Edward was equally 'out of order' in his attitude to the routine of the royal circuit established by his father, which he largely dropped. He also introduced a new air of informality. The Deputy Comptroller of Supply at Buckingham Palace was surprised to find that from time to time
we had visits from the King. He would suddenly appear in the kitchens, the cellars, and the store rooms, or other 'behind the scenes' parts of the Palace, walking round, alone, or with one equerry, on tours of inspection. It was all very informal, and quite unlike anything we had seen King George V do at the Palace.16
In a way, he added, 'it was quite a refreshing change after the rigidly fixed time-table of King George V's day, when you could predict with absolute certainty the movements of the King and Queen several months, indeed, a year ahead.'
Nor did Edward enjoy the standard leisure pursuits of upper-class men, such as hunting and shooting, which had been the favourite pastimes of his father. While out stalking at Balmoral, Edward disappointed everyone by taking nothing more lethal than a cine-camera with which to 'shoot' the stags.18 'The fact is,' wrote the South Wales Argus approvingly on 19 November 1936,
that His Majesty does not like shooting either stags or birds. In this he is a great contrast to his late father. With George V all shooting was a passion and he had shot not only stags, pheasants and partridges in Great Britain, but all kinds of wild animals all over the world."
Indeed, shooting had occupied George's leisure time for six months of the year (at one pheasant shoot he shot a thousand out of the total bag of four thousand birds).20 Alexander Hardinge also loved to shoot: his letters to Helen Cecil, when they were engaged, reported on numerous grouse shoots at Balmoral. On one day in the summer of 1922, he reported a 'fine shoot' of 1,335 grouse.21 In order to procure more daylight for shooting, George V had kept the clocks at Sandringham half an hour fast. Edward and some others, including the Duke of York and Queen Mary,22 had disliked this eccentric way of doing things, and just hours after his father's death, Edward put the clocks back from 'Sandringham Time' to Greenwich Mean Time. Senior courtiers were dismayed,23 and Archbishop Lang lamented, 'I wonder what other customs will be put back also!'24
But many others approved. It was one of the ways, observed the American journalist John Gunther, in which Edward began his reign on a note 'of sensible modernity' - at once, it was apparent that 'a new freshness, a note of informality and daring, was blowing through royal affairs.'25 'The trouble is,' claimed one of his subjects sympathetically, 'that you are a hundred years ahead of your time. All advanced thinkers are with you.'26
Edward was a man who 'Prefers a Simple Life', reported the South Wales Argus with satisfaction.27 He liked 'gardening and golf and jigsaw puzzles and dancing to the gramophone and even darts.'28 In the evening, he did his embroidery — he had learnt from Queen Mary how to do gros point.29 He frequented nightclubs such as the Kit Kat, the Cafe de Paris, and especially his favourite, the Embassy Club on Bond Street, where he and Wallis relaxed by dancing and listening to jazz and other modern music. Here they spent evenings with Prince George and his wife Marina, and mixed with musicians, artists and writers, including the novelist Michael Arlen, author of the best-selling The Green Hat (the Embassy reserved special tables for both Edward and Arlen). Edward regularly played polo with Sir Philip Sassoon, who shared his interest in social welfare and had built a model working-class housing estate in Folkestone, with a free dental clinic.30 Despite these relatively simple pleasures, Edward gained the reputation of a playboy. But he was most unlike a typical playboy of the time, such as Aly Khan, the heir to the immense fortune of his father, the Aga Khan. Aly Khan's interests were strictly limited to polo ponies, fast cars and beautiful women.
In the atmosphere of resentment and mistrust that dominated the royal court, it was inevitable that gossip about King Edward VIII would thrive - especially the rumour that he planned to marry Wallis. On 10 October 1936, Alexander Hardinge visited the Duke of York at his house on Piccadilly to warn him that the situation was so grave that it 'might end with the abdication of his elder brother'.31 This was an odd warning to give, since - as Hardinge himself observed in his diary - there was 'nothing concrete on which any representation could be based.'32 Hardinge was a man of absolute rectitude - so absolute, indeed, as to be inflexible. For him, there was a correct way and an incorrect way of doing things, and his conception of 'correct' was closely bound up with tradition and with the values and customs of the narrow social circle to which he and his family belonged. Edward and Hardinge were the same age and had been in the same Guards regiment during the war, but Hardinge's loyalties lay elsewhere: he had been King George V's Assistant Private Secretary for sixteen years, and his attitudes reflected those of the previous court. Sir Horace Wilson had his doubts about the decision to appoint Hardinge as Edward's Private Secretary: 'his feelings seem to have led him to make remarks that were to say the least of it tactless and some of them were said to have been retailed to the King.'33 Hardinge was not at all a suitable Private Secretary for Edward VIII, who would have benefited from the firm support of a more gentle and humorous man, particularly one who was in tune with modern ideas.
The Prime Minister, Stanley Baldwin, decided to see whether there was anything concrete underneath all the rumours of a possible marriage. On 14 October he sought an interview with the King, hoping to discover some information, one way or the other. But to his disappointment, the King chose not to raise the subject of Mrs Simpson at all. The next day, matters came to a head. Hardinge was telephoned by the Press Association with the news that Wallis Simpson was suing for divorce. The case was set down for trial on 27 October at Ipswich Assizes - 'Of all places!' sneered Sir John Simon, the Home Secretary, when he heard.34 Until 1920, all actions had been heard before the High Court in London; but then, over the protests of the London lawyers, it was agreed that 'poor persons' and undefended actions could be heard in certain assize towns, which reduced the costs of a divorce. To Simon, therefore, Ipswich was horribly vulgar. But the lists in London were full for a year or more, and Mrs Simpson and the King were anxious to have the matter dealt with before the coronation, which was set for the following June.35 And Ipswich was away from London and seemed more discreet.
Hardinge immediately contacted the Prime Minister, urging him to see the King and to arrange for the divorce proceedings to be stopped. The danger in which they placed the King, he believed, 'was becoming every day greater ... it was clear that once Mrs Simpson was in a position to marry the King, grave constitutional - and not only moral - issues might only too easily arise.' He added, 'there was little doubt what the opinion of the people would be, once they were allowed to know the facts.'36 Given the narrow circle in which the Hardinge family moved, however, it would have been difficult for him to estimate 'the opinion of the people'.
The Prime Minister met for discussions with Hardinge and his wife,
Helen, on 17 October. Remarkably, he was fired up with energy to deal with the crisis. Over the summer and early autumn he had been forced by exhaustion to take three months of rest; and on returning to Westminster, he confessed to a friend that he was 'not yet sure whether he could stand the strain of heavy Parliamentary work.'37 But now he was somehow revived by this new challenge. He took it upon himself to ask the King for an audience. This time he planned to ask the King directly about Mrs Simpson and the implications of her divorce. Charles Lambe, driving to Sandringham on 18 October, found on his arrival an urgent telephone message from Baldwin for the King. Lambe had no idea why Baldwin was so eager to see Edward, but discovered the reason next day: 'Next morning, after breakfast, Tommy Lascelles [a courtier] said, "Isn't this Ipswich business frightful." That was the first I knew. He then told me that it was on account of the divorce that the PM wanted to see the King.'38
The Prime Minister and the King finally met at Fort Belvedere at ten o'clock on the morning of Tuesday zo October. They repaired to the octagonal drawing room and sat in front of the
fire. Baldwin was apparently at his ease, but he betrayed some anxiety when he asked for a whisky and soda. When the butler had brought a tray for him, wrote Edward in his memoir,
Mr Baldwin rose and, picking up the decanter and a glass, looked inquiringly at me, asking, 'Sir, when?'
As gravely as I could, I hoped even severely, I answered, 'No, thank you, Mr Baldwin; I never take a drink before seven o'clock in the evening.'
The Prime Minister seemed to give a slight start, then went ahead and poured his own drink.39
They spoke for an hour. Baldwin outlined his concerns about the King's friendship with Wallis and about the stories in the American and Canadian press. If they were to continue, he said, this might endanger the position of the monarchy. He finally moved to the heart of the matter: Wallis's divorce petition. 'Sir, must the case really go on?' asked Baldwin. Edward wrote later that he brushed the question aside. He had no right, he said firmly, to interfere in the affairs of another individual, simply because she was a friend of the King.40 Baldwin was consulting a number of people on the royal matter, including Geoffrey Dawson, the editor of The Times. 'As for the Government the Prime Minister probably saw a great deal more of me at this time than he did of any other journalist', Dawson admitted, but added in his defence that this 'was due rather to an old friendship and habit of discussion than to the slightest desire to influence me. He never in fact told me any secrets, nor did I ask for them.'41 Other men with whom the Prime Minister spoke included elder statesmen and civil-service mandarins. On 21 October, Baldwin met 'on this business' with Sir Horace Wilson, who was his economic adviser (later to become Neville Chamberlain's chief confidant during the appeasement period, and Head of the Civil Service in 1939).42
On 26 October, the Archbishop of Canterbury, Cosmo Gordon Lang, called on Alexander Hardinge to discuss the royal crisis. So did Geoffrey Dawson. 'My husband was grateful to Mr Dawson for calling,' wrote Mrs Hardinge, 'for it provided him with a rare opportunity to confide in an outsider whose discretion he trusted.'43 These men inhabited a narrow world, with their own exclusive meeting-places. Dawson, the Archbishop, Lord Halifax and Lord Simon were all Fellows of All Souls College, Oxford. They also met at Hatfield House in Hertfordshire, the seat of the influential Cecil family and home of the current Lord Salisbury. The Hardinges were often at Hatfield, because Helen Hardinge was the daughter of Lord Edward Cecil (and therefore a granddaughter of Lord Salisbury, the Conservative Prime Minister of the Victorian era). Cosmo Lang met with the Prime Minister at Hatfield on 1 November.
The Archbishop viewed the idea of Edward marrying Wallis with horror. How could he crown a king who was married to a woman twice divorced, with both ex-husbands still living? It was bad enough, as he wrote in a note to Buckingham Palace shortly after George V's death, that Edward 'knows little, and, I fear, cares little, about the Church and its affairs'.44 In a diary he kept in 1936, Archbishop Lang recorded that 'as the months passed . . . the thought of my having to consecrate him as King weighed on me as a heavy burden. Indeed, I considered whether I could bring myself to do so.' His only comfort was a presentiment that the decision would be taken out of his hands: 'But I had a sense that circumstances might change. I could only pray that they might, either outwardly or in his own soul.'45 For now, though, he was uncertain how to proceed. A particular difficulty for him was that an evangelistic campaign was being planned for 1937, in association with the coronation. This campaign, 'A Recall to Religion', was going to urge the people of Britain to dedicate themselves to the service of God and their country.46 The 'recall' was felt to be necessary because of the dwindling membership of the Church of England.
Most citizens of Britain at this time were Christian in background: Church of England, Roman Catholic or Nonconformist. But religious faith was losing its hold. One important reason was the brutality of the Great War, and the sight of bishops and priests blessing guns and tanks. Ecclesiastical anathemas counted for much less, noted the historian John Grigg, than those who pronounced them liked to believe.4 Many ordinary people were not bothered, for example, that their King did not attend church. 'It is said you are entirely indifferent to the public practice of religion', wrote one of Edward's subjects living near Worcester, who was a Christian. But he added, 'I don't think that matters. What does is that you do many Christian acts. You love your fellow man and therefore love God.'48 The King 'is a real Christian,' wrote one middle-aged Scottish woman, 'following Christ in deeds not words, helping his Brother Man, visiting the poor, looking after those in lowly walks in life.'49 Many took a dim view of 'Bishops and old Church Law & Phraseology which no man worries about these days, being too busy trying to keep the wolf from the door.'50 A contrast was drawn between Christianity and 'Churchianity - which is not true Christianity',51 and few people had patience with 'muddling ministers and pompous parsons'.52
Nonetheless, the Church of England was still a force to be reckoned with, because it was the established church. In Wales, a massive Nonconformist campaign had brought about the disestablishment of the Anglican Church in the principality in 192.0. But in England, nothing had changed. The Prime Minister had the ultimate say in the selection of bishops and the appointment of the Archbishop of Canterbury. Parliament was opened with prayers, and the Cup Final was introduced by the mass singing of the hymn 'Abide with Me'. Twenty-six Anglican bishops sat in the House of Lords, and Anglican dignitaries officiated at just about every important state occasion. Against this background, the growing lack of religious faith among ordinary people had little impact on the role of the Church in the life of the nation.
It was reasonable enough, once Wallis's divorce suit was announced, to assume that Edward was thinking of marriage. For, as Hilda Runciman pointed out, 'there seemed no adequate reason for the disadvantage of the divorce scandal unless marriage was intended'.53 Only once before had Edward wanted to marry. In France in 1917 he had fallen in love with a Red Cross nurse, Rosemary Millicent Leveson-Gower, who was the daughter of the Duke of Sutherland. Although she was charming and beautiful, with very blonde hair and blue eyes, Edward was most struck by her compassion for soldiers suffering from shell- shock. In February 1918, when they were both in England, he asked Lady Rosemary to marry him - and despite some initial hesitation she agreed. But the marriage was forbidden by Edward's father, George V. He felt it would not be suitable because Lady Rosemary's mother was separated from her second husband (her first husband had died), and her brother, the Earl of Rosslyn, had been twice divorced, twice bankrupt, and was a heavy drinker.54
In the following year, 1919, Edward heard of Lady Rosemary's engagement to Lord Ednam. He told Freda Dudley Ward that he could not help 'feeling a little sad', because 'she was the only girl I felt I ever could marry & I knew it was 'defendu' by my family!!' He hoped they would be happy - 'as she's such a darling & I guess he's a very lucky man!!' After this episode he resisted his family's efforts to find him a suitable wife and objected to the constant speculation about whom he was going to marry. While in Paris in 1919, he was horrified to see a claim in the French newspapers that he was engaged to the Queen of Italy's eldest daughter. 'I've asked the Embassy to get at the French press & insist upon an immediate contradiction', he told Mrs Dudley Ward, adding that 'it naturally infuriates me, particularly as the girl has a face like a bottom!! . . .' In any case, he wrote, 'I just can't bear the thought of having to marry.'56
But in 1936 he did want to marry Wallis. 'Oh! my Wallis I know we'll have Viel Gluck to make us one this year. God bless WE', he wrote to her on New Year's Day.1 Wallis's letters to her aunt and to Edward suggest that however much she too wanted to be 'one' with him, she was aware that any plans for marriage were so riddled with difficulty as to be almost impossible. 'I am sad because I miss you and being near and yet so far seems most unfair', she wrote to him in early February 1936, adding that 'perhaps both of us will cease to want what is hardest to have and be content with the simple way.'58 The 'simple way', presumably, was to be a mistress rathe
r than a wife. Decades later, Wallis stated definitively that
I told him I didn't want to be queen. All that formality and responsibility .. . I told him that if he stayed on as king, it wouldn't be the end of us. I could still come and see him and he could still come and see me. We had terrible arguments about it. But he was a mule. He said he didn't want to be king without me that if I left him, he would follow me wherever I went.
She added, 'What could I do? What could I do?'59
Keeping a mistress was unacceptable to Edward. But it was a practical solution, one which had been shown to work in the numerous affairs conducted over the centuries between kings and mistresses. Mrs Simpson's presence would have been acceptable to the British as his mistress, believed Helen Hardinge, as this would raise no constitutional issue - 'but not as his wife, which would'.60 Most recently, the affair between Alice Keppel and King Edward VII had demonstrated the viability of such a relationship, provided it was managed with care (it also showed the tolerance of the long-suffering Queen Alexandra). Mrs Keppel had met Edward VII when he was Prince of Wales, in 1898: she was twenty-nine, he was fifty-six. All of Society knew about the affair, and many of the general public too. Mrs Keppel, with her husband and children, accompanied the King to Biarritz for Easter on the royal yacht Britannia. Edward VII had other mistresses - the Princesse de Sagan, the Countess of Warwick, Lillie Langtry - but none of them meant as much to him as Alice Keppel. After Edward VII's death, Alec Hardinge wrote a tribute to her 'wonderful discretion'.61 She was still a busy member of Society in 1936, by which time her lover's grandson was on the throne.
But Edward did not want a discreet affair - he desired nothing less than a proper marriage. According to Ernest Simpson, the King had told him so early in 1936 - 'that he was in love with his wife, and that he wanted to marry her'. This was an extraordinary piece of news. Ernest told the King that he must be mad to entertain such an idea; that he must realize that she was already married and, even if she were divorced, it would be impossible for him to marry a woman who had been twice divorced. He had a long talk with the King, pointing out the position he held in the state and the traditions of the royal family with regard to family life. The King became very emotional, said Ernest, and eventually broke down.62
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