Uncle George was Knighted by King George VI in 1950.
“I left my motor-car in the courtyard of the Palace where the police at the gates sent me, and went in.
After an ante-audience briefing by some courtly gentlemen with penetrating eyes – it was an inspection rather than a briefing really, just to see that I was properly dressed, collar clean, buttons done up where they should be, sober, and so on – I was conducted by one of them, an equerry, down long picture-hung corridors to a gold encrusted door. Next moment I was inside and bowing in the prescribed manner, that is with my chin as close as I could get it to the knot of my tie for a short half second, heels together and standing at attention, though not too rigidly. Bowing on the hoof, i.e. while actually moving, looks painfully maladroit and should be avoided if you want to look respectable.
Bowing is a curious custom. In essence it is, I suppose, a gesture denoting subservience, an act expressing unspoken words like “Your humble servant” or “Yours to command” (words which were said out loud once upon a time). Now a bow is of course little more than a silent greeting intended to show respect where it is due – which even so some impolite people eschew, though it is customary, looks nice and costs nothing.
The act of bowing, or “obeisance” as it is called in official language, is an art which has varied through the ages according to circumstances. For instance you simply could not bow gracefully in armour. Our medieval predecessors, judging by contemporary pictures of them, did not bow, they drop on one knee when brought face to face with a lord and master. The bow from the waist, with a sweep of the arm, etc., does not seem to have come into fashion until the sixteenth century in the reigns of the Tudor queens, when elegant costume was worn more often at Court than armour. Nowadays that kind of bowing seems to have survived only in the world of top restaurateurs and entertainment stars, the latter also sometimes favouring a Japanese variation of bending double till your head nearly touches the floor. Queen Victoria did not like these types of bows, and complained of one of her Prime Ministers who bowed too low, “Why does he always bow like a dancing master?” It was the Prince Consort I believe who, remembering perhaps the stiff heel-clicking and head-jerking of the inhabitants of his native land, introduced (along of course with many other useful innovations like Christmas trees and Christmas cards) the stiff Court bow in use today.
And, whilst on the subject of obeisances, let us not forget the gentle art of curtseying. Besides being the female form of the bow, a curtsey should be a courtesy. How pretty, how engaging, how graceful it can look, yet sometimes alas how truly awful. Ladies beware! Avoid the collapsed dying swan type of curtsey if you do not happen to be slender, and likewise most certainly if your skirt is short. In such circumstances a carefully done bob can look much more elegant.
Now we will go back to my bow just within the doorway of King George’s audience chamber. The equerry withdrew, closing the door behind him. His Majesty stood by the fireplace, facing me, and as I crossed the room towards him he took a couple of paces forward towards me and stopped, smiling mildly. When I was fairly close to him I came to a halt, bowed as before, advanced and shook his outstretched hand. I was a little disappointed that it felt just like anybody else’s hand, especially when it suddenly hit me that I was actually shaking the hand of King William the Conqueror’s heir and successor. Like many people, I have strong feelings for history and royal mystique.
His Majesty wore a day suit, not a morning coat like his gentlemen-in-awaiting and myself, and I noticed that his neck-tie, grey silk with dark speckles on it, was exactly the same as one I had recently bought at Hilditch & Key in Jermyn Street. I was very glad I did not have mine on that morning. Ten years or so later I wore it purposely, out of sentiment, when I cam to hand back my insignia of office (which the King was about to give me) to his daughter Queen Elizabeth II.
After a few friendly words about nothing in particular, and looking just a shade self-conscious, he fixed me with the brightest blue eyes I had ever seen and said quietly, “I’ve got to knight you, y’know”. He reached with his foot under a table we were standing close to and yanked out a decorative but sturdy foot-stool. More blue eyes and then, “What d’you want to be called?” he almost whispered, at the same time picking up a fine court sword which, it so happened, lay unsheathed on a table beside him. It was my turn to feel embarrassed because my name being the same as his it might I thought sound familiar to say George!
“George, Sir,” I replied after a moment’s hesitation and dropped on one knee (remembering the ancient formula: “Two knees to the Almighty, one to the Sovereign”), and he said, still almost in a whisper, “Sir,” touching my right shoulder with the shining blade and then, over my head with it and on to my other shoulder, “George”. In spite of my strong feeling for royal mystique, I felt no frisson, no darting pains, not even a tremor, as the magical transmogrification from Mister to Knight took place.
I rose and he pushed the stool back under the table with his toe and put the sword away. He then held out his right hand, which I shook fairly firmly (one simply does not squeeze tightly, which is bad manners, nor should it be a flabby affair, which is almost as bad). I expressed my gratitude with a “Thank you, Sir, for this great honour,” and with controlled smiles on both sides he led me to another table on which reposed in their boxes the insignia of the Office of Garter King of Arms. He was charmingly condescending as he took my golden sceptre from its box and handed it to me. It was of silver gilt, in actual fact, and was made for Queen Victoria’s Coronation, and I was to carry it for many years to come on ceremonial occasions as a symbol of my delegated royal authority in the realm of heraldry. “This is for you,” he said, “for as long as you are Garter.” He noticed an engraved Coat of Arms on the base of the sceptre and enquired, “Whose is that?” Momentary panic, as I had no idea. “They’re the Arms of a former Garter, I think, Sir,” I hazarded (I turned out to be right! And incidentally they should not have been there, since the sceptre is Crown property). I put the sceptre back in its box and he then handed me, box and all, my enamelled pendant badge of Office with its triple chain of pure gold. “Nice, isn’t it?” he said as I accepted it gravely and replied in the affirmative.
Well, that’s over, I suppose he thought as he moved towards the fireplace and sat down on a sofa, indicating a chair nearby for me. He produced his cigarette case, lit a Turkish cigarette, and put the case back in his pocket. Perhaps it would have been going democratically too far to offer me one, and I knew of course that I should not presume to smoke without his permission, so I did not smoke. Silence, while his Majesty had a few puffs. Then, for the next ten minutes or so, he engaged me in conversation consisting mostly of questions concerning my own particular line of country, which I thought considerate of him, like flags, the Royal Arms, ceremonials and heraldry in general and, in particular, the way the Arms of his two royal princess daughters were designed, drawn and depicted in various works of reference, which he said he did not like. I assured him I would see that something was done about it. The questions he asked me, and the way he asked them, made me realise that he was not just being polite but was genuinely interested in what he was talking about. His voice was pleasantly modulated and controlled, with no trace of the impediment which he sometimes had in public, and with no trace of any accent of any kind whatever. In fact, as you might have expected him to, he spoke the King’s English perfectly.
Somewhat abruptly his Majesty terminated the audience by rising to his feet. I stood up at once and we moved to the door. An interesting problem then suddenly presented itself. Should I allow the King of England to open the door for me to let me out, which somehow seemed quite wrong, or should I do it myself, which somehow seemed presumptuous? It might have ended in a Tower of London situation for me had not, at the very moment of crisis, the door swung open, apparently of its own accord, but in fact propelled by the equerry outside, no doubt at a given signal. Another handshake and a smile, another stiff bow of the approved pattern from me, more blue eyes and, clutching my boxes of insignia, I was conducted to the courtyard door by which I had come in.
I have recounted this perhaps not world-shaking event in some detail because I do not think a description of a private knighting and inauguration by the Sovereign of this sort has ever been recorded before, and it is possible that it could be of interest to a less fortunate posterity who, in the dread new world to come, may never have the benefit of a king or queen to look up to and be slightly mesmerised by.”
(To be continued)
The Hon, Sir George Bellew, KCB, KCVO, KStJ, FSA.
Thank you, Christopher – this delightful account (incorporating as it does a potted history of ‘the bow’) amused and enthralled me no end. I particularly enjoyed the fact that the heavy-smoking monarch lit up a gasper without thinking to offer one to his visitor – no doubt the lung cancer which would be diagnosed the following year, and kill him soon after, was well on its way.
I expect you noticed that Sir Oliver Leese is down on both knees. Tommy Lascelles writes about being knighted on a train in America in his diary, King’s Counsellor, so Uncle George is not alone in recording what must be a deeply gratifying event.