Dwight Morrow (1873 – 1931) was an American businessman, diplomat and politician. His daughter, Anne, decided to commemorate him by commissioning a biography.
Eyebrows were raised when she eschewed American authors and chose a limey, Harold Nicolson. It took Harold ten months from September 1934 to July 1935 to write the book, Dwight Morrow. He visited America four times staying at Morrow houses at New Haven, Maine, Cuernavaca, Mexico and Englewood, New Jersey. The descriptions of these houses are interesting but when he writes of his subject he doesn’t bring him to life. I think Harold felt the same way, particularly as a vivid episode in 20th century American history was unfolding around him.
Anne Morrow married Charles Lindbergh in Englewood in 1929. You will recall their eldest son, Charles, was kidnapped and murdered in 1932 while still an infant, although a ransom of $50,000 had been paid. Some of the ransom money was traced and Richard Hauptmann was arrested in September 1934. He went on trial accused of kidnapping, murder and extortion in January 1935 , and was sentenced to death in February.
Harold Nicolson arrived at Englewood ten days after Hauptmann’s arrest and met Anne and Charles. The house was guarded by detectives and a police dog, Thor, guarding the second Lindbergh son. Thor was intimidating, as Harold wrote in a letter to Vita.
I stretched out a hand towards him. “Thor!” I said, throwing into the word an appeal for friendship which was profoundly sincere. He then made a noise in his throat such as only tigers make when waiting for their food. It was not a growl, it was not a bark. It was a deep pectoral regurgitation – predatory, savage, hungry. Lindbergh smiled a little uneasily. “It will take him a week or so,” he said, “to become accustomed to you.” He then released his hold on the collar. I retreated rapidly to the fire place, as if to flick the ash away from my cigarette. Thor stalked towards me. I thought of you and my two sons and Gwen and Rebecca (his terrier), and my past life and England’s honour. “Thor!” I exclaimed. “Good old man!” The tremor in my voice was very tremulous. Lindbergh watched the scene with alert, but aloof, interest. “If he wags his tail, Mr Nicolson, you need have no fear.” Thor wagged his tail and lay down.
I had a stiff whisky-and-soda and talked to Anne. Feeling better after that, I turned to Lindbergh. “What happens,” I asked, “if Thor does not wag his tail?” “Well,” he said, “you must be careful not to pass him by. He might get hold of you.” “By the throat?” I asked – trying, but not with marked success, to throw a reckless jollity into my tone. “Not necessarily,” he answered. “If he does that, you must stay still and holler all you can.”
By the time you get this I shall either be front page news, or Thor’s chum. I have a lovely suite here. Large sitting-room, superb bathroom, large bedroom. I shall be supremely comfortable. I am here all safe with a super police dog to protect me against gangsters and detectives behind every bush.
As Harold gets to know the Lindberghs he writes more about them and their reaction to their tragedy and the perpetual hounding by newspapermen. Covertly they (Lindberghs) sail to Liverpool in 1935 and end up renting Long Barn in Kent, where Harold and Vita had lived before buying Sissinghurst.
With the balance of hindsight Harold wrote the wrong book.
It is hard today to imagine the grip that the kidnapping of Charles Lindbergh had on the American public when the abduction took place. Perhaps, in some way it’s impact could be compared to the country’s collective shock universally shared when President was assassinated . Suddenly, there was a pervasive sense of national vulnerability as the press had a field day with report after report after report of the Lindbergh’s grave predicament. The headlines helped contribute to a gnawing feeling that Americans as a nation were susceptible to physical and emotional harm.