by D. J. Taylor
Incidentally, Victor says he has it on good authority that Mrs S did not die of heart failure, but was poisoned—with Baldwin’s connivance—by her surgeon. I must confess that when I heard this I laughed out loud. On the other hand, Mrs S’s death, coming when it did, extraordinarily convenient. Victor told me that had she lived another month, he might already have abdicated, which would have put the cat truly among the constitutional pigeons.
1 November 1939
The British Expeditionary Force has apparently marched ten miles in the direction of the Maginot Line, and then turned on its tail and marched back again. I ask you!
Dinner at Catherine D’Erlanger’s house in Piccadilly. All quite unchanged. The same bald-headed butler with the quivering hand. The same night light dripping wax over the exquisite Louis XV table, spoiling the veneer. Also there Peter Churchill, Barbara Back, H. G. Wells and his lady-love Baroness Budberg. Wells, who has never liked me, asked rather sneeringly what I was doing in the way of war-work. I said I was trying to keep up everyone’s morale.
Talk hopelessly nostalgic: Le Touquet; Cap Ferrat; Hartnell’s parties; coming back across the Atlantic on one of the ten-day boats. Remembered the conversation I had with Elsa Maxwell three months ago on the terrace at Cannes, with the lights suddenly going out, and it seeming like an omen, and Elsa’s questions (‘Do you remember Max Reinhardt’s parties at Salzburg? Do you remember the Lido? And the parties at Constance Toulmin’s palazzo on the Grand Canal?’) and almost wept at the pity of it all.
At dinner put next to a youngish man from the American Embassy named Kent. Not at all the kind of American one usually meets in England: intensely gentlemanly, well-cut suit, waistcoat, and watch chain, appears to actually like wine instead of pretending to like it. I asked him what they think about the war in Grosvenor Square, and he said ‘the old man’ (Kennedy) is pessimistic, thinks we shall lose. Struck by the extremely large number of names of well-connected people one has met that he contrived to drop into his conversation without the least self-consciousness. Seems to have a finger in a great many pies.
Gradually it came out—I think I must have said something about the meeting in Kensington and unwittingly declared myself a sympathiser—that he knew Ramsay. The Embassy knows all about the Faction and is generally supportive. Says that Ramsay has all the members’ and sympathisers’ names written down in a locked ledger, and that this is occasionally given to Kent for transfer to Embassy on the grounds of diplomatic immunity, Ramsay being fearful that the Secret Services will try to abstract it. Asked whose names appeared in it (my own, for example?) but he maintains that he has never seen it unfastened. All this said quite openly while Catherine talked about Syrie Maugham not three feet away.
As I was leaving, found myself with Wells and his baroness at the door. He looked old, seedy, impossibly ground-down. Said, bitterly, did I not see that all this—he flung his arm at the row of sandbags next to Catherine’s front door—represented civilisation’s last gasp? I said I thought civilisation was good for a few years yet. Just as we were exchanging these valedictions, Mr Kent sidled by, dressed in a British Warm with a folded umbrella under his arm, looking every inch a stockbroker on his way to White’s. Impossibly affairé. Like Mr Tod hatching one of his schemes against Tommy Brock.
3 November 1939
I can see that I shall have to be careful about Ramsay. This morning’s Telegraph, for example, has an article about ‘subversive’ organisations.
No names are mentioned, but I have a nasty feeling that I may have met several of their representatives at the South Kensington meeting. And then he has begun to say foolish things in the House. The Times, I discover, carries a report of questions asked in relation to evacuee children being subject to ‘moral instruction’ of an unsuitable (i.e., Marxist) kind. Whereupon a Labour member asked the Minister if he was aware of the Fascist opinions that might be inculcated into them, and then Shinwell, when Ramsay said that ‘responsible organisations’ could give the Minister evidence of what he was alleging, asked whether the Minister ‘had any reason to believe that the Hon. and gallant member who asked the question is associated with any responsible organisation.’ All this very sinister.
On the other hand, Ramsay charm itself. This morning a note asking: would I go and see him at the House? Found him there with a rather sharp-faced girl called Castell, who describes herself as his aide-de-camp. Tired, but otherwise on good form. Said the Labour members exceedingly tiresome, seemed to forget he himself had a son serving in the army, &c. A certain amount of chaff about Shinwell, Ellen Wilkinson, &c. Then, when Miss Castell had been despatched on an errand, he became serious. Declared himself anxious to make use of my connections. The great thing was to secure access to the King. Did I know anyone who could help bring this off? Said I would consider, send him an answer in a day or so. Ramsay seemed pleased at this. Wondered whether to tell him I had met Kent at Catherine’s and then, for some reason, thought better of it.
Later. Another row with Drawbell about my article for this Sunday’s Chronicle. It had been agreed that I should write a piece about morale in the army, which I am perfectly competent to do, having been down to Caterham last week at considerable inconvenience, dined in the mess and absolutely prostrated myself on several adjutants’ carpets in order to find out ‘what the men are thinking.’ (Morale, by the way, is horribly low. Nobody wants to fight, or thinks we should be in Europe at all. Several of the junior officers I spoke to openly pro-Mosley.)
Then for some reason Drawbell changed his mind and said he wanted an article on ‘the national spirit.’ I said, what I truly believe, that the national spirit was so depressed as to be scarcely worth writing about, also that the point of employing a columnist on one’s newspaper was to allow him to ventilate his own opinions. In the end I was allowed to write a modified version of the original, but with a lot of bromides about autumn leaves falling over the barrack-room square and the proud legacy of Balaclava in place of the points I wanted to make. Really! If this goes on I shall certainly write to Lord Kemsley, who has been asking me to join the Sunday Times for months, and would certainly pay more money, too.
4 November 1939
Mysterious paragraph in the Standard saying that a man named Burdett badly injured in an assault last night in the region of St James’s Square; the police seeking his assailant. Mystery lies in the hint that Burdett a Secret Service man in pursuit of ‘subversive organisation’ (that phrase again!) and that one of these organisations might very well be to blame. Most unusual to see anything like this in a newspaper, as cloak-and-dagger brigade usually move heaven and earth to keep reference to themselves sub rosa.
To lunch with the Margraves (Gaskin cross, as he had expected me to be home—shall have to make it up to him) and, on the way back, decided to walk through Richmond Park. Perfectly quiet and still. Deer grazing in great herds. Beech leaves in profusion. All the things one likes. For a moment it was possible to forget entirely what one fears, the awful prospect around one, only to reach Richmond High Street, with its sandbags, its officious little men in uniform, and its army lorries rumbling by, to remember every sordid detail.
Later. Reflecting on talk with Ramsay, racked my brains to think of someone who might furnish an entrée to HM. Not as easy as it sounds. Not that one hasn’t ‘society’ eating out of one’s hand, and half a dozen peers queuing up to offer one dinner invitations (there was another one came this morning from Lord Southsea—had Gaskin put it on the mantelpiece) but … for a start, the people who used to hang around him in the early days have all disappeared.
Metcalfe, for example, from whom he was practically inseparable, now persona non grata for some reason. He is supposed to be very thick with Mrs Ronnie Greville, but it is the best part of half a decade since I went to Polesden Lacey, and then there was that dreadful row about the young man who used to drive her about and in which, one ought to admit, one did not behave altoge
ther well … In the end, though, came up with Ralph Straus, who certainly knew him around the time of the Mrs Simpson business, indeed used to play squash-rackets with him.
It was amusing to see how Straus would contrive to insert references to this acquaintance into his conversation. He would say: ‘You know more about rates for journalism than I do. How much could I expect to get for a piece on “The Game the Prince Plays?”’ ‘Five or six guineas, I should think,’ one would reply, rather intrigued. ‘What game is it, by the way?’ ‘Squash-rackets,’ Straus would blandly reply, as if playing squash with the heir to the throne was the most natural thing in the world. ‘Is he any good?’ one would wonder. ‘Not bad,’ Straus would reply. ‘I can give him three points, but not five.’
Thought I might find Straus at the Savile, to which, for some reason, I still keep up my subscription, so looked in there the following evening. Rather a mouldy lot—decayed bill-brokers with mock-Tudor houses in Ewell Village and Sunday painters, I should say. Consoled myself with the thought that twenty years ago it seemed to me the height of glamour and luxe.
Sure enough, Straus ensconced before the fire. Rather gone to seed, much balder than I remembered, and showing every sign of turning into the Savile’s bright particular bore. Seemed pleased when I said how nice it was to see him—there is such a thing as charm—however said there is not the faintest impediment to communicating with the King. One simply writes to Hardinge, the private secretary, and, if one is not obviously a lunatic, Hardinge or some other factotum replies. The problem, I suppose, is that so many people are lunatics.
The difficulty, Straus said—it is very entertaining when he tries to patronise one—is stirring any interest in the King, who still sees no one. Apparently each of the rooms he inhabits has a portrait of Mrs S. on the wall (how does Straus know this, I wonder?). But it had to be a very good letter, Straus said, to get past Hardinge.
Now if there is one thing I pride myself on, it is the ability to write a letter. One can think of half a dozen persons—Melba, Chaplin, Coolidge—who would not have seen one without it. And so, coming back to Hampstead—Gaskin reported that numbers of people had telephoned, but I waved him away—I sat down in the study and set to work. But how does one address a monarch? It is not as if he were the King of Greece, and grateful for any consideration he could get. In the end I merely reminded him of the occasions in the past when we had met, said that I had vital information to impart to him regarding the conduct of the war, assured him of my bona fides and ‘begged for the favour of an audience’—a nice way of putting it, I thought.
Well! I daresay nothing will come of it. On the other hand, it is rather consoling to think that one has spent at least some part of the day writing to one’s sovereign.
6 November 1939
Had scarcely digested the excellent breakfast cooked for me by Gaskin, in the way that only Gaskin knows how, when there came a knock at the door to say that a gentleman wished to see me on ‘official business.’ Wondering what this might mean, I went into the study, where the ‘gentleman’ had been installed, and found a man called Hegarty, dressed in raincoat and brown shoes, who asked: did I know Captain Ramsay? I replied that Ramsay had written to me in consequence of a newspaper article I had published and that I had twice visited him at the House, and wondered what business it was of his.
Hegarty very civil—has read several of my books—said that ‘certain enquiries’ being made into Ramsay’s activities, and that it was necessary to interview various of his ‘associates,’ &c. He then demanded: had I been at a meeting at a house in South Kensington where Ramsay and Domvile had been present? I said that I went to so many meetings that it was sometimes difficult to recall precisely who was there, and what was talked about. ‘And what was talked about at this one, sir?’ Hegarty asked. Told him I really could not remember, but that naturally some discussion of war, &c.
All this lasted for nearly half an hour. Clearly Ramsay is regarded as a security risk, and the intelligence services are collecting any data on him that happens to be available. Reminded Hegarty that I had served in the First War and flattered myself that no one could regard my opinions as unpatriotic. Hegarty said, which was a relief, that this ‘went without saying.’ Asked: did I know Admiral Domvile? I replied, which was the truth, that I had shaken hands with him at South Kensington, but knew nothing more than I read in the newspapers. Had I ever visited an antiques shop in Maida Vale run by a man named McKechnie? This last question so bizarre that I almost laughed, but contented myself with observing that I bought my antiques in the Pimlico Road.
All rather disturbing.
Later. Thinking that I deserved a rest from Mr Hegarty, Captain Ramsay, and haute politique, I went down to the Criterion Bar. All horribly depressing—whisky twice the normal price, soldiers asking for cigarettes, dreadful little men reading copies of the Racing Post—but eventually ran into y, looking unexpectedly spruce. Says that war has been a godsend to people ‘in his line of work.’ Apparently he is making a small fortune selling black-market gin and ladies’ stockings made of parachute silk.
Says that security at military installations horribly lax, officials corrupt. A fortnight ago, someone is alleged to have stolen the entire South Coast Command meat ration from a truck at Portsmouth Railway Station, most of which was subsequently sold back to the authorities by the people who stole it. Y says mess orderlies the worst of the lot. He has had six bottles of spirits from the Chelsea barracks in the last week alone.
9 November 1939
Ramsay attacked in the House again as a ‘fellow traveller,’ although the Speaker complained that the words were unparliamentary and had them withdrawn.
Sent (anonymously) an article from a paper called Tribune, denouncing me as ‘an objective pro-Fascist.’ Piece, by one G. Orwell, response to Chronicle piece I wrote a week after war was declared. How one abhors these foul little left-wing rags and their insinuation. Because a man has the courage to write what he believes, rather than following the Gadarene rush over the cliff-edge, he is to be disparaged for ‘playing into the enemy’s hands’!
11 November 1939
Armistice Day. Came down to breakfast to find, of all things, a letter from Hardinge thanking me for mine and announcing that the King was prepared to see me. Was so surprised that I dropped egg on my waistcoat. I am to telephone Hardinge to make an appointment. At eleven, having consumed a couple of stiff gins, I did this.
Hardinge, to whom I was eventually connected by a series of minions, very courteous. Said the King remembered me, was interested by my letter. There could be no question of an ‘interview’ of any kind, and nothing to appear in any newspaper. I should not be allowed to take notes or to bring any tape-recording apparatus into the Palace. I agreed to both these conditions. Said my status in speaking to His Majesty would be that of a private individual, not a representative of the press. Hardinge accepted this. Said he had terrible trouble with correspondents of foreign newspapers attaching themselves incognito to diplomatic retinues, and then harassing HM with questions he could not answer. Made an appointment to call at the Palace next Wednesday morning at 10.
Later. Pondered the absolute variety and idiosyncrasy of human experience. Here I sit in my drawing room watching Gaskin ferrying away the tea-things. Mrs De Haviland, my next-door neighbour, can be seen through the window walking her Sealyham. In the next room Grieveson, the odd-job man, is putting frames on those prints I bought at Abbot & Holder last week. I, only a few feet away from each of them, am contemplating an audience with the King. If a writer put this in a novel, nobody would believe him—but there it is, anyway.
Made some more notes for my India book, which I really think will be rather good.
16 November 1939
Now that I have returned from the Palace I want to set down as accurate an account as possible of my visit: not only as an aide-memoire, but for the benefit of anyone else who may
read this journal. After all, one has a duty to posterity as much as to oneself.
Had been rather exercised by the question of how one ‘arrives’ at Buckingham Palace. Does one turn up at the front gate in a taxi? Or merely accost one of the sentries on duty? Consulted Victor, who advised me to present myself at the visitors’ entrance, which is apparently just around the corner in the Royal Mews. Then again, what is one supposed to wear on these occasions? In the end selected a rather nice grey suit with a very fine chalk-stripe, dispensed with cigarette case on the grounds that it would spoil the line, and bought a new bowler hat at Lock’s.
Victor’s advice turned out to be A1 as, having announced myself, was instantly greeted by a flunkey and sent on to ‘the Grand Entrance under the arch in the inner courtyard.’ Here were parked a state coach and several carriages attended by three-corner-hatted coachmen, postillions, &c., presumably having conveyed some ambassador to present Letter of Credence. Another footman (painfully spotty) to hand me over to equerry, after which Hardinge himself appeared.
Everything immensely shabby and run-down: brocade on the back of the occasional chairs peeling away; footmen’s tail-coats like costumes in a pantomime. Hardinge polite, non-committal, clearly regarding me as merely another appointment in an excessively taxing day. Repeated remarks made on telephone, to which I again acceded, then took me to a room known as the ‘44,’ so called, I believe, as it had not been decorated since 1844, where ‘His Majesty,’ as he rather nicely put it, ‘would receive me.’ The door was opened by another footman (who looked uncannily like that disreputable friend of z’s I met at the Blue Lantern), Hardinge said something I did not catch, and I set off across a vast expanse of shabby carpet in the direction of a desk behind which the King sat writing or, as I now think, pretending to write.