by Siân Evans
His heir, Edward VIII, felt woefully unprepared for the business of ‘kinging’. He returned to London by plane to meet the Privy Council; this was a modern monarch embracing new technology. However, he was stepping into a very traditional role, and there were concerns about his aptitude. In addition, there was his relationship with the married American; surely now he was King, he would settle down with a suitable royal bride and give up Mrs Simpson? As his private secretary Alan Lascelles recalled:
My impression is that the Prince of Wales was caught napping by his father’s death […] he had expected the old man to last several years more, and he had, in all probability, already made up his mind to renounce his claim to the throne, and to marry Mrs S. I know that, long before this, he had confided to several American friends of his that he could never face being king.1
Edward VIII was livid when his father’s will was read to the family; each of his brothers received about £750,000 in cash, worth about £28 million today, while he was left no money and was prevented from selling any of the inherited assets, such as the famous stamp collection or the racehorses. Edward telephoned Wallis to break the news that, while he had a crown, which he didn’t want, he had no fortune, which both of them had eagerly anticipated. Lascelles was sure this was a factor in his decision to abdicate.
During the King’s funeral the coffin was drawn through London on a gun carriage draped in the royal standard and bearing the Imperial State Crown. As the cortège entered New Palace Yard, the Maltese Cross on top of the crown fell to the ground, and was quickly retrieved by a sergeant major. King Edward VIII, walking behind the bier, muttered, ‘Christ! What will happen next?’ Those of a superstitious nature regarded the incident as an ill omen.
Urbane and intelligent career diplomat Leopold von Hoesch was the German Ambassador in London, and he disliked Hitler and National Socialism. The Foreign Ministry in Berlin provided him with a lavish entertainment budget, and he was personally popular both in London society and with his embassy staff. But Hitler did not trust him, and in 1934 he had sent von Ribbentrop to London to act as his personal emissary, to cultivate the influential and those around the Prince of Wales. Von Ribbentrop’s heavy-handed charm made an initially favourable impression on some of the society hostesses, though others actively avoided him, especially Sibyl Colefax.
On 10 April 1936 Ambassador von Hoesch died suddenly in the bathroom of his official residence in London, apparently of a heart attack. Von Ribbentrop had just returned to Germany when the news broke; in London rumours quickly spread that he had been murdered, despite a statement from Prince Otto von Bismarck claiming the ambassador had suffered from cardiac problems. Von Hoesch’s demise came just weeks after that of Roland Koster, German Ambassador to Paris, who also despised the Nazis. The rumours persisted; in the 1980s Baroness von Stohrer, who had been married to the German Minister in Cairo, alleged that friends in the Gestapo informed her that von Hoesch’s toothpaste had been poisoned. Enid Bagnold, married to the head of Reuters news agency, was also told by someone claiming to be an eye-witness that von Hoesch had been murdered, and his body hastily embalmed to destroy the evidence.
The coffin containing his remains was taken to Victoria Station as part of a high-ranking cortège attended by Anthony Eden, Sir John Simon and Sir Robert Vansittart, Permanent Under-Secretary at the Foreign Office. A British destroyer took his remains to Germany, but his body was buried swiftly with almost no official ceremony. A decade later, while von Ribbentrop was on trial for his life at Nuremberg, he wrote in his self-serving memoirs of his regret at the death of ‘this able ambassador’. However, in 1936, as he prepared to take over as ambassador in London, he noted smugly the demise of one of the Third Reich’s greatest enemies.
Hitler’s appointment of von Ribbentrop as Ambassador to London caused consternation among the Nazi high command. Some envied his preferment, but others complained that he had no ability for the role. Hitler defended his protégé, telling Goering that von Ribbentrop knew this British minister and that English aristocrat; Goering replied that the trouble was, they also knew von Ribbentrop. Even Unity Mitford, a fanatical admirer of the Führer, told him that von Ribbentrop would be a figure of fun in London. As early as October 1935 he had been described as a travelling salesman who ‘scorns the English aristocrats for providing such a fine market, whether it be for his liquors or for the political crimes and lies of his country […] Right now his commodities are wine and lies.’2
With von Hoesch dead and First Secretary Otto von Bismarck ‘babysitting’ the London Embassy, von Ribbentrop was unimpeded in following Hitler’s instructions to court British high society. In May 1936 he and his wife returned to London; on 29 May they were the guests of Laura Corrigan, who had taken Crewe House in Curzon Street, the Mayfair home of the first Marquess of Crewe, for the season. She also invited ‘Chips’ Channon, who revised his low opinion of von Ribbentrop when he realised the new German Ambassador could provide him with a luxury trip to the Berlin Olympics.
Meanwhile Germany was flexing its expansionist muscles by reoccupying the Rhineland in March 1936. Following a League of Nations conference in London, the Astors gave a dinner party for many of the delegates, key ambassadors and politicians. Attempting to break the ice, Nancy Astor organised a game of Musical Chairs after supper and told the English guests, sotto voce, to let von Ribbentrop and the Germans win. Allowing the more belligerent tribe to snap up the remaining assets while the music became faster and more frantic was a fitting analogy for the pro-appeasement lobby of the mid-1930s, whose maxim was ‘peace at any price’.
Meanwhile von Ribbentrop conceived the unlikely idea of arranging for Hitler to meet the British Prime Minister, Stanley Baldwin, in secret. He recruited Waldorf and Nancy Astor and their friend Thomas Jones, former Deputy Secretary of the Cabinet, to achieve this goal. Von Ribbentrop, who loved subterfuge and dramatic gestures, felt that if only Baldwin could meet the Führer, he too would fall under his mesmeric spell. In June 1936 Jones and von Ribbentrop travelled to Rest Harrow, the Astors’ seaside home in Kent, for a clandestine meeting with Sir Thomas Inskip, the Minister for the Co-Ordination of Defence, far from curious eyes or ears. Philip Kerr was there too, and talks continued into the night. The following morning Nancy Astor teased von Ribbentrop about the ‘bad company’ he had been keeping with rival hostesses Lady Londonderry and Lady Cunard. Von Ribbentrop assured her that they had always been generous to him, but the point was made; it was Lady Astor who really had political clout. Von Ribbentrop’s plans for Baldwin and Hitler to meet were never realised, but as a result of their discussions Philip Kerr tried to persuade the Foreign Secretary, Anthony Eden, that Britain should support Germany as the dominant force at the heart of Europe, rather than siding with France and Russia.
But the Astors were not alone in apparently acquiescing in the rise of the Third Reich; there were many in society and court circles in the mid-1930s who appeared to approve the Fascist regimes that were gaining the upper hand in Italy, Germany and Japan. Time and Tide magazine publicly identified the Astors and the Londonderrys with the pro-German rapprochement initiative, in contrast to the ‘realist politicians’, including Winston Churchill, Duff Cooper and Austen Chamberlain, who could see through Hitler’s promises to his real motives. Nancy countered in print, robustly claiming she was working for peace in Europe by treating Germany fairly. The singular ability to combine sincerity with naivety was one of Nancy Astor’s most distinctive characteristics. Sibyl Colefax sternly resisted Nazi Germany’s charm offensive; ‘Chips’ Channon noted her disapproval of his decision to accept an invitation from von Ribbentrop to attend the Berlin Olympics. Harold Nicolson also criticised ‘Chips’ and his wife for ignoring Germany’s true motivations: ‘The Channons have fallen under the champagne-like influence […] they think Ribbentrop a fine man, and that we should let gallant little Germany glut her fill of the Reds in the East and keep decadent France quiet while she does so.’3
Nicol
son refused point-blank to go to Germany, as he was keen to tell a pro-Nazi German woman at Mrs Greville’s dining table. His fellow guest was trying to persuade him to visit Germany, as the country had changed so much. He replied:
‘Yes, I should find my old friends either in prison, or exiled or murdered.’ At which she gasped like a fish. Maggie saw that something awful had happened and shouted down the table to find out what it was. In a slow strong voice I repeated my remark. As Ribbentrop’s Number Two was on Maggie’s right, it was all to the good. Old Willingdon, bless his heart [Lord Willingdon, Viceroy of India, 1931–36], backed me up.4
Court mourning for George V formally came to an end in July 1936, six months after his death, but wider London society was keen to ‘jump the gun’. On 11 June 1936 ‘Chips’ and Honor Channon hosted an intimate dinner party for the new King at their extraordinary town house in Belgrave Square, to show off for the first time their newly created, opulent dining room. It was in the rococo style and modelled on the Mirror Room at the eighteenth-century Amalienburg hunting lodge near Munich. The project had taken over a year to complete, cost £6,000 and was ‘a symphony of blue and silver’, replete with crystals and mirrored glass, with an exquisite parquet floor brought in from Vienna. The privileged guests included, inevitably, Wallis Simpson (Ernest had tactfully claimed a prior engagement), Philip Sassoon, Duff Cooper and Lady Diana, and the Duke of Kent. Emerald Cunard, needless to say, arrived late.
With a theatrical flourish, the doors into the dining room were flung open. By the light of candles, the self-selected elite of London society enjoyed their own endless reflections in a magical room that glittered and sparkled. Lady Colefax joined them for coffee. The evening was a triumph; the King did not leave until 1.45 a.m., so much did he apparently enjoy the company and the exquisite setting.
At Cliveden on Tuesday 16 June Nancy Astor held a ball that was the envy of society, with more than a thousand guests gathered in the enormous ballroom. Joyce Grenfell, her niece, wrote that she had never enjoyed a party so much. The house was festooned with flowers from the gardens. Nancy was in pale blue satin and wearing a tiara to greet her guests. Dinner was served beforehand, the orchestra struck up at 10.30 p.m. and the guests danced till 4 a.m., when eggs and bacon were served. But such rampant hedonism grated on some that summer; one house party guest, Harold Nicolson, wrote to his wife, Vita Sackville-West:
Cliveden, I admit, is looking lovely. The party also is lavish and enormous. How glad I am that we are not rich. I simply do not want a house like this where nothing is really yours, but belongs to servants and gardeners. There is a ghastly unreality about it all. Its beauty is purely scenic. I enjoy seeing it. But to own it, to live here, would be like living on the stage of the Scala theatre in Milan.5
Others similarly disapproved of opulent display; Beverley Nichols wrote that nobody who attended a glittering reception at Londonderry House ever forgot it, because of the atmosphere of power, stability and permanence. He also sounded a warning about the ‘hint of the tumbril in the roll of the drum’, implying that overt privilege could spark social revolution. Stanley Baldwin remarked in 1936 that the Marchioness’s lavish hospitality was ‘very magnificent and beautifully done, but to me it was out of date and at times in dubious taste’.
At a grand ceremony for the Presentation of the Colours to three regiments of the Brigade of Guards on 16 July 1936, the schism between the new King’s circle and the traditionalist ‘old guard’ was made apparent. The parade was held in Hyde Park, and two temporary stands had been erected to provide seating for the spectators. The first stand was appropriated by the royal family, their retainers and functionaries, including Queen Mary, her daughter-in-law the Duchess of York, and her two small daughters, Elizabeth and Margaret Rose, wearing identical outfits. The other stand was occupied by the King’s fashionable and sophisticated friends, many of them American in origin, and was graced by the immaculately turned-out Wallis Simpson, sitting next to Emerald Cunard. The King and the Duke of York were in uniform and on horseback to take the salute. The two groups of spectators eyed each other warily; the gap between the two sets of bleachers graphically demonstrated the rift between them. Immediately after the ceremony an Irish journalist pointed a loaded revolver at the King but was disarmed by a special constable, and narrowly escaped a lynching from the crowd. Edward saw the altercation, and the gun fell under his horse’s hoofs, but he kept his nerve and was subsequently praised for his bravery. The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife in 1914 by a fervent nationalist with a cause, a revolver and an unexpected opportunity had occurred only twenty-two years earlier. The repercussions then had been dire, and kings and heads of state were aware they took a calculated risk when they appeared as figureheads at public events.
The Berlin Olympics began on 1 August 1936. The event was an international showcase for the city and an unparalleled propaganda opportunity for the Third Reich. Berlin was bedecked with swastika flags and banners, and loudspeakers barracked the populace and visitors alike with stirring martial music and hectoring announcements. Pickpockets and petty criminals had been rounded up and interned, though prostitutes were allowed to practise their trade as potential customers arrived. The Juden Verboten signs had been put into storage until the festival was over. Designed in every detail by Albert Speer, the Olympics were Wagnerian in atmosphere; the vast Olympic stadium held 100,000 people, and the rapturous crowds cheered the small man in the brown uniform whose apotheosis this was. The games attracted athletes from fifty-three nations, and the many British visitors included Lord Rothermere, Lord Beaverbrook and Sir Robert Vansittart. Some were seduced by the spectacle, including ‘Chips’ Channon, who thrilled at being ‘received by Ribbentrop, [and] Hitler and escorted everywhere by Storm Troopers’6. When he was presented to the Führer, ‘Chips’ claimed he was more excited than when he had met either Mussolini or the Pope. Beverley Nichols, who attended as a journalist, was more caustic: ‘There were Rolls Royces, white as milk, bearing the pudding-faced aristocracy of England, murmuring to each other that really the Hitler Jugend [Hitler Youth] were rather wonderful, almost like gods […] and they didn’t look as if they wanted a war, did they?’7
Having spent most of the summer in Germany, von Ribbentrop finally returned to London as official Ambassador, arriving by train on 26 October 1936. He attracted ridicule before he had even left Victoria Station, by insisting on holding the ‘Hitlergrüss’, the distinctive Nazi salute, for more than thirty seconds. He then read out a statement to the press, denouncing Communism as the ‘most terrible of diseases’. This was undiplomatic language, an unprovoked attack on the Soviet Union that defied protocol, as new ambassadors must refrain from public remarks until they have presented their credentials to the head of state. Even the pro-German Daily Mail concluded that von Ribbentrop seemed oblivious to British tolerance for differing political ideologies.
Von Ribbentrop attempted to intimidate the unfortunate staff at the German Embassy, inspecting them in a parody of a military review and insisting they return his ‘Heil Hitler’ salutes. They were professional civil servants in the diplomatic corps, with no particular allegiance to any party, and had been shaken by the unexpected death of the former ambassador. The Embassy was undergoing a massive refurbishment, ordered by Hitler and directed by Albert Speer, so the von Ribbentrops were obliged to find a temporary residence while the work was completed. They rented a suitably grand house in Eaton Square; by a strange quirk of fate it belonged to Neville Chamberlain, soon to be Prime Minister.
Tactless von Ribbentrop visited Anthony Eden at the Foreign Office and attempted to impress him with his personal closeness to the Führer. He boasted to Eden that it would be a major advantage for Britain having him as Ambassador, as he could convey to the Foreign Secretary the Führer’s thoughts. Eden pointed out that Britain had its own Ambassador in Berlin, whose job it was to relay the policies of the German government. He briskly stated that von Ribbentrop’s role was
to report back to Berlin the views of the British government. Given such an elementary lesson in the workings of international diplomacy, von Ribbentrop sulked.
On 30 October von Ribbentrop went to Buckingham Palace to present his credentials to Edward VIII, who described him as a ‘polished but bombastic opportunist’. He presented a Nazi salute to the King; the Italian Ambassador Count Grandi later recalled how he would not be pressured by ‘preposterous’ von Ribbentrop into offering a similar Fascist Salute to the monarch, and the Germans complained about him to the Italian Foreign Minister. On 31 October the von Ribbentrops attended a cocktail party given in their honour by Mrs Greville at her London home; then they left to spend the weekend at Lord and Lady Londonderry’s estate, Wynyard, near Durham. The von Ribbentrops were keen to cultivate the key hostesses whom they saw as the gate-keepers to British decision-makers.
As she operated in a different social milieu, Sibyl Colefax was able to avoid contact with the German Embassy, and she disapproved thoroughly of the Nazi regime. 1936 was a very difficult year for her. Her husband Arthur contracted pneumonia and died suddenly on 19 February, shortly after the death of her friend Rudyard Kipling, and she mourned him intensely. Aged sixty-two, Sibyl now faced a very uncertain future with characteristic courage. She took a short holiday, then returned to Colefax & Fowler, working ever harder to generate income. She continued to entertain her social circle, though in reduced circumstances; Virginia Woolf uncharitably complained that Sibyl was economising on the ingredients she served at dinner. Sibyl tried to maintain a façade of composure but confided in the American writer Thornton Wilder that she would prefer to retire from public life and live with her memories, but that she had no choice because she had no financial resources left and was forced to sell Argyll House.