Here's a piece I wrote for today's
Times about the Queen's clothes (see below, with one of Cecil Beaton's wonderful pictures of the Coronation, and, above, his contact sheet from a photographic shoot of the Royal family in 1942). I'm up in Scotland for a few days, where the sun is shining, and the Tarland Jubilee celebrations in full swing (of which more later). The gardens at
Tillypronie are open tomorrow afternoon, and the rhododendrons and azaleas are in perfect bloom. There will be tea and cakes and much else besides... pictures to follow, although I always hope that I meet some blog friends in the garden...
If what we wear is an
indication of who we are, then the Queen’s formal wardrobe is the ultimate
emblem of Royalty: her identity as monarch made material in the splendour of
her robes. And yet her reign began in a simple black dress, grieving for the
death of her father, George VI, in February 1952. Her mourning clothes were already
part of her travelling wardrobe, a sartorial precaution, given the King’s ill
health (she was in Kenya when he died, and flew back to London, stepping off
the plane in a black coat and hat). After being met at the airport by the then
Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, Elizabeth returned to Clarence House, where
her 84-year-old grandmother Queen Mary curtseyed and kissed her hand, while
also issuing a reminder of what was to be a lifetime of royal dress codes:
‘Lilibet, your skirts are much too short for mourning.’
Nine days after her accession
to the throne, Elizabeth II attended her father’s funeral in a long black veil,
face shrouded like those of her mother and grandmother, hemlines well below the
knee. It was not until the following year, 1953, that her Coronation took
place; so this summer’s colourful Jubilee celebration has as its counterpoint a
darker anniversary of bereavement. George VI was 56 when he died, his daughter only
25 when, in her mother’s words, she faced ‘the great and lonely station to
which she has been called’. As the Queen’s biographer Sally Bedell Smith
observes, ‘Particularly at the outset, Elizabeth II’s focus was on showing
gravitas as monarch… The freedom she enjoyed as a young princess – she once
attended a ball at the American ambassador’s residence dressed as an Edwardian
parlour maid, with Philip costumed as a waiter – had to be subdued, at least in
public.’
Yet she had already proved
herself more than able to balance the demands of propriety with a more private
informality; never more so, perhaps, than as a young bride in November 1947,
wearing a gown designed by Norman Hartnell. Elizabeth’s wedding dress was
embroidered with 10,000 pearls, and in the aftermath of the Second World War
the tiniest of details was significant, as Hartnell noted in his memoir, ‘on
grounds of patriotism’, right down to the origins of the silk worms. Hartnell
used Scottish satin, but not before ascertaining ‘the true nationality of the worms’,
Italian or Japanese larvae having been deemed unsuitable. As it turned out, the
worms were from China, which allowed Hartnell to proceed ‘with a much easier
conscience.’ Noel Coward, who attended the pre-wedding ball at Buckingham Palace,
as well as the ceremony itself at Westminster Abbey, recorded the events in his
diary: ‘The most lovely sight I have ever seen. Everyone looking shiny and
happy; something indestructible... English tradition at its best.’
But after the glorious pageantry
came an entirely different kind of honeymoon outfit: in the seclusion of the
Balmoral estate, where Elizabeth went deer stalking with her husband, dressed
in army boots and a leather wool-lined jacket. Here, the fairytale princess
felt ‘like a female Russian commando leader followed by her faithful
cut-throats, all armed to the teeth with rifles,’ as she described it in a
letter to her cousin Margaret Rhodes. Her countrywoman wardrobe has remained consistent
over the ensuing six decades; somewhat less ferocious than her honeymoon
vignette, but completely traditional, with well-polished stout shoes, sturdy tweeds,
practical mackintosh, Royal Stewart kilts, cardigans and silk print headscarves
knotted under her chin. These latter provide a clue to her determined
character; an expert horsewoman, the Queen refuses to wear a hard riding hat,
prompting her staff to observe that ‘the only thing that comes between the
Queen and her heir is an Hermes scarf’ (although in her view, this is
indicative more of practicality than a dare-devil streak; she prefers not to
squash her trademark hair-do).
The pendulum swing between
public display and privacy, even mystery, has been maintained throughout her
reign, perhaps nowhere more clearly reflected than in her wardrobe. This was
evident even on the spectacular day of her Coronation on June 2nd
1953, all of it televised except for the most sacred moments of her anointing
by the Archbishop of Canterbury. Hartnell was again commissioned to make the
gown, based along the same lines as her wedding dress, but embroidered with the
symbols of the United Kingdom and the Commonweath. At first, the couturier was
dismayed to discover that these emblems must include a Welsh leek, rather than
a daffodil, following the instructions of the Garter King of Arms. ‘The leek I
agreed was a most admirable vegetable, full of historic significance and
doubtless of health-giving properties, but scarcely noted for its beauty.’ In
the end, however, ‘the despised Leek proved a real inspiration’, while Hartnell
also added a little hidden embroidery, without telling the Queen: a
‘four-leaved shamrock for luck’. At Westminster Abbey, Elizabeth’s maids of
honour arranged the monarch’s crimson velvet Robe of State trimmed with ermine,
and then carried the 18-foot train as she walked along the aisle. After the
Queen had sworn her coronation oath, her diadem and robes were removed, and
replaced with a simple dress of white linen, ready for her anointing away from
public view; in Hartnell’s words, ‘bereft of all the world’s vainglory’. Then
she was enveloped with the heavy coronation robes and decorated with the
regalia of royalty: jewelled sceptres, a ruby and sapphire ring to symbolise
her fidelity to her subjects, and St Edward’s Crown of solid gold. As Sally
Bedell Smith observes, each of the Queen’s garments, ‘from the simple linen
dress to the splendid vestments… were designed to signify her priest-like
status.’
This was dressing at its most
heightened – the theatre of monarchy on the grandest scale -- yet also with a
quiet emotional resonance, as noted by the royal photographer Cecil Beaton, who
perceived on the Queen Mother’s face a look of ‘sadness combined with pride’. But
professionalism prevailed; for as Beaton wrote the following year, ‘Royalty
must dress for the crowds. Of first consideration is the fact that they are to
be seen. For this reason off-the-face hats are worn; while, if possible, height
is added so that those at the back of a crowd can catch even a glimpse of a
felt halo or an aigrette and not be disappointed.’
Ever since then, these broad
rules have continued to apply. Sir Hardy Amies, who started designing for the
Queen in 1950, described his task as providing ‘clothes that help her in what I
can only describe as her work. The Queen once spoke of this to me as “going
about my business”.’ Thus he had to consider her comfort, as well as the all-important
visual effect of what she wore – using fabrics that were sufficiently light for
overseas tours in hot climates, yet heavy enough not to blow around in high
winds; and with neat tailoring that would keep her from any embarrassment when
clambering out of carriages, boats or cars. In general, Amies remarked, ‘the
Queen can wear any colour provided it is a colour’, and sufficiently bright ‘so
as to stand out in a crowd.’ Like Beaton, he also recognized ‘that a
wide-brimmed hat would be undesirable for royalty. Hands must not be used to
hold hats in a wind: they are for waving or holding bouquets.’
Sir Norman Hartnell died in
1979, Amies in 2003, but the woman they dressed is still going strong, with an
imaginative new team coordinating her wardrobe. Central is the Queen’s senior
dresser and personal assistant, Angela Kelly, who organizes her wardrobe with
meticulous precision, so that the details of each outfit are entered onto a
computer spread-sheet, along with the date and circumstances in which it was
worn. While the Queen is not averse to wearing the same clothes more than once
– she is known, after all, for her thrift – she is careful to avoid doing so at
the same place, lest she disappoints anyone who has seen her before. She is
also mindful that many of those who she meets, however briefly, will be seeing
her perhaps for the only time in their lives; her clothes and jewels must
therefore make an impression.
It was Kelly who introduced
Stewart Parvin as a royal dressmaker in 2001, although she designs many of the
Queen’s clothes herself, including the striking primrose yellow outfit for the
Duke and Duchess of Cambridge’s wedding last year. But Parvin can claim credit
for the powerfully symbolic green dress and coat that the Queen wore on her
arrival in Ireland a fortnight later (the first time a British monarch had
visited since 1911). And despite his predecessor’s injunction that she should
be seen in strong colours, Parvin proved that rules are made to be broken with
his pale ivory silk crepe gown that the Queen chose for the state dinner at
Buckingham Palace the following week, to welcome President and Mrs Obama. (On
second thoughts, perhaps he was simply honouring an older tradition: of white
as a ceremonial court dress, all the better for displaying a glittering diamond
necklace and tiara.)
At the age of 86, the Queen
is the embodiment of a great many good qualities – constancy, courage, stoicism
– but she also manifests something increasingly rare in a world that tends to
celebrate the triumph of youth over experience. She has aged with dignity, and
without vanity or apology. According to Stewart Parvin, ‘She has reached a
stage in her life when she has complete confidence in who she is… the Queen
looks squarely in the mirror and she likes what she sees.’ Given her own
observation that she must be ‘seen to be believed’, this makes Elizabeth II
remarkably believable. In an era where steadfastness seems lacking in our smooth-faced,
sharp-suited politicians, and trust is at a premium, the Queen represents a
truer combination of style and substance. More so than any other public figure,
she has worn well…
