Christopher Hibbert - Edward VII - The Last Victorian King

Such stories were well received since it was the King himself who told them. But a less courtly audience would, no doubt, have been less indulgent. The King’s tendency to jovial banter would also have been found less amusing in other men. Occasionally the King really was amusing, as when a neighbour, Somerville Gurney, inadvertently shot a hen pheasant one day late in the season when instructions had gone out that only cocks were to be killed. ‘Ah, Gurney,’ the King admonished his guest as the hen fell to the ground, ‘what a one you are for the ladies!’ The laughter his Majesty’s sallies aroused, however, encouraged him to continue the chaff to the point where the responses became dutiful rather than spontaneous.

Sir Felix Semon was a common butt for the King’s insistent banter after he had shot a young stag below the minimum admissible weight. Ashamed of his action, Semon had retreated to a corner of the drawingroom where the guests assembled before dinner. But immediately on entering, the King went up to him and in a hoarse stage whisper, clearly heard throughout the room, accused him of being a ‘chicken butcher’. The remark was greeted by prolonged laughter which continued to punctuate the subsequent exchanges:

‘Oh, Sire, that is hard!’

‘Not too hard. It is thoroughly merited! How could you shoot such a miserable staggie? Defend yourself!’

Semon protested that he had not intended to kill so young an animal.

‘That won’t wash. If you were a young lad who had gone out stalking for the first time I might possibly accept such an excuse. But you, you have killed hundreds of stags. Be ashamed of yourself! You will have to hear of this until your life’s end.’

‘I hope your Majesty will not be as good as your word.’

‘Won’t I? Well, you will see!’

For several days the bantering continued with persistent references to ‘Sir Felix’s babies’ until Semon was reported to have caught a 15-pound salmon. The King publicly congratulated him; then, after a long pause, added the question, ‘Did it have horns?’

More loud laughter broke out immediately; and there was further merriment the next day when Semon shot three fully grown stags before luncheon, during which the King told his eldest grandson to go up to Sir Felix and enquire ‘if he had killed a little staggie to-day’. At this there was ‘general laughter’.

‘Who set you on to this?’ Semon asked.

‘Grandpa,’ came the reply, ‘which set the laughter going again, the King shaking with mirth the whole time’.

Tiresome as some guests found what the Duchess of Teck termed the King’s ‘odious chaffing’, everyone who knew him well agreed that he had a kind heart. This was never more obvious than it was at Christmas when he and the Queen spent hours together in the ballroom at Sandringham arranging presents on the trestle tables which were laid out around a big Christmas tree.

He delighted in giving presents, whether chosen with care — like the huge silver-gilt inkstand he gave to the Gladstones on their golden wedding anniversary to make up for the impersonal telegram of congratulations from Queen Victoria — or given impulsively, like the gold cigarette-case he presented to Margot Tennant for having picked him out a winner at Ascot. When staying with friends he would often be driven to a nearby antique shop to choose them something he thought they would like; or, when special services had been rendered, he would order a commemorative present to be specially made. To Sir Walter Campbell, Deputy Ranger of Windsor Park, who had cleared the park of rabbits which had become a pest there, he presented a silver model of a rabbit with the remark that there would at any rate be one rabbit left at Windsor. And to Lord Burnham of Hall Barn, Beaconsfield, he gave a silver pheasant ‘as a recollection of the best day’s shooting’ he had ever had. Friends going abroad were liable to be asked to buy him a selection of suitable gifts, as was a visitor to the Paris Exhibition to whom he sent 5,800 francs to spend ‘on any bibelots or objets d’art’ which took her own fancy and which he would find ‘useful as birthday and Xmas presents’.

At Christmas at Sandringham guests were required to wait in the corridor outside the ballroom before dinner and to come in one by one to receive the gifts which had been wrapped up for them. Frederick Ponsonby thought this was

a rather trying experience as one found the King on one side and the Queen on the other explaining who gave what present and giving particulars about the various articles. One stood gasping one’s thanks to each alternately, and it was always a relief when the next person was called in. It was impossible to make a set speech, and most people, including myself, continued gasping, ‘Thank you so much.’

Ponsonby himself was quite overcome by the number of presents he received: ‘There were prints, water-colours, silver cigarette-cases, a silver inkstand, pins, studs, and several books.’ But it was all ‘beautifully done, and the pleasure of giving seemed never to leave their Majesties, as it so often does with rich people’.

On Christmas Eve it was the turn for the families on the estate to gather near the coach-house door where the King and Queen sat to wish them a Merry Christmas and to give each family a joint of beef. And on New Year’s Eve all the servants collected outside the ballroom where huge piles of presents, about eight hundred in all, and each one numbered, were massed around the Christmas tree. As the servants entered the room they drew two numbers each and were handed the corresponding presents by one of the princesses or a member of the household. It was not a very satisfactory method of distribution, as ‘a housemaid might get a razor and a footman a powder-puff’; but it ‘seemed to give much pleasure. At the conclusion the Christmas tree was stripped and all the toys and sweets were given to the children’.

The ballroom was also the setting for those occasional theatricals and musical performances which were intended to form one of the highlights of the Christmas festivities but which many of the guests found extremely boring. Indeed, a week-end at Sandringham, despite the informality of the atmosphere and the King’s efforts to make his guests feel at home, was sometimes a rather tedious affair, particularly as solitary pursuits and pleasantly lazy idling were discouraged. ‘What are you going to do to-day?’ the King would ask; and if no satisfactory answer were forthcoming, there would follow a recommendation of some activity which the guest might well feel totally disinclined to pursue. So, rather than be sent off to play billiards, to watch a game of golf or to join one of those games which were played after tea, the wary and experienced guest would say that he was on his way to read a book in the library or to have a look at the collection of fire-arms in the gunroom. Any excuse would satisfy the host; but some plan of action had to be given, otherwise the King would immediately propose one or endeavour to entertain the indolent guest himself. And his efforts in this respect were not always successful. Sir Felix Semon cited the example of an antiquated bishop who could not be sent off to play billiards or croquet and who, when his host endeavoured to engage him in conversation, seemed to share not a single interest with him. The King switched in despair from one subject to another without arousing the least response. At length, catching sight of a photograph of himself on a side table, he thought he would try that as a last resort. What did the bishop think of the likeness? The bishop put on his spectacles, peered at the photograph, then shook his head in a melancholy manner before replying, ‘Yes, yes, poor old Buller!’

For those who did not play cards, the evening after dinner often seemed excessively long; while for those who did, it could seem even more so if they happened to be playing with the King. He was very fond of bridge, which he nevertheless did not play very well, soon losing interest when his cards were bad, yet never failing to criticize his partner’s mistakes without the least equivocation or apology. He soon recovered his temper, however, after even the most unsatisfactory game, accepting his winnings with complacent satisfaction and paying out his losses as though he were bestowing upon his opponent a most valuable present. And when he was ready to go to bed, between one o’clock and half past one, he was usually as affable as he had been during the day, making sure that everyone had a good supper, recommending the grilled oysters which were his own favourite refreshment at that time of night, going upstairs, as he had done in his youth, to escort the men guests to their rooms, to make sure that they had all that they could possibly require and to give a token poke to the fire in the grate.