by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
If you have been reading my arts columns over the last several years, you know that I have a particular fondness for the largest auction house in Continental Europe, Dorotheum.
Based in Vienna since 1707, Dorotheum presents over 600 auctions in a year on a wide variety of subjects. In fact, one might visit Dorotheum for one thing, find another, and be lost amongst the glittering gewgaws. At least that was so for me.
Over the last several years, in and around the year 2008, annus horribilis, that it is, I have savored the low prices Dorotheum has presented on a silver salver, of course. I would walk away from a single auction with a shower of historic silver.
The folks in Western Europe at the usual suspects, Sotheby's, Christie's, and Bonham's, didn't seem to know anything about the attractive doings of Eastern Europe. And their advice was always bland and unsatisfying. They did not care. It was all reminiscent of British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain and his famous statement just before WWII:
"How horrible, fantastic, incredible it is that we should be digging trenches and trying on gas-masks here because of a quarrel in a far away country between people of whom we know nothing."
Well, if the statesmen of Europe knew nothing about Eastern Europe, the silver connoisseurs knew even less, and cared not a whit.
Enter the dashing American (that would be me)
I am a firm believer in the oldest business adage there is: buy low, sell high. And by dint of constant effort, I expanded my hunting territory from just Manhattan, to London, Paris, Amsterdam, etc. And while I looked at these places with keen interest and growing success, I was certain that the great kingdoms of Eastern Europe had produced a plethora of beautiful objects, storm tossed by war and revolution… ready for a perspicacious hunter and collector like me. And I was right to do so.
Eastern Europe is a treasure trove of items made for kings and princes, buffeted and crushed by communists, fascists, and silverfish. In short, a delightful place in which to saunter through a lifetime. But the price is always less than you’d dare imagine.
Unfortunately, as the other old adage says, all good things come to an end. So it was in the residue of imperial, royal, and noble artifacts… dispersed by the wind, and the tramping feet of careless soldiers, eager only to go home. Now, times have begun to change at the Dorotheum. And the results of today’s silver service sale proves this point beyond cavil.
As usual, I had prepared for the silver market with exemplary habits. I knew what I wanted, I had read the provenance, talked to the experts, I had my money ready, and my battle grit, too.
But Eastern Europe, and the Dorotheum with it, are no longer the imperial cousins down on their luck. I love those cousins… I love their lousy luck… I love the cascade of imperial artifacts at bargain prices. And that is why I was unhappy today when I bid on over 20 items, and got just one.
Prices have now exploded, as I must honestly admit they were bound to do. In the light of this price explosion, I am grateful that when their luck was down, I bought and bought and bought, and came home with my last penny in my pocket, and a song in my heart.
The item is a sugar box. Now it is difficult for us in America to understand how important sugar has been throughout our history. In the French and Indian War (1756), the French gave away the Canadas for the isle of Martinique. Why? Because Martinique produced sugar. And so a tiny island was exchanged for what the acid critic Voltaire (1694-1778) called a few acres of snow. There are no statues of Voltaire in Canada, not even in Quebec.
Sugar was so valuable that it was locked in boxes, often with several keys, and always retained by the chatelaine of the home, and woe betide any schoolboy with mischief on his cheek and a single granule of sugar about his person. Sugar was the master’s prerogative, and he used it ruthlessly to gain his domestic objectives.
I have been collecting boxes for some time now, and I own to being intrigued by them. A box means something important. A locked box means something of great importance, indeed.
I first became interested in boxes when I worked in the public records office in London, working on my book “Insubstantial Pageant: Ceremony and confusion at Queen Victoria's court”.
In 1887, Queen Victoria held her 50th anniversary, her Golden Jubilee. Every person of consequence in the Empire on which the sun still never set, and many who were not, sent boxes to Her Majesty filled with the loyal addresses of their constituents. And the higher the rank of the individual submitting a box of consequence, the more unique, valuable, and awesome it must be.
No scholar had ever studied these hundreds and hundreds of loyal addresses and the caskets that carried them to the foot of royalty. No one that is until I came along. These boxes had, during WWII, been buried beneath the streets of London, the better to preserve them against the inroads of the Luftwaffe.
Sadly, many had been destroyed by those Nazi aces. But now, each day the antiquated elevator brought from deep below the great city its cargo of boxes, sent by the maharajah of this, the prince regent of that, the ambassador of, and each and every cabinet minister and public servant from realms and republics great and small.
It was an avalanche of the historically unique, beautiful, and never before seen, now exhumed for me. In short order, I gathered an immense following of people who wanted to see what I dug up. I was in short the toast of the public records office, if only champagne had been allowed.
I shall continue to collect boxes, particularly boxes with royal coats of arms and heraldic devices, with engravings which often are cryptic, as if between two lovers. Boxes suggest things of value, kept only for the sender and the recipient. With a box, we can hear in our mind the sounds of the owner, the sender, the thief who stole them, and the rescue squad, which dug out the owner and spilled his box across the fragments of what had once been a great house on a great road, now just shards and confused survivors.
I am, you see, of a fanciful disposition. If I do not know the history of the box I can, working with incomplete shards and pieces, weave you a story. And I am pleased to note that whenever I talk about boxes, I always gather a crowd, for they too want to know what each box contains. And so I have come to learn that boxes have an important role in our history, right up to Her Royal Majesty Queen Elizabeth herself.
Each day, each hour, Her Majesty is besieged with boxes, cabinet boxes. To these boxes Her Majesty has the key. And so as she sits unlocking the boxes that arrive any time of the day or night, she is answering for herself the question of every hour: what is in the box?
Now there is nothing in my sugar box except memories. But I can change all that in an instant. Some of these days I will want my breakfast cereal to have what I usually forego… that is to say, sugar. And when I want it, I want it delivered in a box. A sugar box. Then set upon my table, ready for the compliments which inevitably come. “Oh, what a lovely box!” It is, isn’t it?
And that is why today, with soaring prices, causing me to overbid my usual amount, still without success except in this one instance, a day which initially promised success along the usual lines, surprised me with a huge increase in prices, thereby leaving me nothing to show for my efforts. Nothing, that is, except this box. I shall enjoy unraveling its mysteries, and sharing them with you.
I have chosen as an accompaniment to this article a song by sultry Nina Simone (1933-2003). She wants some sugar in her bowl. Will you be man enough to give it?
“I want a little sugar
In my bowl
I want a little sweetness
Down in my soul
I could stand some lovin'
Oh so bad
Feel so lonely and I feel so sad”
Man, open that box and let the lady in. You haven’t been there for so long.
About the author
Author Dr. Jeffrey Lant, still knocking them dead at 70, has just completed his 58th book. The more he writes, the more he publishes, the more he has to say. In the last few paragraphs of Volume 1 of his two volume autobiography “A Connoisseur's Journey: Being the artful memoirs of a man of wit, discernment, pluck, and joy.”, Dr. Lant’s stern and loyal seneschal Sir Maximiliano von Rabbit hands a golden box to his ailing master and whispers a secret to change his life. He then places a letter in the box, and locks it, taking away the key and leaving us all to wonder, what secret did Max pass to the Prince?
To see Dr. Lant’s complete oeuvre, go to www.drjeffreylant.com. And never eat your sugar alone.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
These words are apocryphal. No Duke of Norfolk ever to my knowledge uttered them, but they certainly lived them, and I am therefore pleased to be able to share my pithy words with them and with the world. For it is indeed true that to be Norfolk is to be sufficient.
My interest in Arundel Castle and the Dukes of Norfolk began on a very cold wintry day when I took the London train to Arundel. It is a thing exactly as it should be: stern, multi-turreted, a bit of derring-do at every corner.
This particular day I was going to do some research in the Duke’s private papers. I had come under the most excellent auspices possible, Sir Anthony Wagner (1908-1995), Garter King of Arms.
Sir Anthony was a notable scholar of heraldry, and a bit of a wag. He picked up the phone and called his representative at Arundel, for the Duke of Norfolk after all is the Earl Marshal of England.
He explained to his aging, creaking colleague that a brilliant young American scholar (that would be me) requested the favor of a bit of time to be spent in the Duke’s private muniments.
His representative paused for a moment, and said sotto vocci, “Do you know what he is coming to see?”
“Yes,” Sir Anthony said. “I do.” Sir Anthony hung up the phone and turned to me and said, with what had to be a twinkle in his eye, “The old man’s an old woman, and he won’t like you because you’re an American. But go with my blessing”.
As a result, I found myself on that grey muddy trek from the train station at Arundel to the castle. No one was to be seen – neither man nor beast. But I was thrilled, for Arundel is one of the great castles of England.
I pulled the doorbell (yes there was a bell, huge in dimension, and loud), and an ancient retainer, Sir Anthony’s colleague, opened the door and growled at me. Yes, I cannot describe it in any other way, it was a growl. Then he pointed up the deep cold concrete steps to where I was to do my work.
Certain papers were waiting for me, and an admonition. The incident that I was researching for my book on royal victorian pageantry (the book which became in due course “Insubstantial Pageant: Ceremony & Confusion at Queen Victoria's Court”), had a very human incident that had never been published before but fit perfectly into my book.
In 1887, for the Golden Jubilee, the College of Arms had been allocated a certain number of tickets in Westminster Abbey. The wife of Bluemantle, one of the Heralds, decided she didn’t want to go, and put the tickets up for sale in the Civil Services Stores in the Haymarket.
You say, who is Bluemantle? He was Charles Athill, one of the senior Heralds in the College of Arms, Bluemantle Pursuivant. In other words, a professional Herald and genealogist.
Of course, someone leaked the matter to the press, and a snide paragraph appeared in the morning papers about Bluemantle’s erring wife, now aghast at what she had done.
Of course, everyone and his brother got into the act. Mrs. Bluemantle, her husband Blumantle, and His Grace, the Duke of Norfolk, Earl Marshal of the realm, and in due course it made its way to the desk of Sir Henry Ponsonby, Her Majesty’s Private Secretary. It was indeed a tempest in an Earl Grey teacup.
And now, the worst thing of all happened. An American arrived at the front door with intentions to put the story into a proper book. Honi soi qui mal y pense “Let him who will think ill of this”. The incident had taken place about a century or so before, and was only of minor significance at the time. But still, the admonition was stern and ominous, and rolled out from a moral code long gone.
“You have in your hands the reputation of a professional man. I must tell you I do not wish you to publish these things, but His Grace the Duke says if you’ve come all this way, you might as well proceed. Personally you seem a superior kind of American, that is to say, you did not immediately ask for the furnace to be turned on. Most Americans can’t stand the cold… you seem of sturdier stock”. In fact, I was freezing to death, but now I’d be damned if I asked for the furnace to be turned on.
It only took me a few minutes to copy the documents I wanted. There was no such thing as the internet or photocopy machines. You just do the best you can. Personally, I copied my documents wearing gloves. I couldn’t help my teeth chattering.
The incident in question ultimately was published, and a thank you note went to both Sir Anthony Wagner and the ancient gentleman in the tower. I am sorry I did not ask Sir Anthony to urge them to let me see this magnificent and unique silver service, which had been created in 1816-17 and dispersed in the 1960’s and 1970’s by the 16th Duke, who kept enough for himself to make a dazzling display. The whole must have been stupendous. A significant chunk still resides in Arundel Castle, and these two, which I felt sure were destined for my table.
But many, many connoisseurs thought as I thought. And the initial estimate by Bonhams in Los Angeles of $20,000 zoomed up to $65,000, plus 20% tax. But this is not surprising, for to be a Norfolk is to be the best there can be. They do not need to say so, they do not need to brag.
And so we are not surprised to see these magnificent serving pieces, designed by the preeminent silversmith of his day, Paul Storr (1771-1844). They are quite simply superb.
Thus must the world needs trek to Sussex, where this unequaled castle retains for the ages most of its treasures, including a copy of my book, “Insubstantial Pageant”, which you may find in the muniments room, one incident from the vast history of this family, this castle, and its enduring place in the history of “this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England”, where, so many years ago, when I was young and could not be stopped by frosty fingers, or gelid hands, I advanced the cause of Norfolk and me.
About the author, Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Dr. Jeffrey Lant is well known to world audiences as an expert and lyric writer on many subjects. He has, in fact, already written over 60 books, and, at age 70, he is hurdling through space and time to write still more, for his readers are insistent that he must not stop.
To get your copy of “Insubstantial Pageant” and to see Dr. Lant’s complete ouevre, including his best-selling new book, “Guaranteed Millionaire”, go to www.drjeffreylant.com.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note. The first time I heard her introduced as Secretary Clinton, I knew that she had a huge problem, and nobody was there to advise her about it. Secretaries are, after all, people who take dictation, and that was just not the right image for the hotshot, glass-ceiling-breaking, “I’m smarter than you are Hillary Clinton.”
By the way, the first woman in the cabinet, Frances Perkins (1933), was called Madam Secretary, but it always sounded pompous and out of touch – the way Secretary Hillary turned out to be – and was seldom used thereafter.
On November 9th, 2016 Boston Globe columnist Yvonne Abraham, one of Hillary’s most fervent supporters, floated another “poor little Hillary” column. She was the best. She was the noblest woman of them all. And she lost because a few tardy supporters were late picking up their mochas and the polls closed on them, and on America.
I don’t want anyone to doubt any of my words, so let me say it smack up front: people like Yvonne Abraham make me run for my nausea capsules. Any pretense she ever had of an impartial look at the subject of Hillary and company was made a mockery. I’ve been reading Miss Abraham’s effusions now for over a year. Trump is the big bad guy who rapes and uses bad words… tsk tsk.
There has never been, nor will there ever be a word of censure from Miss Abraham for Secretary Clinton, though many are needed. Now get this… Miss Abraham is from a foreign country, I think they call it Australia… a liberal nation which just voted against gay marriage, and is one of the least progressive places on Earth. Don’t let that “Waltzing Matilda” stuff fool you.
Why Hillary Clinton lost
I’m the kind of guy she should have wrapped up months ago. But she didn’t. Every time she pursed her lips, it reminded me of my third grade teacher, that is instead of expressing disappointment about some student and his work, she pursed her lips and we’d all stand abased and miserable. Hillary was an Olympic class lip purser.
Or consider how often Hillary muffed the opportunity to give a needy person a hug. Hillary loved humanity, but hated people. You will find with difficulty any photograph in the Clinton record that shows she actually liked anyone. In fact, I think Madam Secretary was just the reverse of Will Rogers, who never met a man he didn’t like. Hillary never liked anyone, except the ones who praised her, and it showed. Anyone that is, except the girls of Wellesley College, who thought Hillary was just swell.
Now, I’ve worked in one of the Seven Sisters colleges. I was the assistant to the president. And I want it to be clear: I no longer believe that segregating women’s colleges do what their leaders purport. That is, to produce women who are competitive to men in the real world.
Seven Sisters executives, who idolize Secretary Hillary, truly believe that the education they provide makes their women students competitive and indeed superior to men. Who can believe this schmaltz, given Hillary’s abject election fiasco?
Hillary should have known… you can’t win the presidency of the United States and write off Minnesota, Wisconsin, Pennsylvania, Iowa… get the picture? Hillary literally insulted the people of each of those states, and not just on one occasion either. In her mind, she checked her electoral college math and said, “I can get away without talking to these rubes.” Her decision to avoid these places to the max possible told me everything I needed to know about her Wellesley education, and just how superficial and unrealistic it was.
Somebody should have told those girls that the real world is a miasma filled with people you could never take home to mother. By the way, the smarter girls know this already. At Radcliffe, where I worked, the women were totally committed to getting a Harvard degree, not a Radcliffe diploma. This was a point of view administrators found hard to accept. What was wrong with Radcliffe? Just this: it wasn’t Harvard.
As I sat on election night watching the returns pour in, I thought many things, one being H.V. Kaltenborn (1878-1965). Kaltenborn was in 1948 arguably the most well-known correspondent, the most well-known radio commentator. He also hated Harry S. Truman, the president. And he let his dreams of a Truman crash overcome any logic he had on the situation.
And so, he, along with Col. McCormick (1880-1955), another Truman hater, of the Chicago Tribune, produced the two biggest bloopers ever. One by Kaltenborn, one by McCormick.
Kaltenborn’s goof went like this. In his distinctive voice, he said “President Truman is ahead in the popular vote by 1 million, but will certainly lose the presidency”… “Now President Truman is ahead in the popular vote by 2 million, and will certainly lose the presidency”. He reiterated his increasingly out of touch view over and over again on election night until it became a joke. It was Kaltenborn’s last great moment, and his career tumbled after that.
Col. McCormick’s goof was when he released for the Chicago Tribune the most notorious headline ever: “Dewey Defeats Truman.”
Truman so liked the Kaltenborn goof that he turned it into a winning line that showed just how out to get him smart people like Kaltenborn really were. And as for Col. McCormick, he probably hoped that only a copy or two were released. But here it is, a better part of 100 years later, and every political jockey knows it and laughs at it and Col. McCormick.
The equivalent anecdote for 2016 will be about how CNN commentators cute Jake Tapper and cuter Anderson Cooper goofed. These guys and their whole damn tribe literally couldn’t believe that Hillary Clinton was going to lose. Tapper came across as a boy who expected to be whooped if he didn’t support the house line, but he didn’t know what the house line was; Cooper looked clueless as he stood there with his hands in his pockets hour after hour. In other words, they were prepared to discuss a Clinton victory, and nothing else. Some jounalists!
But of course, the biggest whopper of all was the Huffington Post (and their ilk), which predicted Hillary’s eminent election at 98%. They’re still eating crow, and will for donkey’s years.
So here’s the question: every newspaper in the land, with only one exception, endorsed Hillary. Hundreds of millions of dollars was spent on ads of the tsk tsk variety. Madam Hillary was exposed to the nation in every way, every day, not just for weeks, but months. Hillary was the subject of tens of thousands of favorable newspaper and magazine articles, and radio and television pieces, not to mention on the internet.
So, Madam Yvonne, riddle me this: after this barrage of favorable content, how can you have the unmitigated gall to say “It is worth noting the woman we passed on”. She was a bad candidate who ran because the nation “deserved her”, and because she would not do the necessary to become president. She wanted the goal, but not the endeavor.
Now hear this, all you opponents to the president-elect. At no time during the election cycle was he the beneficiary of positive, witty content. At no time was he anything other than Al Smith’s “Happy Warrior”. He liked the battle. He fought the battle. And to the consternation of every media person like you in the nation, he won the battle.
Now answer me this: can you see Madam Hillary issuing as her first major policy statement, a decision to remove 3 million or more aliens from our midst? Frankly, she wouldn’t have had the guts, and the nation sensed it.
The nation knew, even if all the Yvonne Abraham’s didn’t, that we needed a new direction, a house cleaning of mammoth proportions. Oh yes, we need one more thing too, and that is a censure of these silly articles by the likes of Madam Secretary Yvonne. She should stick to Australian politics, not that she understands anything about it… just that it wouldn’t take as much time and space.
And for all of you proper young ladies at Wellesley College, listen up. You are not learning how to compete with men in an abusive world. You are instead, merely learning how to write a charming address that bears no relation to reality. That is Madam Clinton’s legacy, and it is a very costly one indeed.
Note: you will probably recognize the opening line of this article as one taken from “Casey at the Bat”, written in 1888 by Ernest Thayer.
“Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
the band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
and somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
but there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Casey has struck out”
Secretary Clinton should have read it before she played in the big leagues.
About the author
Dr. Lant is the author of 57 books that you can find at www.drjeffreylant.com. His most recent is “Guaranteed Millionaire”, a book that shows you in detail how to become a millionaire.
Dr. Jeffrey Lant, Harvard educated, started writing for publication at age 5. Since then, he has published over 1,000 articles and 63 books, and counting.