Stanley Baldwin, the prime minister who steered his monarch and country through the abdication crisis, once described himself, not without pride, as ‘a remnant of the old Victorians’. His successor, Neville Chamberlain, was scarcely more modern as a premier, with the appearance and personality of the exasperated headmaster of a troubled minor public school, but he might have cavilled at calling himself Victorian. He saw himself as Edwardian in terms of outlook, as he sowed division in the House of Commons and displayed antipathy to the ‘sob-stuff’ sentimentality that he believed Attlee’s Labour Party specialised in.
He came from a distinguished political family, which gave him a firm, even entitled belief in his right to rule. His father, Joseph, was a ruthless Liberal parliamentarian who was said to have originated the phrase ‘you cannot teach old dogs new tricks’. Joseph gloried in imperialism, and announced, ‘The day of small nations has long passed away. The day of Empires has come.’ This was an edict that Neville remembered, and which coloured his political approach. Meanwhile, his elder brother Austen, one-time Chancellor of the Exchequer and leader of the Conservative Party, demonstrated a confidence in his own intellectual abilities that his sibling did his best to emulate. Had he not been mired in the most notorious bait-and-switch of the twentieth century, he might even have surpassed them.
By no means universally popular by the time he became prime minister, even with his own side – Nicolson spat that he was ‘anything but a gentleman’ and ‘a bourgeois shit’ – Chamberlain was nonetheless regarded highly by many. His friend Channon praised him for his elegance, bearing and ‘charm of manner’, and announced in February 1938 that ‘I determined to support him always … I feel loyal about him as I never did about Farmer Baldwin.’1 He was sufficiently cognisant of the relationship between his predecessor and Edward VIII to decide that he would be a different premier, taking a paternalistic and, when necessary, interventionist approach towards his king.
It helped that he had a fondness towards the king and queen that he had never felt towards Edward. He described Elizabeth, while she was still Duchess of York, as ‘the only royalty I enjoy talking to’ and praised her as ‘always natural’. He even wrote in his diary in April 1937 that ‘[people] fervently thanked heaven that [the Duke of Windsor] was out of the way and replaced by Sovereigns whom everyone could respect’.2 He wished to show a private warmth towards the king that few of his peers saw – ‘I am not really an alarming person’,3 he wrote to his sister Hilda, as if expecting contradiction. He succeeded. By August 1937, the relatively new prime minister* was able to write, after a trip to Balmoral, ‘my relations with yourself and the Queen will henceforth be on a new footing … I need hardly say how greatly I value this approach to intimacy and how helpful it will be to me as head of Your Majesty’s Government.’4
At sixty-eight, he was not especially elderly by the political standards of the day (Winston Churchill was sixty-one in 1937), but he could not remain prime minister indefinitely. It was instead expected that he would make way for a younger and more dynamic successor after a calmer period of government than Baldwin had overseen. Unfortunately, Hitler’s belligerence meant that Chamberlain’s longed-for status as a patrician elder statesman was endangered from the beginning of his premiership. A less arrogant man might have surrounded himself with younger, even ideologically opposed figures, such as Eden and Cooper, and encouraged, rather than tolerated, their opinions. But Chamberlain believed that he had the support of Parliament and the Conservative Party – and more importantly, the king – in pursuing a policy of appeasement towards Hitler and Mussolini. Even Eden’s resignation in February 1938 could not shake his belief that he was following the right – indeed, the only – path for his country’s well-being and future.
Neither Chamberlain nor Halifax believed that Hitler and his lieutenants presented an existential threat to Britain. The Foreign Secretary described Hermann Göring, whom he met on a visit to Berlin in 1937, as ‘like a great schoolboy, full of life and pride in what he was doing … a modern Robin Hood … a composite impression of film-star, gangster, great landowner interested in his property, Prime Minister, party manager [and] head gamekeeper at Chatsworth’.5
Although Halifax’s German embassy was a lower-profile visit than the Duke of Windsor’s shortly before, it was similarly ill-fated. The Foreign Secretary was unconcerned about Hitler’s intentions, as he continued to believe that the Führer was an essentially reasonable, if ridiculous, man. At one crucial meeting at Berchtesgaden, he even mistook the unassuming-looking Hitler for a servant and was only disabused of his error by Konstantin von Neurath, his German counterpart, hissing in his ear, ‘Der Führer, der Führer.’
Therefore, when Hitler annexed Austria in March 1938, neither Halifax nor Chamberlain was alarmed by his actions, which they saw as essentially a European domestic matter and not one that concerned Britain. Even as the Führer’s imperial ambitions became clearer throughout the rest of the year, with the conquest of Czechoslovakia an inevitability, Chamberlain concentrated on maintaining the status quo at home. A vote of censure was moved against him by Labour and the Liberals in the Commons on 4 April, but without success. The warmth and amity with which the king and queen were greeted in France in July 1938 reflected well on Chamberlain and his government, and the international situation was felt to be sufficiently calm for the monarch to head to Cowes, on the Isle of Wight, for a holiday aboard the royal yacht, Victoria and Albert.
At this stage, the king, guided by Halifax and Chamberlain, supported appeasement unconditionally. Channon wrote in his diary on 22 June that ‘the King is sound, and against Anthony Eden’, who, he noted, ‘in two years caused more trouble than any Foreign Secretary since Palmerston’.6 However, the monarch’s outlook stemmed from the influence of the two father figures. They kept telling him that war would be an outrage and that every step must be taken to prevent it, not least because the country was neither financially nor militarily prepared for conflict. Those who would have given him different advice, including Cooper and Churchill, were not allowed to offer their heretical opinions.*
At the Battle of Copenhagen in 1801, Lord Nelson, when ordered to end a potentially catastrophic action, placed a telescope to his sightless eye and famously (and apocryphally) said, ‘Ships? I see no ships.’† On that occasion, Nelson’s tactical acumen ensured victory. Chamberlain was no Nelson, however, and his refusal to countenance what was upon Britain and Europe made him look delusional. When his visit to a wet, cold Balmoral was interrupted by an emergency Cabinet meeting in London on 26 August, he sat silently as Halifax remarked that ‘the only deterrent which would be likely to be effective would be an announcement that if Germany invaded Czechoslovakia we should declare war upon her’.7
However, once this course of action was mentioned, Sir Nevile Henderson, the British ambassador to Germany, immediately raised objections to it. Henderson, who should have known better by then, suggested that Hitler was interested in peace rather than war, and that any attempts to escalate the situation would ‘strengthen the position of the extremists rather than the moderates’.8 Leaving aside the fact that Hitler himself was the extremist, Chamberlain ensured that the Cabinet, without the absent Duff Cooper, unanimously agreed that they would not issue any threat or ultimatum. He returned to Balmoral to reassure the king and queen that any rumours of imminent war that they had read in the press or heard from courtiers were baseless.
Yet even as Lord Beaverbrook’s Daily Express, briefed thanks to a leak from the Cabinet meeting,* could declare on 1 September 1938, ‘THERE WILL BE NO WAR’, and praise Hitler as ‘a man of exceptional astuteness’, and Chamberlain reassured the king on the 6th that ‘developments seem very slow’, the Führer had set his plans to invade Czechoslovakia in train. On the 12th, he prepared to address his people at Nuremberg, telling them with the fervour of an evangelical preacher that the Sudeten Germans† wished to be self-determining, but that they were being threatened by the despotic Czechs, who wanted nothing less than the ‘annihilation’ of the peaceful Germans. In this way he framed his actions less as an act of belligerence and more as a regrettable but inevitable step. The crowd adored it, and repeatedly shouted, ‘We will follow our leader.’ Some of the English attending were less convinced by his rhetoric. The politician and former Colonial Secretary Leo Amery called the ‘raving tone’ and ‘fierce cheers of the crowd’ terrifying, and said, ‘[we must] leave [the Germans] in no doubt where we stand’.9
Chamberlain was now compelled to act, and so headed to Germany for his first face-to-face meeting with Hitler, which took place on 14 September. He told the Führer that ‘in view of the increasingly critical situation, [I intend] to come over at once and see you with a view to trying to find a peaceful solution’. Hitler was delighted at this, crowing, ‘I fell from Heaven!’10 Yet Chamberlain still had public opinion in Britain behind him. Channon called this ‘one of the finest, most inspiring acts of all … history must be ransacked to seek such a parallel’. He added, ‘Of course a way will be found now. Neville by his imagination, his practical sense, has saved the world. I am staggered.’11
As Chamberlain left, the king, concerned by the speed of developments, returned from Balmoral to Buckingham Palace. In lieu of being able to take more constructive action, he informed Halifax that he had written to Hitler ‘from one ex-serviceman to another’, asking him to do what he could to avert another war: an idea of Hardinge’s. Halifax, knowing that the Führer would only be amused by such a missive, suggested that it might be best for the king to wait until his prime minister’s return and to seek his counsel then. Instead, the monarch sent Chamberlain a letter in which he praised his ‘courage and wisdom’ while hoping for a peaceful outcome.
It was soon clear that Chamberlain, and by extension Britain, had been outplayed. Channon may have written on 16 September that ‘the Chamberlain–Hitler meeting seems to have been a huge success’,12 but this was wishful thinking. Like Halifax, the prime minister was unimpressed by the Führer’s appearance, calling him ‘entirely undistinguished’ and ‘the commonest little dog he had ever seen’,13 but Hitler worked himself up into a frenzy of excitement over his righteous actions.
Chamberlain was compelled to acknowledge that Germany had the right to self-determine the Sudeten lands in Czechoslovakia. Eventually the two men parted in a state of mutual satisfaction, promising that they would meet again soon in Cologne. Chamberlain decided, despite his earlier misgivings, that Hitler was trustworthy, calling him ‘a man who could be relied upon when he had given his word’. The Führer meanwhile sneered that he had ‘manoeuvred this dried-up civilian into a corner’.14
The king received his premier on the evening of 16 September, after writing to him to say, ‘I am naturally anxious to hear the result of your talk, and be assured that there is a prospect of a peaceful solution on terms which admit of general acceptance.’ Chamberlain was able to do no more than repeat what he had said to the Cabinet, namely that he believed that Hitler, whatever his personal failings, was sincere and wished for peace. For the first time, the monarch began to believe that his prime minister was mired in obfuscation. His feelings can be discerned by a letter he wrote to Lascelles the next day, in which he bemoaned how ‘everything is in a maze’ and said that ‘if [the French] won’t stand up to Hitler, how can we, & the world must be told it is their fault and not ours’.15
The most vivid account of the crisis came from Hardinge, who wrote a series of letters to his wife between 16 and 28 September detailing his first-hand experience of events. Undoubtedly he would have conveyed the same sentiments to the king during this period. ‘What deplorable times we live in’, he groaned. Although he praised the prime minister’s trip for ‘providing the true ray of hope … it seems to have come off well’, he feared that the international situation had passed a point of no return. ‘The Czechs will have every justification for saying that, in spite of a series of concessions, they have been abandoned by their powerful friends, and thus evoke a great deal of sympathy.’ He did not trust Hitler – ‘With him, however, it is always take, and no give’ – but noted with relief a change in the national mood. ‘There is evidence of a substantial change in the country from the defeatism and ‘peace at any price’ attitude of recent times.’16
Over the next days, Hardinge remained gloomy. After speaking with both Eden and the king, he told his wife that ‘The outlook is far from good, in fact it could not be worse.’ He blamed the situation on the government’s foreign policy – ‘carried on by amateurs in disregard of all expert advice’ – and predicted that ‘We are properly in the soup now, in spite of our wonderful PM.’17 He wrote to the queen on 19 September and outlined the dangers of Hitler’s policy of annexing Czechoslovakia, stating, ‘I find it difficult to say what view the country will take – they are torn between the humiliation of impotence and the attraction of “peace at any price”.’*18 And he remarked to his wife that ‘Oliver [Stanley]* and one or two others are not at all happy, but the PM has promised to do his best and get some quid pro quo from Hitler, but I doubt if he will succeed. Oliver says that he will then resign – but I have my doubts.’ The American ambassador Joe Kennedy, meanwhile, was said to be ‘horrified’ by the situation, but Hardinge mused that ‘humiliation is maybe better than war … I attribute our plight mainly to the feeble resistance to the dictators shown by the Government since [Eden] went, for which they rightly deduced that we are a “peace at any price” lot.’19
Subsequently, he blamed the ‘hateful time’ on the humiliations wrought by the failings of British diplomacy earlier in 1938, and stated, ‘I feel it however to be vital that our foreign policy should be altered – and that we should tell the dictators straight out that we shall be visiting force against any further acts of aggression against weaker forces, whether our vital interests are affected or not. I feel we must either stand up to the dictators, or clutch our hands … and reject all entanglements in the continent.’20 Unlike many around him, he was no supporter of appeasement, believing it an appalling idea. He remarked to his wife on 21 September that ‘it makes it almost worse that I have disapproved so strongly of the conduct of our foreign policy since [Eden] resigned. I do not say that he would have prevented this happening, but he would have seen that we were in a better position, so that if we were not going to stand up, we should not be humiliated’, and asked, ‘Do we join in again and tacitly condone the complete dismemberment of Czechoslovakia which is obviously Hitler’s objective? Or do we fight?’21
Public dissatisfaction now became a noticeable issue. Hardinge observed the next day that ‘Feeling is running high against the Government. Apparently a Paramount newsreel giving speeches by Wickham Steed† and others attacking the Government has been received with enthusiasm in London cinemas.’22 He subsequently remarked that ‘The feeling against the PM is pretty strong – and the country is bellicose – but I think nevertheless that the wicket is a bad one.’23 The same day, he wrote a memorandum for the king that laid out the situation in unsentimental terms: ‘Public opinion considers the surrender to have been complete, even if unavoidable, already. The anticipation by a few weeks of the occupation of the Sudeten areas by German troops would add little to it, nor would this aggravation be sufficient to achieve unanimity for the prosecution of a war. The Government should therefore make the best arrangement possible with Hitler now, even if it involves some revision of the frontier of Czechoslovakia with Poland and Hungary.’
Hardinge then looked to the future. ‘It would be vital to make it clear that the country must never be put to such humiliation again, and that further aggression by the dictators would be forcibly resisted. The Government should propose therefore to put industry on a new footing, so as to make as many aeroplanes as Germany possessed, coûte que coûte,* and to impose a limited form of compulsory national service solely for purposes of defence and precaution against air attack.’
Presciently, he also addressed the political make-up of a wartime Cabinet. ‘The Government would at the same time be reconstructed, so as to include those who have previously advocated resistance to the designs of the dictators, the opposition Liberals, and, if possible, some new blood from outside. The Labour opposition would probably prefer not to join the Government, but they would no doubt be willing to cooperate in the strengthening of democracy against dictatorship.’ Noting Chamberlain’s perceived weakness, he remarked, ‘They might, of course, be reluctant to extend [their cooperation] to the present Prime Minister.’24
Worse was soon to come. By 25 September, Hardinge reported that Stanley was on the verge of resignation, on the grounds that ‘people are rather taking the view that no more concessions can be made … as Hitler has given nothing in exchange for the “Anglo French plan”, it cannot be looked upon as a contribution to European peace, which was the only basis on which it could be commended to the people of the country’.25
Patriotism was not enough to combat the threat. Duff Cooper rejected Chamberlain’s assurances of Hitler’s integrity at Cabinet and called Nazi Germany ‘probably the most formidable power that had ever dominated Europe’.26 This was not a crisis that could be handled merely with fine words and patriotic invocations. On 22 September, the prime minister again headed to Germany to meet with the Führer, only to be told that Hitler now wanted the disputed territory to be evacuated by the Czechs by the 28th. It seemed as if Chamberlain was being pulled this way and that as if he were a marionette on a string, but he attempted to find a path towards peace even as he became aware of the manner of man his adversary truly was.
When he confessed his humiliation to the king at lunch at Buckingham Palace on 25 September, he described Hitler more harshly than before, calling him a warmonger who was making unreasonable and unfulfillable demands, and warning the sovereign that conflict was increasingly inevitable. Halifax now no longer believed that appeasement was an option, and insisted that Chamberlain issue the ultimatum that unless Hitler agreed to settle the affair through negotiation, Britain and France would unite in aiding Czechoslovakia. This would bring about a state of war.
Conflict seemed a fait accompli, and Hardinge could only say, dolefully, on 26 September that ‘This is the blackest day of all. Feeling, both in this country and in France, has stiffened enormously against the German demands … It looks as if we shall have to see it through now. Certainly life this last year has been made unbearable by fear and threats of war, and, as you know, I have always held the view that as long as dictatorships last, a life of peace and prosperity would be impossible for humanity.’ He described Hitler as ‘completely mad … the one thing that will certainly go bust if a war comes is Nazidom’.27
Despite this, the monarch continued to believe that a personal appeal to the Führer would carry regal weight. Chamberlain disabused him of this idea, leading the king to tell Queen Mary on 27 September of the suggested compromise, namely that Germany should occupy a designated area of Czechoslovakia and the rest be allowed to self-govern. He remarked that ‘If Hitler refuses to do this, then we shall know at once & for all that he is a madman … It is all so worrying this awful waiting for the worst to happen.’28 Hardinge, meanwhile, was sceptical of this compromise. He argued that ‘If we manage to get through without a showdown – and it seems incredible that a world war should be fought on so small a margin of difference – the danger will be that we shall all sit back saying how peaceful-minded the Germans are, and that it is not in the least necessary to rearm’, before concluding, ‘Our pro-German friends will have to be carefully watched.’29
War, which everyone had tried to avoid for the past two decades, seemed at last to be upon them. Trenches were dug in Hyde Park, gas masks were handed out to schoolchildren, and a weary Chamberlain broadcast to the nation, calling the situation ‘horrible, fantastic [and] incredible’. As Queen Elizabeth launched a vessel in her name on the River Clyde that day, she attempted to cheer her people, saying, ‘I have a message for you from the King. He bids the people of this country to be of good cheer, in spite of the dark clouds hanging over them … He knows well that, as ever before in critical times, they will keep cool heads and brave hearts.’30 The message, written by Hardinge, was not poetic. But it reminded the nation that whatever the compromises and obfuscations reached by politicians, the royal family would continue to be a shining beacon of hope, decency and integrity throughout the country and the world.
‘The more I think of it, the more I am convinced that a visit to Germany would be disastrous in its effect on public opinion both in England, which was on the brink of war with Germany a week ago, and in the United States, where it would revive the legend of his Nazi sympathies which I worked so hard to dissipate last autumn.’31 So Phipps wrote to Monckton on 21 September, aghast at the suggestion that the Duke of Windsor planned another visit to Germany to offer his services as an agent of peace. As his former country stood on the precipice of conflict, the man who had done more than most to damage its international standing lingered in France.
‘We do not mean to spend our lives in exile’, Wallis had upbraided Nicolson when the politician asked why the duke and duchess had not considered purchasing a property in France. Their goods, which had once graced Edward’s beloved Fort Belvedere, were mainly stored at Frogmore, a villa in the grounds of Windsor Castle. They instead furnished their rented houses with French bijouterie that Wallis had spied in various Parisian antique markets and boutiques.
The cages were gilded, but they remained cages. Edward’s eye ‘twitches in pain’32 when Nicolson mentioned his imminent return to England. Other visitors noted that he talked incessantly about when it would be his time to go home. Their friends were sympathetic but unable to help. When Churchill sent the duke the gift of a book about Marlborough on 12 September, he added, ‘Sir, things are going very badly, and I fear they are going much worse.’33
When Monckton visited the duke and duchess in August 1938 at the Château de la Croë in Antibes, he wrote that Edward, ‘anxiously considering a return to England’, would drag him up to his study and ask for his assistance in drafting letters to the king, Queen Mary, Chamberlain and others. When he was not writing angry epistles, Monckton observed the duke at play, frequenting the local casino and heading to the golf course. He noted that he saw Kennedy playing behind Edward, and that the ambassador ‘was very careful to keep away from the Duke’.34
The letter that the two of them constructed for the king was a fantasia on well-worn themes. ‘One of the uppermost thoughts in my mind since I left England over twenty months ago has been to determine the most suitable opportunity for Wallis’ and my first visit to our country after our marriage … I have purposely remained abroad since December 1936, at great personal inconvenience, in order to leave the field clear for you. As there can be no doubt that your position on the throne is by now consolidated, and that consequently my presence in England can no longer embarrass you, we propose to come over on a visit next November.’35 Edward referred to ‘important private business’, which remained indeterminate, and a desire to visit friends, before asking that a house in Windsor should be placed at their disposal.
It was a provocation, but it could not be ignored. Upon his return to England in September, Monckton, conscious that the duke was capable of either making mischief or having it made for him, went to Balmoral to discuss the situation with Chamberlain and the king and queen. The visit alternated between formality and jocularity. One lunchtime, Monckton, inappropriately attired in trousers rather than breeches, talked with the young Princess Margaret, who took pleasure in asking him whether he shot, fished or played golf. When he answered in the negative, Margaret enquired, ‘What do you do?’, at which point the king took pity on him and ‘extraordinarily deftly’ replied, ‘Something you know nothing about, Margaret. He works!’ Monckton professed himself grateful for his sovereign’s ready wit and social nuance in this situation.*
Chamberlain, the king and the queen each took a different approach towards the duke’s long-term future. The prime minister, distracted by Germany and Czechoslovakia, suggested that he might eventually resume his place in the royal family as if he were a trusted younger brother, able to officiate at functions in the king’s stead. The king equivocated, suggesting that he was not against the idea, but that he had no wish for a return to take place as early as the duke’s hoped-for date of November 1938.
The queen, however, was adamant that Edward should not return or be given any significant role. In Monckton’s estimation, ‘I felt then, as always, that she naturally thought that she must be on her guard because the Duke of Windsor, to whom the other brothers had always looked up, was an attractive, vital creature, who might be the rallying point for any who might be critical of the new King who was less superficially endowed with the arts and graces that please.’36
It was therefore decided that it was impossible politically or socially for the duke to be given any encouragement to return to Britain, now or in the future. The only concession that Chamberlain could wring from the king and queen was that the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester would be allowed to visit him in Paris in November. It was Monckton’s ‘difficult task’ to inform the duke what had been decided, especially that his brother and sister-in-law considered it ‘inadvisable’ that he return to England so soon.37
It was not what Edward had expected. He had written to Chamberlain in August saying, ‘I need hardly tell you as an Englishman how distasteful voluntary residence in a foreign country without a defined object can be.’ His attitude was that he had kept his side of the bargain, so why should his exile persist? A letter from the king did not assuage his anger or disappointment. It stated that opposition to a visit (or eventual return) did not stem from personal grounds, but instead was done in ‘the national interest’, that catchall term that could be drawn upon to present anything disagreeable as a necessary sacrifice. The duke might have been forgiven for scepticism at his brother’s assurance that ‘I naturally want your first visit to be a success, & one which would be devoid of any untoward incidents towards either of you … every month that passes lessens the chances of any bitterness that may remain from rising to the surface to cause you annoyance’. The only hint at any timetable was the king’s suggestion that ‘I agree with the Prime Minister that the spring or early summer of next year would be a better moment.’38
The letter had been considerably toned down. An angry draft that still exists in the Royal Archives spoke of how ‘during the last twenty months, while you, as you desired, have been enjoying the leisured life of a rich private individual, I have been endeavouring, to the best of my ability, to restore the Monarchy to the position that it held when you succeeded, and to make good the damage done to it by the circumstances of your abdication … all I ask therefore, on purely public grounds, is that if you do pay your proposed visit you will help me by not giving any encouragement to those forces which I know are only too ready to make use of you in their attempts to embarrass the Government, thereby indirectly bringing discredit on the Crown and our family’. There was even a dig at Wallis. ‘The risk that [the duchess] might be insulted, either in public or private, does, I am afraid, exist, and it is of course for you to decide whether such a risk is worth taking.’39
Yet whether from diplomacy or cowardice, the king sent his brother a blander version. The duke still regarded this as unacceptable, but he could not summon the energy to berate the sovereign once again. Instead he decided to offer his services to world peace.
Back in England, war now seemed inevitable. But on the night of 27 September, the once-unthinkable happened: Hitler appeared to blink. He sent a message to Chamberlain, who was ‘wobbling about all over the place’,40 saying that he was prepared to convene a conference, to which he would also invite Mussolini and Daladier, with the aim of averting conflict. When Mussolini accepted these terms on 28 September, naming Munich as his desired location for a summit, Chamberlain was able to surprise his colleagues in the House of Commons: ‘Herr Hitler has just agreed to postpone mobilisation for twenty-four hours and to meet me in conference.’
This was received extremely well. Even his nemesis Churchill made a point of shaking his hand and wishing him ‘God speed’. Queen Mary, who had been watching from the Ladies’ Gallery, called it ‘dramatic’ and ‘wonderful’,41 and told the king that she had been too emotional to speak.
The previous evening, Chamberlain had made a listless broadcast to the nation, calling himself ‘a man of peace to the depths of my soul’, which Cooper dismissed as ‘a most depressing utterance’. Hardinge, however, told Chamberlain that the king had been pleased by his words, saying that it was ‘marvellous, exactly what was wanted’.42 And the king continued to be impressed by his premier, especially when he arrived back in England at 5.30 p.m. on 28 September, triumphantly holding ‘a piece of paper’, the Munich Agreement. War had been averted, for the moment at least.
Chamberlain’s achievements were symbolic. When Hitler was upbraided by Ribbentrop for having given ground, he laughed, ‘Oh, don’t take it all so seriously. That piece of paper is of no significance whatsoever.’43 The Führer was now able to achieve his desired objective of annexing 11,000 square miles of Czechoslovakia, and to do so with the assent of Britain and France. He had achieved his victory.
And yet the feeling of relief in Britain was so great that the prime minister, for the first and last time in his premiership, was given an ecstatic reception. He appeared on the Buckingham Palace balcony alongside the king, graciously acknowledging the applause of the masses, before heading to Downing Street. Here, he made a hubristic speech that would forever haunt him thereafter, in which he said, ‘This is the second time in our history* that there has come back from Germany to Downing Street peace with honour. I believe it is peace for our time.’
Many were unconvinced. Cooper resigned immediately, and after an audience with the king described his monarch as ‘frank and charming … he said he could not agree with me, but he respected those who had the courage of their convictions’.44 Churchill, appalled by the perceived betrayal of the Czech people, called it ‘only the beginning of the reckoning’, and railed against ‘the abandonment and ruin of Czechoslovakia’. His reward was to be sneered at by The Times as making ‘Jeremiah* appear an optimist’. But the king described the result as ‘a great day’. He wrote to Queen Mary that ‘the Prime Minister was delighted with the result of his mission, as we all are, & he had a great ovation when he came here’.45 Nor was Halifax’s loyalty forgotten. The king praised him, saying, ‘The responsibility resting on the Foreign Secretary at a time like this is indeed overwhelming, and the wisdom & courage with which you have borne it have earned for you the admiration and gratitude of the whole Empire.’46
The contrast with other politicians was implicit but clear. Queen Mary, meanwhile, was infuriated by Churchill and Cooper’s ingratitude. She complained to her son, ‘I am sure you feel as angry as I do at people croaking at the PM’s action’, and cited Lady Oxford’s remark, ‘He brought them peace, why can’t they be grateful?’47
Chamberlain was smug about his personal success. ‘At times,’ he remarked to the king, ‘the old diplomacy fails, and personal interviews with dictators are called for.’ His wife, Anne, meanwhile, received a warm letter from the queen, in which she wrote, ‘you must feel so proud and glad that through sheer courage & great wisdom [Chamberlain] has been able to achieve so much for us & for the world’, and declared that ‘our gratitude is beyond words … our prayers that he might be sustained & helped through these frightful days have been very real’.48
Others saw the situation in less idealistic terms. Hardinge remarked to his mother-in-law, Viscountess Milner, that ‘The unfortunate PM was forced into a frightful dilemma. Either contract the best terms he could from a man standing at the frontier with 1½ million bayonets – or bring about a world war with unpredictable consequences.’ While he allowed that ‘I think the lesser evil was the right course … in the circumstances I cannot see what else there was to be done’, he grimly announced that ‘we must not let ourselves get into that sort of position again’, and expressed his fear that the much-desired peace was illusory. ‘It is possible that we may before long be faced with a similar situation’, he noted, before qualifying his statement: ‘in much less favourable circumstances’.49 Hitler and his actions remained a terrifying threat beyond everyone’s comprehension.
The only member of the royal family with first-hand experience of the Führer was now in a belligerent mood. The Duke of Windsor wrote to Monckton on 31 October from Paris, defending himself against the king’s ‘quite stupid and rather impertinent suggestion that I am “a publicity seeker”’, a statement undercut by his then asking his counsellor’s advice about the most effective way of presenting his and Wallis’s meeting with the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester to the media. He suggested that ‘careful consideration [must be] of course given to “timing” … if [a statement] were handed out too soon beforehand, the visit would look like a stunt and loose [sic] the normal aspect it is so important to preserve’. The recent events in his former country appeared to have made little impact on him, as he exhorted Monckton that ‘“Attack, attack, attack” must be our motto.’50
To this end, the duke contacted Chamberlain on 23 October to see if the prime minister might be recruited to his side. He had already attempted to establish a relationship with him, expressing his admiration for ‘the courageous manner in which you threw convention and precedent to the winds by seeking a personal meeting with Herr Hitler and flying to Germany’. He made an explicit comparison between the premier’s deeds and his own approach by calling Chamberlain’s action ‘a bold step to take, but, if I may say so, one after my own heart, as I have always believed in personal contact as the best policy in “a tight corner”’.
Edward denigrated the Cabinet as cowards (‘it would not surprise me if there were, among your colleagues, some who debated the wisdom of such dramatic last hour tactics’) but reiterated his admiration for the prime minister himself. ‘You followed the dictates of your conscience in the same fearless way in which you have faced up to all the complex phases of foreign politics that have confronted you in the last year.’51 He had already praised Chamberlain to the king, saying, ‘I agree with you wholeheartedly that the Prime Minister’s personal contact with Hitler was the only thing that saved the World from war last month. The strain for him must have been appalling, and I am in the front rank for taking off my hat to him.’52 The snare had been laid. Now to catch the woodcock.
Acknowledging the controversy engendered by his abdication, the duke claimed that ‘the flame of those strong feelings was to a large extent fanned by wild and inaccurate statements in the newspapers of the world, and by false rumours and gossip … concerning both of us’. He then asked the prime minister to aid him and Wallis with a public relations campaign. If he would do so, he would thereby be ‘counteracting a great wrong done to us’, and ensure that any return to Britain would not be dominated by ‘mischief makers exploiting our first visit in one way or the other for sensational purposes’.
Suggesting April 1939 as his preferred date, Edward wrote that ‘if our visit is to be the success which you obviously desire, it must be of the first importance that there should be no possible suggestion of discord in our family’. He then restated his request that Wallis should receive the title of Her Royal Highness. He justified his reprise of the old tune by claiming that ‘it would not only remove the embarrassments which the present situation involves for all both at home and abroad, but would go far to satisfy public opinion that good relations exist between us and the other members of the Royal Family’.53
Chamberlain turned his attention from one power-hungry European resident to another. His response was confident. He refused to offer any support for Wallis’s title (‘it is essential that Your Royal Highness’ first visit should not become the subject of controversy’)54 and instead suggested that it was the king’s responsibility to deal with the matter. The duke privately called Chamberlain’s letter ‘fatuous’ and bemoaned his ‘futile observations’, before replying that any favourable publicity that could be arranged would counteract ‘the unjust impressions that were allowed to be created in the minds of the British people concerning ourselves, at the time of the Abdication’.
He concluded, in an attempt to be conciliatory, ‘I agree with you that subtler methods could be more effectively employed nearer the time, thus ensuring that any possible note of controversy, from which we are all so anxious to protect the visit, be avoided.’55 These ‘subtler methods’ included the much-anticipated meeting between the Gloucesters and the Windsors in Paris that month, which Chamberlain saw as a means of testing public opinion about a return for Edward and Wallis to Britain. The day was pleasant enough, with lunch at Le Meurice hotel and a walk around the city, but Edward still smarted at the king’s request that he should not court publicity for the visit, which he described as both ‘a purely private matter between us’ and ‘an excellent opportunity & a very natural way of “breaking the ice” as we might call it’.56
The duke sneered to his brother that ‘I have every reason to be just as anxious as you are that the private nature and normalcy of this family meeting be preserved, and that my one concern since hearing from [Gloucester] has been as to how possible inaccurate and sensational reporting can best be avoided … The Kents unfortunately failed to “break the ice” in Austria last year; had they come to see us as I understand you told them to, the process of “breaking it” would not be the same special interest to the newspaper world.’57
Although Wallis made a special effort to ensure that things were harmonious, and the Duchess of Gloucester called them both ‘more than kind’, the meeting’s success would be measured by its reception. Unfortunately for the Windsors’ hopes of a British return, the reaction was not warm. The Gloucesters received over a hundred ‘extremely rude’ letters complaining about the visit. It would fall to Chamberlain to break the news to the duke.
The two had met on 24 November in Paris, and the prime minister kept a record of the encounter. He reported Edward’s distress at the ‘mendacious and disgraceful’ stories that had been spread about Wallis, which he blamed for her not receiving her rightful title. Chamberlain replied that ‘it would be a mistake to imagine that the question of the title was merely one between you and the other members of the Royal Family. The feelings of resentment and bitterness which had been aroused at the time of the abdication had not died away as rapidly as I had hoped they would, and it had been sufficient for the papers to mention visits of the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester and the possibility that [you and Wallis] might visit England for some revival of these old feelings.’ When Edward suggested that he had seen unfair speculation that should he return to England he would engage in ‘disloyal agitation’ against the king, the prime minister was able to correct him. ‘I said that I had never heard of or seen any such suggestion, and that the remarks in the letters which I had seen were directed against the Duchess and not against himself.’
He ended by asking, ‘I suppose, sir, you would not care to come alone for the first visit?’ But if he had expected the uxorious duke to consent, and save endless bother, he would have been disappointed. Edward replied, ‘No, I certainly could not do that: married people ought not to be divided.’58 Nonetheless, the continued unpopularity of Wallis compelled Chamberlain to break the news to the duke that the wounds caused by their departure were still too raw and would be reopened by a comeback. He subsequently wrote that their encounter had ‘given rise to considerable comment … by far the greater part of it being of an unfavourable character’, and warned the duke that his projected visit to Britain would lead to ‘strong protest and controversy’.
Alluding to the more than 150 letters of protest that he had received (‘my wife has had over 30’), Chamberlain let Edward know that all classes stood against him. In addition to the British not wanting him to return, residents of Canada, New Zealand and America wished him to remain in exile. He concluded, ‘Your Royal Highness agreed with me that it is essential that your first visit should not become the subject of controversy … bearing in mind how important it is that the Royal Family should unify opinion and not divide it, I cannot escape the conclusion that it is my duty to advise Your Royal Highness to abandon the idea of the visit in March’.59
The duke ignored the king’s injunction not to be a publicity-seeker and promptly put out a press statement in response: ‘The Duchess and I have been receiving so many enquiries from our friends as to when we intend to return to England, that I feel it would only lead to misunderstanding if we continue to leave such questions unanswered.’ Sugar-coating the messages that Chamberlain had alluded to (‘I want to say how touched we are by the many expressions of goodwill that have reached us lately from all parts of the world’), he chose to make public what many would have preferred he kept to himself. ‘We had looked forward to making a short private visit to England in the spring, and should have done so had we not been informed that such a visit would not yet be welcome, either to the Government or the Royal Family.’60 It had no effect, and connoted little more than the frustrations of an impotent figure.
The king, meanwhile, made his own feelings clear to the prime minister on 14 December. ‘There is a strong feeling amongst all classes that my brother should not return here for a short visit with the Duchess of Windsor … this is the moment for you to write & tell him that it would not be at all wise for them to contemplate such a visit’. He added, ‘I think you know that neither the Queen nor Queen Mary have any desire to meet the Duchess of Windsor & therefore any visit made for the purpose of introducing her … obviously becomes impossible.’ He trusted in his prime minister to do the right thing. ‘As this matter is one of such an intimate nature … perhaps my brother would take this decision in a more kindly manner from you than from me.’*61
As Chamberlain was feted as a peacemaker and politician of substance, with the king and queen beside him, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor seemed destined to slide into irrelevance. Yet as he had boasted, Edward believed that he flourished in a tight corner. He would try something different. If he could not achieve what he wanted by playing along with his brother and the prime minister, he would go his own way and the consequences be damned.