As we trek through the grounds of Beaulieu, we’ve passed the cars - lots of cars - the monorail, the Abbey, some gardens, the shed with an exhibition about the Special Operations Executive and finally we’ve arrived at Beaulieu Palace House. Built out of grey stone and square, it’s not particularly impressive; more of a big manor house than a grand stately home. We could parse the reasons for this lack of grandeur - it was converted from the original gatehouse of the Abbey and until the nineteenth century was very much a subsidiary residence of the Montagu family - but there’s no time for that today. We have business inside.
The hallway is an introduction, but not to the house or the architecture or the paintings. We’re here to meet the Montagu family themselves. It starts with a display board which is a personal welcome from Lord Montagu. So far, quite normal for a stately home. But, as we wander from one glass case to the next, we realise that everything on display is basically the personal possessions of three generations of Lord Montagu. And their lives, while aristocratic, were not necessarily that interesting.
As ever, when the upper classes tell you who they are, listen.
Evidence of strike-breaking is something I’d hide in the attic rather than put on display for visitors.
The nicknacks, family heirlooms and souvenirs may be confined to the front hall, but as we move on through the rest of the ground floor, it’s still all about the Montagus. Wall after wall is covered in portraits; there’s no order or historical progression just a relentless parade of ancestors.
What really hammers home that we are here to revere the family is that conceptually, we haven’t moved on from the front hall. All of the captions are written by Lord Montagu. Most of the time this is simply irritating, but on occasion this becomes bizarre.
The caption to this drawing reads “The drawing of my grandfather and his brother Robert (opposite) suggests that they were somewhat effeminate boys but this was how children were portrayed at the time.”
No. He’s tiny and he’s got a gun. That’s what’s weird about it. The gun clearly had an effect as the rest of the caption tells us that at Eton he became captain of the Shooting Eight.
None of this is what we want to know.
However, I will say one thing in their favour. Almost all animals you see depicted in country house paintings are either horses or dogs. Beaulieu Palace House has an excellent portrait of a cat.
And so, having seen not very much other than paintings, we go upstairs. Here there are three things, and I am going to deal with two of them now. The first is more family portraits. But these are all modern and they are almost universally terrible.
This isn’t something unique to Beaulieu. Any stately home which is still owned by the family (and a few that aren’t, like Apsley House) feels that it ought to carry on the tradition by continuing to commission portraits of the family. As the twentieth century goes on, these get worse and worse; the colours become insipid and the paint flat. I have already seen too many, and this is before I come to Beaulieu where there are dozens. I should have photographed more, but I didn’t. So shoot me. Oh, except they might.
My father was an excellent shot and enjoyed shooting at Beaulieu and on other estates. At his side is Bobby, one of a long line of highly trained and enthusiastic gun dogs. Bobby never flinched from going through thick undergrowth or cold water to pick up game, albeit sometimes on his own initiative, ignoring my father’s exasperated commands!
This one, displayed with pride at the head of the stairs, is probably the epitome of the genre, being flat, pale and full of dogs.
And also odd, because it features Lord Montagu’s ex wife as well as his current one. But this is what ancestry looks like in the twentieth century.
The second thing up on this floor is a large and ornate case of taxidermied birds, of which this is one typical sample.
But what’s standing above it is something less often found in the English country house.
This poor flamingo has not been imported for its beauty.
…shot at the mouth of the Beaulieu river on 26 November 1883 having been in the estuary for about a fortnight.
All the birds in the case have been stuffed because they were shot on the estate. We’re back in the world of Stourhead, where killing things is the epitome of upper-class ownership.
Or, as the case would like us to believe, this is how the aristocracy conserved wildlife.
I can’t help wondering just why some of these species ended up being rare.
This idea that taxidermy is some kind of old form of science or naturalism is not confined to Beaulieu. But it’s tosh. Aristocrats shot birds for fun, to demonstrate that they owned the land and had so much money that they didn't have to work and could spend weeks of their time killing birds that they were not going to eat. It’s not science nor conservation nor anything to be remotely proud of. But, again, if you want to tell me who you are, I am very much here to listen.
This is not all that the top floor holds. Past the case are three more rooms which will have a different story, but that’s for next time. While their subject is different, however, the song is still the same. There is only one subject here in Beaulieu Palace House and that is the Montagus. The place is a temple to the family. So why on earth are we all shuffling round in worship?
Have you read Anne C Colley’s Wild Animal Skins in Victorian Britain? She and Harriet Ritvo both have some fascinating things to say about animal collecting and hunting and colonialism.