by Siân Evans
International society is not always difficult to crash. To be the guest of the Prince of Wales at his country house, Fort Belvedere, is regarded as a high honor. Many of the members of what is known in New York as the ‘international set’ are accepted in London, and shuttle back and forth between England and America.1
The Prince liked America, and he liked married American women. He had been involved for a number of years with Freda Dudley Ward, who was half-American; they had met during an air raid in the Great War, and by a strange quirk of fate they had been introduced by Mrs Maud Kerr-Smiley, the sister of Ernest Simpson. Then in 1929 he met Thelma, another semi-detached American, who was unhappily married to Marmaduke, the first Viscount Furness, known as the ‘Fiery Furness’ for his red hair and temper. This time it was Edith, Lady Londonderry who effected the introductions; the Prince promptly dropped Freda in favour of his new passion for Thelma.
It was Thelma’s older sister who brought Mr and Mrs Ernest Simpson into the Prince’s social circle in 1932, though he had met them the previous year, first at an informal cocktail party and later at a weekend house party in Leicestershire. They became regular members of his entourage, staying for weekends at his home, Fort Belvedere, or entertaining him in London.
Ernest Simpson had an English father and an American mother; he was not particularly well off, but in the early 1920s he was much in demand on the London scene, and a regular dance partner of Barbara Cartland, who described him as ‘a handsome young bachelor, who was to figure dramatically in the history of England seventeen years later’2. It is interesting to speculate how different the outcome might have been for the British royal family if Ernest Simpson had married the future romantic novelist with the penchant for pink chiffon rather than Wallis Warfield Spencer from Baltimore. In 1916 Wallis had married a handsome American naval lieutenant, Earl Winfield Spencer. The marriage had ended in divorce as he was an alcoholic with a volatile temper. Her second marriage, in 1928 to Ernest, was far happier, and they lived in a modest but modish flat in Bryanston Court, near Marble Arch.
Those waspish social observers Cecil Beaton and ‘Chips’ Channon were initially dismissive of Wallis Simpson. Beaton first met her in 1930, and was unimpressed to find himself distantly related by marriage to her husband, Ernest. He described her disparagingly as being ‘brawny and raw-boned in her sapphire-blue velvet. Her voice had a high nasal twang.’ By contrast, ‘Chips’ described her as a ‘neat, quiet, well-bred mouse with startled eyes and a huge mole’. (The mole, on her chin, was usually touched out in photographs.) Needless to say, both men rapidly revised their opinions when it became apparent that she had moved into the orbit of the Prince of Wales. But it was Emerald Cunard who championed her from the first: ‘Little Mrs Simpson knows her Balzac’, she observed approvingly, if probably optimistically. By 1932 the Simpsons often entertained Emerald, ‘Chips’ and the Duff Coopers at their apartment. The Prince of Wales became a frequent visitor too, dropping in for cocktails or intimate little dinners.
Early in 1934 Thelma Furness sailed back to the States to support her sister Gloria Vanderbilt, who was facing a scandalous court case. While she was away, Thelma asked her friend Wallis to ‘look after the little man for me’, implying that the Prince might be lonely without her. It was a fatal mistake; by the time she returned to London in March, Thelma was no longer the Prince’s ‘special friend’. She dined with the Prince and his other guests, and as he reached for a lettuce leaf from the salad bowl, Wallis playfully slapped his hand. Thelma shot her a glance of admonition, but Wallis met her eye and coolly stared her down. Nothing was said, but it was apparent that Viscountess Furness had been usurped by her friend. The Prince wanted to have the Simpsons invited to social events he was attending, and smart hostesses quickly took the hint. Some regretted the passing of Thelma, but Lady Cunard and Lady Colefax found compensating virtues in Wallis.
The 1914–18 war was long over and done with, but it had cast a heavy shadow over my adolescence and although in the nineteen-thirties the international skies were apparently cloudless and Europe was just one big cosy happy family, I was perceptive enough to realise that none of it quite rang true.’3 (Noel Coward, Autobiography)
In the 1930s extremist movements were on the rise in many countries around the world. Mussolini had introduced Fascism in Italy, while Stalin retained a grip on Soviet Russia. Nationalism and militarism combined to venerate the semi-mythological figure of the Emperor in Japan, and in Germany the National Socialists, previously considered a fringe party of extreme right-wingers, had become a credible political force. Conservatives of all stripes started to see Herr Hitler as a bulwark against Communism in central Europe. Public spectacles were staged with propagandist intent; cinema newsreels, soundtracks and photographs showed the floodlit Nazi pageants at Nuremberg, with drilled battalions, the uniforms, the banners, insignia and light shows, and the monumentalist new architecture that acted as a visual shorthand for Nationalism and Fascism. Meanwhile Hollywood provided escapism from the Great Depression and the scourge of unemployment.
The dictators were charismatic and ruthless individuals with public images cultivated and promoted to disguise their ruthlessness. Stalin claimed to have achieved social equality; Hitler had revived the German sense of national pride and created autobahns; Mussolini had reunited the fractured regions of Italy and championed social order and punctual trains. With the benefit of hindsight, anyone with a moral compass would have condemned the ideologies of Stalin, Hitler, Mussolini and Franco, because of their subsequent actions, but in the early 1930s those acts were either unknown or in the future. To bien-pensants such as Nancy Astor the emergence of a clutch of strong leaders willing and able to take control of their individual countries seemed like progress, and a further step away from the possibility of another hideous European war. Nancy Astor was determined to get involved on the international scene, hence her much-publicised trip to Soviet Russia. Undoubtedly her motives were good; she desired peace, loathed war and had high moral standards in many aspects of her personal life. But in the early 1930s it was not apparent which of the emerging leaders of Spain, Germany, Italy and Russia were on the side of the angels, if any. The surging nationalist movements of China and Japan were even more of a closed book.
Nancy Astor embodied many of the prejudices of her age and class; she maintained a dim view of Communists and Jews, even claiming that these two (unlikely) ideological bedfellows were working together to whip up anti-Nazi feeling in the American press. In addition, she despised Catholicism, especially as it was practised in ‘Latin’ countries such as France, where she felt there was far too much interest in food, drink and sex. Her perception of the German national character was much more favourable, and she was worried that the Germans were being provoked into aggressive behaviour because of their treatment by the Allies. When, in 1933, Germany withdrew from the League of Nations, Nancy urged Britain to disarm as proof of a desire for peace. Remarkable as it may seem now, this pro-appeasement stance was not uncommon among the British aristocracy, the political establishment and the diplomatic corps until the mid- or late 1930s.
A number of the Mayfair set were intrigued by Adolf Hitler before he came to power. In March 1932 Virginia Woolf met Alice Keppel, now resident in Florence but temporarily staying at the London Ritz. She noted that Edward VII’s former lover was going to Berlin to hear Hitler speak. Bob Boothby also travelled to Germany in 1932 to lecture on the economic crisis, and was invited to meet Hitler at a hotel. Boothby recalled that when he entered the room where Hitler was sitting writing, his quarry leaped to his feet, lifted his right arm and snapped ‘Hitler!’ The Scot returned the salute and shouted ‘Boothby!’ It became apparent to Boothby that not only did Hitler lack a sense of humour, he was also unhinged.
Hitler was appointed Chancellor of Germany on 30 January 1933. Within three months basic rights such as freedom of speech and assembly had been suspended, Dachau concentration camp had been opened, there was a boy
cott of Jewish-owned businesses and Jews were excluded from government employment, including teaching. The National Socialists were determined to quash any political opposition. They accused the Christian Scientists of distributing Marxist propaganda, and as a result in September 1933 Waldorf Astor was asked by the leaders of the Church of Christian Science to take a delegation to Berlin for discussions with the Minister of the Interior. They were informed that Christian Scientists had nothing to fear so long as they kept out of German politics, and Waldorf had a twenty-minute meeting with Hitler. This relatively early personal contact with the Führer identified the Astors with German interests, and was to prove damaging in later years when accusations were levelled against the ‘Cliveden set’.
On 1 October 1933 Geoffrey Harmsworth’s account of his disconcerting interview with the Führer appeared in the Sunday Dispatch: ‘The friendly, rather tired brown eyes, the warm smile (the moustache is smaller than Charlie’s), and the firm handshake – unless this was part of “the business” – were disarming to say the least, and far from suggested a Frankenstein whose hands were barely dry from the morning’s murders and Jew torturings.’ However, as soon as Harmsworth mentioned Communism, Hitler apparently turned into a volatile firebrand, fiercely denouncing his political rivals and claiming that the New Germany had saved the whole of Europe from descending into ‘Communistic chaos’. Unnerved by his encounter, Harmsworth ended his article with an optimistic comment:
It was difficult to believe that these were the sentiments of that quiet little man with whom I had just spent one of the most interesting half-hours of my life. There are a lot of people in Germany who fanatically believe that he is a New Messiah; the rest of the world says that he is a Man of Straw. Perhaps he will disappear as suddenly and dramatically as he jumped into power. In ten years’ time Adolf Hitler may be just a legend.4
Duff and Diana Cooper attended the Nuremberg rallies in the autumn of 1933 out of curiosity, and Diana was profoundly repelled by seeing Hitler at close quarters: ‘His dank complexion had a fungoid quality and the famous hypnotic eyes that met mine seemed glazed and without life – dead colourless eyes’5. They could understand little of his ranting oration and so tried to leave early, which was taken as an insult by the German authorities, and they narrowly avoided spending the night in a cell. She called her first experience of the Nazis ‘a dreadful revelation’.
It had always been the job of competent, professional ambassadors to act as mediators between the ‘Men of Destiny’ running their own countries and the foreign governments they wished to influence. In the 1930s the role of ambassadors in promoting the interests of the emerging dictatorships became paramount in Britain, and these individuals were aware that ‘soft power’ lay in the hands of the most important society hostesses. A Vogue article in October 1929 described how:
One of the features of the autumn is the arrival of the new secretaries in the various embassies and legations […] The society of every capital is ruled by the older women and led by the younger, but they are not altogether prepared for one of the charms of London – the wit and youthful esprit of our more important hostesses, none of whom resemble the elderly dragons of London times […] Lady Londonderry […] will give at least one big reception, in accordance with a tradition that is almost royal; Mrs ‘Ronnie’ Greville, whose caustic wit does not prevent her being our most dazzling unofficial hostess; and Lady Cunard, whose esprit has won her a special regard among intelligent people, for she is perhaps the most completely natural, and certainly the gayest of our entertainers.
The hostesses’ favourite ambassador was undoubtedly Count Dino Grandi. He was appointed to head the Italian Embassy in 1932 by Mussolini, whom he had supported since the early 1920s. Grandi was handsome and charming; he was an Anglophile and wanted to further peace between Britain and Italy. He entertained the London prominenti frequently at the Embassy in Grosvenor Square. Grandi adored his wife and his children, but before long he was having an affair with Baba Metcalfe, wife of ‘Fruity’ and one of the daughters of Lord Curzon. She was simultaneously involved in an affair with her brother-in-law Oswald Mosley. He benefitted from the triangular relationship as Mussolini subsidised the running costs of Mosley’s political party, the British Union of Fascists, known as the ‘Blackshirts’. When Mussolini lost faith in Mosley, he turned his attentions to the Nazi party in Germany, where his other mistress, Diana Guinness, and her sister Unity Mitford were close to Hitler and the Nazi high command.
Grandi made many friends in England; sensitive to the subtle undercurrents of London life, he was the first ambassador to invite both the Prince of Wales and Mrs Simpson to a dinner at the Italian Embassy. As a result Grandi became a regular visitor to Fort Belvedere for jovial weekends of dancing and cocktails. The Count valiantly attempted to represent his country’s best interests, and hoped fervently (but vainly) that Il Duce would not be fooled by Hitler.
For some of the hostesses a visit to meet the dictators was a personal quest. In March 1932 Laura Corrigan set off for Rome, returning in triumph in May, having had an audience with Mussolini. A large signed photo of Il Duce had pride of place in her boudoir, jostling for space with images of the Spanish royal family. Mussolini appealed to the hostesses, though Mrs Ronnie found him ‘pompous’ on her trip to Rome and preferred her audience with the Pope. When Count Grandi was staying at Cliveden for the weekend, he made a few slightly caustic comments about Il Duce, but was told by Lady Astor: ‘Young man, please remember that in this house nothing is ever said against Signor Mussolini.’
However, it was Grandi’s German contemporary Joachim von Ribbentrop who made the most concerted efforts to cultivate the Queen Bees. Hitler sent this former sparkling wine salesman to mount a charm offensive on Britain’s ruling classes. Initially he seemed personable and affable and spoke excellent English, which made him welcome in many a plush drawing room. The Führer knew little about foreign affairs; von Ribbentrop knew even less, and was impervious to the nuances and subtleties of diplomatic protocol. But Hitler valued fanatical personal loyalty above the skills of his country’s Foreign Ministry, which was staffed by professional career diplomats.
Von Ribbentrop was encouraged to act independently of the official German Ambassador to London, the respected Leopold von Hoesch. Von Ribbentrop’s message was that Germany and Britain had shared values and culture, and their beliefs and interests were also the same. He scored an early success with Mrs Greville; it seems she had encountered him socially before he became involved in politics, as one of the entries in her visitors’ book for 11 November 1932 lists a ‘Baron Ribbendrop’ (sic) dining at her London home.
His first visit to London as Hitler’s emissary was in November 1933, and he met Stanley Baldwin and Ramsay MacDonald, assuring them that Hitler was committed to peace, but pressing the case for German rearmament on the grounds of the threat to Europe from Soviet Russia. In an early indication of his subsequent style he was also invited to lunch by Roderick Jones, head of Reuters, and bored him, his wife and fellow guests into exhaustion for three hours by declaiming on the virtues of the Third Reich, allowing no interruptions.
In November 1934 von Ribbentrop returned to London for a three-week stay. His visit coincided with the marriage of the Duke of Kent and Princess Marina of Greece. It was a moment of euphoria in London society (and some relief within the royal family, given the Duke’s rakish past.) Von Ribbentrop was relentlessly charming; he was now peddling the Third Reich to the British ruling classes, as he had formerly peddled his in-laws’ cases of wine.
Mrs Greville invited von Ribbentrop to dinner on 25 November, and her other guests included Lady Cunard, the Aga Khan and Lady Churchill. He was taken up by Lady Londonderry and met opinion-formers such as Lord Lothian and George Bernard Shaw (both great friends of Nancy Astor), the Archbishop of Canterbury, the press baron Lord Rothermere and prominent journalists. He also targeted statesmen like Sir Austen Chamberlain, and succeeded in irritating Sir John Simon and Anth
ony Eden at the Foreign Office. Hints were dropped to von Hoesch at the German Embassy that Hitler’s PR representative was making a fool of himself. In Berlin, Baron von Neurath, the Foreign Minister, wrote to Hitler claiming his protégé’s visit to London had been ‘a complete disaster’. Hitler dismissed the complaints.
Von Ribbentrop was authorised to offer lavish hospitality, and various British opinion-formers, such as Lloyd George and Lord Rothermere, travelled to Germany to meet the Führer; Lord Lothian interviewed Hitler in 1935. All-expenses-paid trips to attend the Nuremberg rallies were available to journalists and politicians. He also cultivated the key hostesses such as Lady Astor, and her satellites like Oswald Mosley. Lady Cunard, although she teased him, was a useful route to the Prince of Wales. Wealthy socialite Laura Corrigan was another desirable acquaintance, because of the people she assembled at her parties. And he was particularly keen to cultivate Lord and Lady Londonderry, at whose glittering political receptions he could meet the prime political movers. Lord Londonderry himself was a special prize, as Air Minister. All these people favoured a rapprochement with Nazi Germany.
Rather more left-wing than her contemporaries, Sibyl Colefax was critical of those ambassadors whose only experience of genuine British opinion was filtered through the selection process of the other society hostesses. One of her prescient observations about foreign diplomats in London dates from 1933: ‘They only dine with other ambassadors, with the House of Lords of any kind or sort – with occasionally members of the Cabinet […] there’s no doubt that Sara [h]Wilson, Alice Keppel e tutti quanti, have assured him [Alanson B. Houghton, the US Ambassador to Britain, 1925–1929] that England is down and out, because they spend all their time telling this to each other.’6
