of Europe, became just another face in the crowd; and I was amused—and impressed—to see the Prussian’s round jaw grow slack as we neared this newest symbol of British ingenuity.
Like the first Crystal Palace—which had been erected in Hyde Park to house the Great Exhibition of 1851— the Cathedral was a monument of iron and glass designed by Sir Joseph Paxton. Laid out in Gothic cruciform style, its walls towered above us with the July sunlight blazing from a thousand panes. A Light Rail link soared from the east on graceful pylons and entered the building through an arched portal perhaps a hundred feet above the ground. Over the Cathedral’s entrance stood a spire five hundred feet tall; its distant tip, sporting a bravely fluttering Union flag, seemed to scrape the light clouds.
I barely heard my colleagues’ steady murmur of explanations to the awestruck Prussian delegation: “With over fifty acres of glass—twice as much as the Crystal Palace of ’51—and with a hundred thousand companies exhibiting (double the number of Paris in 1867) this fair will truly be an Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All Nations; as well as a fitting celebration of Manchester’s new status: Manchester and the North of England, workshop and capital of Britain and the Empire… the organizers anticipate ten million visitors in all—a hundred thousand this first day alone…”
We entered the building. I stood in that vast, hushed space; the clear glass roof seemed so high that clouds might form beneath it, and the iron frame of Sir Joseph’s construction seemed fairy-light, surely incapable of bearing such a weight of glass. The overall impression was something of that of a great glasshouse—but with none of the heat of the glasshouse; in fact the air inside the building was pleasantly cool, thanks to twenty great fans set high in the walls and powered, I was given to understand, by anti-ice steam turbines.
The babble of excited voices that carpeted the building seemed confined to the few feet of atmosphere just above my head, as if the vast volume of air reduced human activities to insignificance. The Light Rail link swept across that great space without visible means of support, terminating in a small platform built into the inside of the wall; a Mechanical Staircase carried passengers from the platform to the ground.
A high dais had been set up at the far end of the building; already it bore an array of grand-looking gentlemen in frock coats and toppers—not to mention a full orchestra and a thousand choristers. Kings, Chancellors and Presidents formed into rows meekly before the dais. I led my party of Prussians to positions delineated by red ropes borne on brass poles. I stood in my place patiently, gloved hands folded before me; and, looking down, I was astonished to observe that the Cathedral’s entire floor area had been carpeted with a thick red weave.
“It is indeed an expensive occasion.”
I looked to my left, startled—and found myself gazing into a pair of female eyes, ice-blue and sharply humorous, set in a china face.
I essayed a stammered reply.
“Excuse me,” she said tolerantly. “I caught you peeking at the acreage of carpet. I, too, was impressed.” She smiled at me—and it was as if the sun had come out. My new conversant was perhaps twenty-five; she wore a small-bustled, elegant dress of a pale blue velvet which offset her eyes perfectly; her night-dark hair was restrained into a simple bun, although curls straggled endearingly about her fringe. About her neck she wore a choker of black velvet, and that neck, a sculpture in pale flesh, led my eyes smoothly down to creamy pools of skin—
And I, prize chump, was staring unforgivably. I was vaguely aware of a young man beyond her, a swarthy, slim specimen who watched me suspiciously. “Forgive me,” I stammered at last. “My name is Vicars; Ned Vicars.”
She proffered a small gloved hand; I held it gently. “I am Francoise Michelet.”
“Ah—” Her accent was faint but unmistakable; “peeking” had sounded like “picking,” with the soft intonation of the southern Gallic provinces, perhaps of Marseilles. “You are French, mam’selle.”
“You should be in your Foreign Office,” she said drily.
“I am,” I replied like a fool—and then grinned at myself as I worked out her joke. “I am on duty here, I fear.”
“There are duties more onerous, I am sure.”
“And you?”
“Strictly pleasure,” she said, her voice light and a little bored. “This is one of the highlights of the season; and soon I shall be winging my way to Belgium for the launch of the
“And if all the guests are as charming as you, I am sure the trouble is worth while.”
She raised her eyebrows at this clumsy gallantry. “Will you attend the
I frowned. “I fear my assignment with Herr Bismarck’s party will keep me occupied until after the launch. But,” I went on hurriedly, “perhaps we—”
But there was no possibility of further discussion with this intriguing stranger; for, to a peal of choral voices which dazzled from the glass walls, the royal procession was proceeding grandly up a shallow flight of stairs to the dais. His Imperial Majesty himself was a neat figure in black, almost lost amid scarlet and silver uniforms. A little behind Edward marched Gladstone, the Prime Minister, his gray suit a splash of drabness in the military glitter.
The choir fell silent, last echoes rattling around the panes like trapped birds. Then the Archbishop of Canterbury stepped forward, miter and all, and called us, in sonorous tones, to prayer.
A reverent hush descended on the grand multitude.
Then Edward himself stood up. I was far away in that vast field of a building, but I could see how he adjusted his pince-nez and referred to a small notebook. His voice was low, yet it seemed to fill the great glass hall.
His words plain and unaffected, he recalled the first Exhibition of 1851 which, like the present one, had been intended to “wed high art with the greatest mechanical skills;” that earlier fair had been inspired by Edward’s father, the Prince Consort Albert, since lost to the typhoid; and Edward remarked how proud Albert would have been to see the events of today.
As the King spoke I was assailed by a sense of dislocation. Heads of state like Bismarck and Grant stood respectfully, here at the heart of the most powerful Empire the world had ever known: an Empire whose ships owned the seas, and whose anti-ice mechanical marvels girdled the globe.
And yet here was nothing more than a thin, rather shallow-looking young chap, quietly speaking of his lost father.
His Majesty concluded and retired, and the choir ripped into the Hallelujah Chorus.
Francoise leaned close to me and murmured through the music, “Rather a subdued performance from your new King.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The stories are that young Edward, with his circle of well-to-do friends like Lipton, is something of a—what is the word? a sybarite? Such a shallow hedonist matches well the type of men of power in your country today—I mean the industrialists—as his mother never could.”
A little stiffly I replied, “Victoria abdicated after the loss of her husband, and the sudden retirement of Disraeli two years ago. And as for Edward—”
But her moist lips had formed into a delicious—but mocking—moue. “Oh, have I offended you?… Well, I apologize. But Edward is right about one thing: that Albert would have been proud to see this. And even more proud to see the behavior of the craven politicians of your Parliament.”
Her perfume filled my head, and I struggled to retain my powers of speech. “What do you mean, mam’selle?”
She brushed her glove through the air. “Francoise, please. Your parliamentarians opposed Albert’s first Exhibition; and yet when they saw how well it achieved its principal aim they have fallen over each other to endorse subsequent events.” She looked at me quizzically, and two small wrinkles appeared above her button nose. “You do understand the purpose of such fairs, do you not, Mr. Vicars?”
“As His Majesty said, a celebration of—”
Again the glove waved, a little more impatiently. “To promote trade, Mr. Vicars. Your Crystal Cathedral is a vast shop window for your wonderful British goods.”
