Holt White’s, who startled the readers of The Daily Mail by the awful announcement that the Duke had cut his whiskers, historic in the political caricatures of England.
I had the honor of acting as one of a bodyguard, in a very literal sense, to King Edward on the day he won the Derby. When Minoru won, a hundred thousand men broke all barricades and made a wild rush toward the Royal Stand, cheering with immense enthusiasm. According to custom, the winner had to lead in his horse, and without hesitation King Edward left the safety of his stand to come on to the course amid the seething, surging, stampeding mass of roughs. The Prince of Wales, now King George, looked very nervous, for his father’s sake, and King Edward, though outwardly calm, was obviously moved to great emotion. I heard his quick little panting breaths. He was in real danger, because of the enormous pressure of the foremost mob, being pushed from behind by the tidal wave of excited humanity. The King’s detective shouted and used his fists to keep the people back, as involuntarily they jostled the King. The correspondents, photographers, and others linked arms and succeeded in keeping a little air space about the King until he had led his horse safely inside.
By a curious freak of chance, I and a young colleague on the same paper—The Daily Chronicle—were the first people in the world, outside Buckingham Palace, to hear of the death of King Edward.
The official bulletins were grave, but not hopeless, and the last issued on the night of his death was more cheerful. All day I had been outside the Palace, writing in the rain under an umbrella, a long description of the amazing scenes which showed the depths of emotion stirred in the hearts of all classes by the thought that Edward VII was passing from England.