AT THE PEACE TALKS The Ball
The major social event during the Peace Talks was the Gala Ball at San Simeon. Hearst’s monstrous white castle had been bought for the nation by an unknown benefactor some years before and re-erected on the site of the old Convent of the Poor Clares at Ladbroke Grove, where it was now a familiar local landmark and a favourite tourist attraction, more impressive, in the opinion of many, than the buildings of Versailles, Canberra or Washington.
Everyone had been invited. Commentators said that it was equal in magnificence to the Great Exhibition, the Diamond Jubilee, the New York World’s Fair or the Berlin Olympics. In a mood of immense optimism (the Peace Talks could be said to be going splendidly) the castle was prepared for the Ball. Illumination of every sort was used. There were tall Berlage candelabra of silver and gold in which were fitted slender white and yellow candles; Schellenbühel crystal chandeliers holding thousands of red candles; Horta flambeaux in brackets along the walls; huge globular gas mantels, electric lights of a hundred different shades of colour, neon of the subtlest and brightest, antique oil lamps the height of a man, and little faceted glass globes containing fireflies and glow-worms, strung on threads through the grounds of the various ‘casas’ which made up the whole of the original Hearst complex. Hearst himself had always called his castle the Enchanted Hill. Now, of course, it was, if anything, an Enchanted Dale. The Casa Grande, with its twin Hispano-Moresque towers containing thirty-six carillon bells, its hundred rooms and its ornate bas-reliefs carved from white Utah limestone, dominated the other three ‘guest castles’ arranged before it, north, south and west—Casa del Monte, Casa del Sol and Casa del Mar. Tall cypresses, willows, poplars and firs had been planted thickly among the buildings, replacing the Californian palms which had once grown there. Within the branches of the trees and the privet hedges had been buried more tiny lights to make the gardens sparkle like fairyland. Rhododendrons, poinsettias, orchids, chrysanthemums, roses and azaleas grew in well-ordered profusion and the overall appearance reminded at least one visitor of the old roof garden at Derry & Toms blown up to an enormous scale (“and none the worse for that”). Bas-reliefs decorated the Spanish walls of the gardens and there were copies of famous statues from all over the world, in marble and granite or cast in terracotta or bronze, one of the grandest being Boyar’s copy of Canova’s ‘The Graces’ in St Petersburg. This statue, in the classical manner, was permanently illuminated and showed Joy, Brilliance and Bloom, representing, in the words of the guide book, “all that was beautiful in Nature and that which was gracious and charming in Mankind”. The Times, in its leader for the day of the ball, had written: “It is to be hoped that this lovely statue will symbolise to the guests the rewards which they can win if their talents are devoted to the pursuit of peaceful endeavour, rather than to Strife and her attendants, Greed and Envy.” Many newspapers had echoed these sentiments in one form and another and even the weather, which had been singularly delightful for several weeks, seemed to make a special effort for the occasion. All through that day hundreds of footmen, housemaids, cooks, butlers, kitchen-maids and pages had hurried to and fro among the lavish rooms preparing them for the ball. There was to be available every kind of culinary delight. In the ballrooms (or those rooms which had been turned into ballrooms for the occasion) musicians practised many styles of music. The flags of all nations, embroidered in threads of precious metal on the finest silks, glittered from the walls. Tapestries in rich brocades proclaimed the glories of those nations’ histories and the set pieces of the buffet tables were the great national dishes of the world. In the grounds were mixed forces of soldiers, arranged there both for ceremonial and for security reasons, their dress uniforms dazzling in the variety of their colourings, their swords, pikes and lances shining like silver. Through rooms lush with mosaics, murals, carvings and bas-reliefs, with gilt and silver and enamelling, with paintings and sculpture from Egypt, Greece, Rome, Byzantium, China and India, from Renaissance Spain, Italy and Holland, from eighteenth-century France and Russia, from nineteenth-century England and America, with tiled floors and inlaid floors set with mother-of-pearl and platinum, with wall hangings and curtains from Persia, with carpets from Afghanistan, with carved wooden ceilings from sixteenth-century Italy and seventeenth-century Portugal, all polished so that they shone with a deep, warm glow, crept the smells of roasting ox and sheep and pigs and calves, of delicious curries and dhansaks, of Chinese soups and fowl, of paellas, strudels, and bouillabaisses, of succulent vegetables and subtly spiced salad dressings, of pies and cakes and pâtés, of glazes and sauces and gravies, of bombes surprises, of lemon, orange, pineapple and strawberry water-ices, of peacocks and quails, grouse, pigeons, ortolans, chickens, turkeys, wild ducks, turning on spits or stewing in pots, of rotkraut and kalter fisch, of syllabubs, of sausages and baked ham, of tongue and salt beef, of fruits and savoury roots, of carp and haddock and halibut and sole, of mushrooms and cucumbers, of peppers and bamboo shoots, of syrups, creams and crêpes, soups and consommés, of herbs and fats, of venison and haggis, of whitebait, mussels and shrimps, of hares and rabbits and caviar, of livers and tripes and kidneys. There were wines and spirits and beers from every province of the world. There were glasses and steins and goblets of the clearest crystal and the most exquisite china. Cups and plates and dishes of gold, pewter, silver and porcelain stood ready to receive the food; pretty girls and handsome men in national costumes stood ready to serve it. Only one tradition would not be kept tonight: there would be no host or hostess to receive the guests. The first guests to arrive would make it their business to receive the others and introduce them after the Master of Ceremonies had announced them in the main ballroom. This peculiar arrangement had been considered the most diplomatic. And now the sun was setting. The ball was about to begin.
* * *
“I do hope,” said Miss Brunner, curling her ermine robe over her arm as Prinz Lobkowitz helped her from the carriage, “that we are not the first.” Up the marble staircase they went, between rows of rigid soldiers holding flickering candelabra, to where, from behind colonnades, two footmen appeared and took their invitations, bearing them through the great gold doors into the anteroom of lapis lazuli where they were handed to a head footman, in scarlet and white with a tall, many-waved white wig which curved outwards over his head, who gave them to the Master of Ceremonies who bowed, read the cards, bowed again and ushered them through doors of crystal and filigree into the blazing splendour of the great ballroom.
“Prinz Lobkowitz and Miss Brunner!”
“But we are.” Miss Brunner glowered furiously as her name and his echoed through the empty expanse. She smoothed her green velvet gown and fingered the pearl collar at her throat.
“Is it my fault, dear lady,” Prinz Lobkowitz was equally put out, “if you are obsessed with time? We are always too early.”
“And, consequently, always too late,” she sighed, making the best of it. They walked slowly towards the far end of the hall. They inspected the servants; they went to the sideboards and tasted a morsel or two while glancing rather disdainfully about them at all the opulence. “What a lot of gilt.”
He turned solicitously to listen, his many orders dazzling her for a moment. “Mm?”
“Gilt.”
“Ah.” He nodded thoughtfully, his patent leather toe tracing whorls of mother of pearl on the floor. “Quite so. A great deal of it. Still, perhaps we’ll be able to do something about that now. We mustn’t quarrel. That would not be in the spirit of the occasion.”
“I’m reconciled to that,” she said.
Footsteps sounded in the distance. They looked towards the doors. They saw the Master of Ceremonies raise a scarlet sleeve and read the card before him:
“The Right Reverend, Father in God, Dennis, by Divine permission Lord Bishop of North Kensington!” intoned the MC.
“He’s overdoing it a bit, isn’t he?” Miss Brunner prepared to receive Bishop Beesley. The corpulent priest had dres
sed himself in his cloth-of-gold cloak, his most ornate mitre and held a crook so rich in engravings and curlicues that it outdid anything San Simeon could offer. The bishop’s pale face broke into a smile as he saw his old friends. He waddled slowly forward, his eyes wandering over the cakes and trifles on the buffet tables. At last he reached the pair and, with his attention still on the food, held out a beringed hand, either to be kissed or to be shaken. He did not seem offended when they did neither. “My dear Miss Brunner. My dear Prinz Lobkowitz. What a scrumptious feed they’ve laid on for us! Oh!”
From the gallery, musicians began to play selections from Coward’s Private Lives.
“How charming,” said Bishop Beesley, leaning forward and scooping up a handful of syllabub in his palm and sliding it gracefully into his maw, licking each of his little fat fingers and then both his little fat lips. “How nice.”
Again the great voice echoed:
“My Lady Susan Sunday and the Honourable Miss Helen Sweet!”
“Well!” whispered Miss Brunner. “The SS. I hadn’t expected her. Her friend looks worn out.”
“Captain Bruce Maxwell!”
“And I thought he was dead,” said Bishop Beesley.
“His Excellency the President of the United States.”
“And he looks it,” said Miss Brunner. She smiled as Lady Sue and Helen approached. “How delightful.”
Prinz Lobkowitz noticed how alike the two older women were. Miss Brunner had been right about Helen Sweet. The girl had faded. Even her ball gown was a faded blue in comparison with the royal blue of Lady Sue’s.
“My dear!” Lady Sue was saying. She embraced Miss Brunner. A slim, well-corseted woman in a dress by Balenciaga, she wore six strands of blue diamonds at her powdered throat, with matching pendant earrings and tiara. It was to be an evening of ostentation, it seemed. “Good evening,” said Helen Sweet mildly.
The band was now playing an instrumental version of ‘Little Red Rooster’.
Captain Maxwell was shaking hands with Prinz Lobkowitz. The captain’s hands were cool and damp. There was sweat on his brutish forehead. His great backside, much heavier than any other part of him, seemed to waggle in sympathy. “Good to see you, old boy,” he said in a military accent (though in fact he was a Salvationist).
“Professor Hira!”
In impeccable Indian dress the small professor crossed the floor, nervously fingering his white turban. His coat was of deep pink silk with little round panels of a lighter pink stitched into it. The trousers matched the panels. The buttons were perfect pearls.
“Professor Hira!” Miss Brunner was genuinely pleased to see the physicist. “How long has it been?” She scowled. “Will it be?” She smiled. “Well, how are you, anyway?”
“So so, thank you.” He did not seem to share her pleasure at the meeting.
“Mr Cyril Tome.” Thin, pale, with white hair but with lips so red they seemed rouged, his hornrims glittering, the critic and would-be politician stood in his monkish evening dress for a second or two beside the Master of Ceremonies before braving the floor. Nobody greeted him.
“Mrs Honoria Cornelius and Miss Catherine Cornelius.”
“Good God!” said Captain Maxwell, chewing a stick of celery. “Who d’you think put her on the list?” Largely because it was what they had all been wondering about him, nobody answered. “Honoria, eh? I bet!”
“Major Nye and Captain Nye.”
“They do look alike, don’t they?” murmured Lady Sue to Miss Brunner. It was true. Save for the obvious difference in ages, father and son might have been the same man. The impression was sharpened by the fact that they wore the uniform of the same regiment.
The guests began to spread themselves a little more evenly around the perimeters of the room.
“The Right Honourable Mr M. Hope-Dempsey.”
“He’s drunk!” murmured Prinz Lobkowitz as the young Prime Minister looked vaguely around him, then weaved genially in the general direction of the others, his long hair waving behind him. He seemed to have a live animal of some sort hidden under his coat.
“It’s a cat,” said Miss Brunner. “Where on earth did he get hold of it?”
The guests were now arriving thick and fast. Vladimir Ilyitch Ulianov, resident in China and extremely old and bad-tempered now, wearing a baggy black suit, hobbled in. Following him was his friend and protector the Eurasian warlord General O.T. Shaw, ruler of North China. Beside Shaw was Marshal Oswald Bastable, renegade Englishman and chief of Shaw’s air force. After them came Karl Glogauer the Revivalist, small, shifty, intense; a tall, moody albino, whose name nobody caught; the ex-Literary Editor of the Oxford Mail; a score or so of assorted conference delegates; Hans Smith of Hampstead, Last of the Left-Wing Intellectuals; the Governor-General of Scotland; the Viceroy of India, the King of North Ireland, the recently abdicated Queen of England; Mr Roy Hudd, the entertainer; Mr Frank Cornelius and his companion Mr Gordon ‘Flash’ Gavin; Mr Lionel Himmler, the theatre impresario; Mr S.M. Collier, the demolition expert; Mr John Truck, the transport expert and Minister of Controls; the Israeli Governor of Central Europe; Admiral Korzeniowski, President of Poland; General Crossman (Crossman of Moscow) and Lady Crossman; Miss Mitzi Beesley and Dr Karen von Krupp; Miss Joyce Churchill, the romantic novelist; the cathedral correspondent of Bible Story Weekly and his son and daughters; the Paris correspondent of Gentleman’s Quarterly and his friend Sneaky Jack Slade, the blues singer; Miss Una Persson and Mr Sebastian Auchinek, her agent; a Lapp parson called Herr Marek; Colonel Pyat and Miss Sylvia Landon, Présidente of the Académie Française; more than a hundred of the finest male and female film stars; a round thousand politicians from all over the world; thirty American deserters; five fat field marshals; eighty-six ex-nuns from the original Convent of the Poor Clares; some Arabs and a German; Spiro Koutrouboussis, the Greek tycoon, with a group of other Greek millionaires; a bank manager and a television script-writer; a Dutch soldier, the King of Denmark and the King of Sweden; the Royal Canadian Mounted Police rugby team; Mr Jack Trevor Story, the jazz band leader, and Miss Maggie Macdonald, his star singer; the Queen of Norway and the ex-Emperor of Japan; the Governor of England and his chief advisor General U.W. Cumberland; Mr Francis Howerd, the comedian; a number of dons who wrote children’s novels at Oxford; the most corrupt and feeble-minded paperback publisher in America; Mr Max Miller, the comedian; a number of television producers; Nik Turner, Dave Brock, Del Dettmar, Robert Calvert, Dik Mik, Terry Ollis: members of the Hawkwind orchestra; some advertising executives, pop music critics, newspaper correspondents, art critics, editors and recording artists and showbiz personalities including Mr Cliff Richard, Mr Kingsley Amis, Mr Engelbert Humperdinck and Mr Peter O’Toole; the Dalai Lama; some Trades Union officials; thirteen schoolmasters; Mr Robert D. Feet, the pedant (who had thought it was a Fancy Dress Ball and had come as G.K. Chesterton); Miss Mai Zetterling and Mr David Hughes; Mr Simon Vaizey, the society wit, and a host of others. They ate, they conversed, they danced. The mood became gay and the worst of enemies became conciliatory, claiming with sincerity and passion that they had never really disliked one another. Peace was just around the corner.
“We could all be said to be prisoners, Mr Cornelius,” Bishop Beesley was saying as he munched a piece of shortbread, “and these revolutionists are perhaps the most hopeless of all prisoners. They’re prisoners of their own ideas.”
“I’ll drink to that, bishop.” Frank Cornelius raised his champagne glass. “Still, abolish war and you abolish revolution, eh?”
“Quite so.”
“I’m all for the good old status quo.”
Miss Brunner was laughing. Gordon Gavin, for all he was dressed in evening clothes, still managed to give the impression that he was clad from neck to knee in an old gaberdine raincoat. The seamed and seedy face, the hot, guilty eyes, the hands that rarely left the pockets of his trousers or else hovered helplessly near his flies, all contributed to the impression. “I’m flattered,” said
Miss Brunner. “but I’m afraid all my dances are spoken for.” Flash looked relieved.
The musicians were playing Alkan’s Symphony for the Piano on the theme ‘Five’ to waltz-time. Mrs Cornelius was having marvellous fun. All the boys were after her! She clutched the little Lapp parson, Herr Marek, to her and raced him round the floor. He was scarcely visible, buried, as he was, in her bulk, but he seemed to be enjoying himself. He had an evil glint in his eye as his muffled, heavily accented English came from the region of Mrs Cornelius’s bosom. “Morality, my dear lady, what is that? If it feels good, do it. That’s my philosophy. What do you say?”
“Yore naughty, that’s wot I say!” She laughed comfortably, completing a pirouette which took him off his feet. He giggled. They just missed colliding with Colonel Pyat and one of the most beautiful of the ex-nuns, Sister Sheila.
The dance ended and the laughter and the conversation swelled. Not only the main ballroom was packed, now. All the subsidiary ballrooms and many of the guest rooms were crowded. As Dick Lupoff was to report to the LA Free Press, “the world’s finest were letting their hair down that night”.
The band struck up with ‘A Bird in a Gilded Cage’ and many of the guests began to sing the words as they took their partners for the dance. The babble of voices grew gayer and gayer. Champagne corks popped and glasses clinked.
Prinz Lobkowitz was commiserating with the ex-Queen of England as they waltzed discreetly in the shadows beneath the musicians’ gallery. “My dear Helen, it is a situation one can never really get used to. Training, you know, and background. Not, of course, that you were expecting anything, I suppose, at the beginning.”
“The epidemic…”
“Exactly. At least Lady Jane was executed. Poor girl.”