House That Union Jack Built

For more than a century of its existence, what has become the world's best-known address was not No. 10 Downing Street: it was No. 5. Only during one of its many restorations did the simple Georgian town house in London somehow double its digit. Under any number, it never seemed to foreigners to be pretentious enough for the hub of the British Empire. But most Englishmen insist that it be kept just the way it always has been.

The latest renovation (see color pages) cost no less than $8,500,000, and as a result No. 10 is in spanking 1688 condition. Last week, for the first time since reopening, its state rooms resounded with the tinkling glasses and lively laughter of a private party. More than 400 guests attended a reception given by Prime Minister Sir Alec Douglas-Home for his soon-to-be-wed daughter, Meriel.

200-Room Warren. It was King George II who gave No. 10 to England, specifically to the Treasury. Since Prime Ministers are also First Lords of the Treasury, they have had their way--and their woes--with the building for 229 years. Walpole openly entertained his mistress there; Pitt happily tippled his port on the premises; and Disraeli penned his Endymion between parliamentary debates. But seven P.M.s refused to live in No. 10's cramped quarters; between 1847 and 1877, it was completely untenanted, and then Disraeli moved in only because his gout made the trip to his office too painful. During the blitz, Churchill disconcertingly called No. 10 "shaky" and encouraged scads of cats to prowl the place to keep down the rats.

On the old site of a brewhouse that may have slaked the thirst of Henry VIII, Speculator George Downing built a row of houses whose shallow timber foundations sank readily into the squishy soil of what had once been an island. What remains of Downing's houses on his narrow street across from government offices at Whitehall are Nos. 10, 11 and 12, all interconnected to make a warren of 200 rooms.

Heartbreaking Restraint. No. 10 does not hold a candelabrum to the White House, and De Gaulle, after all, does live in a palace. No. 10's charm is the English quality of restraint. The Mac-millans, who lived during the restoration in nearby Admiralty House, held down tight on interior-decoration costs, winding up, for example, with walls of woven rayon instead of damask in some rooms. "I am heartbroken by the result," moaned Architect Raymond Erith.

Most of the paintings are borrowed from the National Gallery and the Tate, although the high-quality copies in the state dining room are No. 10's own. The effect is tasteful, pleasing and unadventuresome. And perhaps it was the great English art theoretician John Ruskin who gave a clue why No. 10 should never be much altered. He wrote, of any ancient building: "Count its stones as you would jewels of a crown."

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