by D. J. Taylor
Part Three
It is very many years since a British sovereign has intervened in the public affairs of his nation. Nevertheless, His Majesty’s Christmas Day broadcast may be counted as such an intervention. Whatever one may think about the King’s Speech to his subjects and dominions, one or two points should be made clear.
It is not true, as certain persons have suggested, that in delivering this address His Majesty has exceeded his constitutional powers, for in this matter he has no constitutional powers to exceed. The King’s Speech is one of the few occasions on which the Sovereign is permitted—in fact encouraged—to express a personal opinion. Neither is it accurate to insist that the sentiments conveyed to a listening Empire were in any way ‘defeatist.’ As a veteran of the Great War, and the patron of numberless charitable organisations, the King’s sympathies clearly lie with the armed services.
Not the least poignant aspect of his address was the high degree of fellow feeling extended to those members of the British Expeditionary Force at present serving in France. Neither could it be possible for anyone seriously to object to His Majesty’s principal theme, which was the horror of war and the misfortune of those caught up in it.
The King is not a defeatist. He is perfectly entitled to hold the views attributed to him. And yet it is not difficult to believe that the unguarded expression of them is a grave error of judgement. The gap between what a man may say in private and what may decently be uttered on a public platform is known to every individual who plays a part in our national life. In supposing such a gap not to exist, the King has not only—albeit inadvertently—offered comfort to our enemies; he has played into the hands of certain persons on the Home Front who would like, against considerable evidence to the contrary, to be considered our friends.
No one can doubt that, acting in good faith, His Majesty has been badly advised, and it behoves the authorities both to determine how this advice came to be tendered and to ensure that it shall not be repeated. As for the wider impact of these remarks, it has been suggested—though not by this newspaper—that the King has ‘lit a candle,’ to which all those opposed to the conduct of the war, or indeed to its very existence, may rally. We do not believe this to be the case, and we maintain that the events of the next few months will bear us out.
Daily Telegraph, 27 December 1939
A. Hardinge to Cabinet Secretary, 28 December 1939
… Clearly the fault and the responsibility for what occurred are mine. In slight mitigation, I was grievously misled, not only by the King, but by Mr Nichols, the amanuensis whom His Majesty had engaged to assist him with the speech. By the time the full extent of the King’s duplicity—and I can only call it that—had become plain, it was, of course, far too late to act. Mr Wood, whom I naturally consulted about halfway through the proceedings, confirmed that there was not the slightest chance of preventing the King from continuing to speak or of conjuring some pretext for going ‘off air.’ I should be very glad if you could lay this information before the Prime Minister, and convey to him my sincere apologies for the debacle that has ensued …
Yours very sincerely,
A. Hardinge
Cabinet Secretary to A. Hardinge, 29 December 1939
The Prime Minister has noted your comments, and has asked me to convey his sympathy for the extremely difficult circumstances in which you have been placed. He believes that further investigation of what occurred, both during the broadcast and before it, would serve no useful purpose. Given the extremely volatile nature of the political situation, the Prime Minister thinks it imperative that His Majesty should be persuaded to leave London at the earliest opportunity, and be set to work at some task at which, and in a location where—to be perfectly frank about the matter—he can do no more harm.
Yours very sincerely,
A. L. du Quesne, Cabinet Secretary
A. Hardinge to Cabinet Secretary, 30 December 1939
… The Prime Minister will perhaps be aware of the King’s extreme reluctance to leave London at the present moment, or indeed to do anything that he does not wish to. But I have placed before him the recent invitation from the Lord Lieutenant of Lancashire—I believe that your office was privy to this—to undertake an inspection tour of military hospitals in the north-west of England. I should say that I think it highly unlikely he will agree to do this.
Yours very sincerely,
A. Hardinge
Cabinet Secretary to A. Hardinge, 31 December 1939
… The Prime Minister has asked me to tell you that he thinks the north-western tour will do very well, and that the King should be informed—insofar as is consistent with the respect due to his position—that this is not a suggestion, but an order.
Chapter 14
Beverley Nichols’s Diary III
1 January 1940
Never have I known such a to-do—perhaps the proper word is furore—over a few words spoken over the wireless! Apparently on Boxing Day several hundred people gathered outside the gates of Buckingham Palace bearing placards announcing that we support our king and end the war now. Naturally, all mention of this kept out of the newspapers.
As for one’s own part in the proceedings, I feel increasingly like the proprietor of a Punch and Judy show who occasionally peeps beyond the curtain to see how his effects are being received by the audience. Certainly all through Christmas Week when people were discussing the speech, it was all I could do to refrain from jumping up to correct them on points of detail! Thankfully I managed to prevent myself, otherwise who knows what cats might have been let out of the bag.
General reactions to the speech, based on the persons one has spoken to, in descending order of approval:
(1) The King has shown great courage in stating his views in this way, and his opinions should be listened to and acted upon.
(2) The King has shown great courage in stating his views, but also a distressing naivety. There is a danger that the speech may be misinterpreted, both by our enemies and our friends.
(3) The King has been foolish (‘Very foolish’—a Labour MP) and also badly advised. What on earth did he, and those around him, imagine they were doing?
(4) The King is pro-Nazi, and should no longer be allowed to speak in public.
There is also a fifth theory, which is that the whole thing was orchestrated by the Government with the aim of discrediting the King.
All this highly amusing, and also deeply alarming, given one’s own involvement. The disagreeable sense of having leapt onto a conveyor belt which none of the levers one grasps seem capable of halting. No sooner had I arrived back at Hampstead than Ramsay telephoned, practically beside himself. Said it was imperative—one of Ramsay’s favourite words—that we should ascertain the King’s views, how he intended to act, &c. I replied that it was quite probable the King had no views other than those he had expressed, certainly did not intend to ‘act,’ as Ramsay put it. Ramsay then insisted that I should try to make contact with the King through Hardinge. My protest that Hardinge would probably want to have me hanged for treason if the law would allow it brushed aside, and in the end I said that I would do this.
As I foresaw, the minion who answered Hardinge’s telephone about as frosty as it was possible for a human being to be, if not actually seated in an ice-box. Said that there was not the slightest chance that Hardinge would see me. If there was anything I wished to communicate it should be put in a letter. ‘But this is disgraceful,’ Ramsay complained, when I told him. ‘It amounts to nothing more than a conspiracy.’ Well, I can think of other conspiracies that are afoot, but forbore to tell him this.
Deeply ambiguous leading article in The Times. Having read it half a dozen times I could not establish whether the writer supported the King, with certain reservations, or reprobated him, also with certain reservations. Ramsay, on the other hand, triumphant. ‘The press is on our side,’ &c. For an intelligen
t man, he can be woefully obtuse.
3 January 1940
Extraordinary to relate, when I came downstairs at 10 a.m., wishing that I had not indulged so freely in what a Victorian novelist would call ‘spirituous liquors,’ it was to be told, by an imperturbable Gaskin, that the Palace had telephoned, and would telephone again. Was so unnerved by this that I retired to the study for a brandy-and-soda, whereupon the telephone bell rang again and I was instantly summoned back to the drawing room.
Not Hardinge, but a factotum whose voice I did not recognise. Said that the King was most anxious to see me. Would it be possible for me to call at the Palace at 3? Naturally I said I would do this. Thought about consulting Ramsay, but in the end decided against this. It would simply mean his giving me a lot of orders to follow. Besides, I have no idea why the King wishes to speak to me, and it may all be perfectly innocuous.
Rather surprised, when I put down the telephone, to find that my hand was shaking. It is all the consequence of too much worry and too many late nights, I daresay.
Later. Had determined on taking a taxi to the Palace, but grew so nervous that when we reached the Tottenham Court Road I decided to get out and walk. A cold day with the remnants of last night’s frost still on the pavement. A few people examining the frontages of shops which did not seem to have a great deal to sell. Policemen on traffic duty in the Mall blowing into their cupped hands to keep warm.
Atmosphere at the Palace very subdued. A little black man in a morning coat and a silk hat, no doubt some foreign plenipotentiary, being driven off in a carriage. Found HM not in his usual eyrie but in a tiny study, no more than a cubby-hole, crammed with ancient postage stamp gazetteers—the old King’s, apparently, which have never been cleared out. Oddly animated, but also worn-looking. The chevrons at the corners of his eyes are turning into deep grooves.
I asked how had he spent Christmas? ‘Oh, there are relatives one has to see, don’t you know?’ When I commented on the rather emphatic tie he was wearing he said: ‘Oh yes, my niece Lilibet gave it to me.’ It appears Hardinge is ill with bronchitis. Struck once again by the King’s hesitancy, inability to get to the point.
A footman brought in a tray of tea-things for which there was scarcely room on the cramped, paper-strewn table. One of the newspapers dated 10 September 1937. Eventually, after a great deal of beating about the bush, including a pitiless account of one of Noël’s plays that he had been taken to, the King dropped his bombshell. He wishes to see Ramsay. How might this be accomplished?
When I remarked that he was the King of England and nothing, surely, could be easier than to arrange a meeting with one of his own subjects, he frowned. There could be no question of his inviting Ramsay to the Palace, or of Hardinge finding out what he was up to. Very struck by this spectacle of a King and Emperor going in fear of his lackeys. In that case, I proposed, we should find some neutral territory.
Eventually the King said that there was a gallery in Bruton Street where he sometimes went to meet people (which people, I wonder, and for what reason?). We agreed on a time at which I should bring Ramsay there. No indication of what he intends to ask Ramsay, or what schemes he has in mind. Asked for details of Ramsay’s associates. These I supplied as truthfully as I could. Again, noted the tangential way in which his mind works. ‘Wasn’t he married to the Duke of Beaufort’s daughter?’ &c.
Left just after four and walked back along the Mall, where ice was forming on the plane trees, sky a curious blue-grey colour, all impossibly melancholy and ground-down.
On my return to Hampstead, telephoned Ramsay with the news. An interesting psychological contrast. Ramsay exultant—‘Now we are finally on to something,’ &c. Myself pessimistic, unable to believe that anything will come of this, convinced that unseen powers at work to frustrate the King’s intentions in this or indeed any other matter.
Later. Had arranged to play bridge with Victor and Alistair Forbes—smart young man who writes for the newspapers. As I had foreseen, so nervous that completely unfit for duty and revoked three times. Twitted for this by Victor. Naturally it is impossible for one’s friends to appreciate the strain one is under, particularly as one is unable to supply details, but really, I do feel one could expect a little more consideration! Forbes, for example, pocketing two guineas without the slightest compunction.
Came home to discover that Ramsay had sent round a ‘memorandum’ of all the questions he intended to ask the King. Felt like telling him that it was not our duty to ask the King anything but merely to listen.
7 January 1940
To Bruton Street. An extraordinarily conspiratorial air. Ramsay, arriving at precisely the same moment as myself, casting suspicious glances up and down the pavement to see if he were being followed. In fact, the street entirely empty.
Gallery one of those quietly plutocratic redoubts—only half a dozen pictures in the window but the cheapest of them priced at fifty guineas. Greeted in the vestibule by a polite young man in a Guards’ tie who enquired: had we an appointment with Mr Windsor? We said that we had. Having established our bona fides, we were hastened away into a room rather like a dentist’s ante-chamber: anonymous furniture; wax flowers in vases; occasional tables bearing copies of The Field, Tatler, &c. I asked the polite young man if many people had appointments here with Mr Windsor and received the blandest of smiles.
The King arrived shortly afterwards. Horribly nervous, like a schoolboy who fears that his absence from the dormitory will soon be detected by matron, but also affable, urbane, giving the impression that the back room of a Bruton Street gallerie with its Zoffany prints much more his natural milieu than the palace. Said: ‘The Windsor Faction, I presume?’ as we shook hands. Smoked incessantly, the polite young man arriving every so often to take away his ashtrays with an almost comical reverence.
Small-talk—which one can never avoid with the King—painfully thin. Ramsay did not seem to know whether to treat the King as his oldest intimate friend or a public meeting he had been bidden to address. Still, once we had got beyond marchionesses the two had in common, the most extraordinary conversation ensued. He seems to want to place himself entirely in our, or rather Ramsay’s, hands. Said he had been ‘gratified beyond measure’ by the response to his speech. Asked if it could be arranged for him to meet ‘like-minded people’ who shared his views. Enquired of Ramsay: what was the state of pacifist opinion in the House of Commons?
At no point did his nervousness abate. Examined his watch perhaps a dozen times. At one point, when a car’s exhaust back-fired in the street outside, he gave such a start that the chair in which he was sitting positively rocked on its castors. Ramsay by this time had become grandly avuncular, seemed to think that the morning was his, that he could take the King off for luncheon at his club without anyone turning a hair. But not more than half an hour had gone by before the King, flinging the last of his cigarette butts down on the table—the polite young man not yet having returned with his ashtray—declared that he had to leave us: ‘You see, gentlemen, my time is not my own.’ Left us amid a profusion of hand-shakings, expressions of mutual regard, resolved to meet again in three days’ time.
Ramsay almost purring with satisfaction, seemed to think he would be summoned forthwith to Downing Street to state his terms and so forth. ‘Make no mistake, Nichols, we have started something here that the country will thank us for finishing.’ For my own part, I could not help but wonder what the upshot might be when Hardinge was recovered from his bronchitis, but did not like to say this.
8 January 1940
Infinitely tedious morning writing my article for Drawbell. Did this almost somnambulistically: could not remember, ten minutes after completing it, what I had written about. Several times interrupted by Ramsay telephoning for advice with drafts of a letter he is composing to associates. Warned him to proceed with extreme caution. After all, one has no notion how this business will turn out, whether in fact the
whole thing will not prove to be some kind of chimera.
10 January 1940
And so, not altogether to my surprise, it proved. Convening once more in Bruton Street, we were met by the polite young man with a message to the effect that ‘Mr Windsor’ had been ‘unavoidably detained elsewhere.’ All Ramsay’s efforts to convey a message, solicit further details, courteously repulsed. The only means of contact available to us apparently ‘the usual channels.’ Ramsay convinced that the whole thing ‘a plot,’ insisted on waiting twenty minutes in the ante-chamber lest the King should merely have been delayed. This the polite young man accepted with a shrug of his shoulders: I expect he has worse to deal with than Ramsay.
Ramsay then urged me to telephone Hardinge with the threat of ‘questions being asked in the House.’ I pointed out that Hardinge would certainly not speak to me, and one could not protest at the fact of the King of England’s having broken an appointment with two of his subjects. ‘Well then, you must write to him,’ Ramsay said. ‘Write to him and tell him that we will not stand for this behaviour.’ There is a rather fanatical glint in Ramsay’s eye on these occasions, which is intensely disagreeable.
Photograph of the King in evening papers inspecting troop of Boy Scouts outside gates of Buckingham Palace, with fatuous letterpress. Never have I seen a man seem so wretchedly unhappy with the task on which he was engaged!
15 January 1940
After sending three letters, all unacknowledged, and making half a dozen telephone calls, I finally receive a note from Hardinge. Glacially formal and written in the third person. Presents his compliments, acknowledges my assistance, conveys His Majesty’s grateful thanks and offers to defray any out-of-pocket expenses that I may have incurred. Really! At first immensely cross about this, but then began to see amusing side, in particular the spot in which my bamboozling of Hardinge has placed him.