Chips (Channon) records Christmas Day in his diary: 1936 – 1939.
Friday, 25th December, 1936.
A day of cards, we must have had nearly 300 from all over the earth, but none from either poor Wallis Simpson nor the Duke of Windsor. Many cables, but bad presents. Honor, Paul and I are all ill, or rather run-down; we’ve been doing too much. The Iveaghs, however, are all well. They are so gentle, so simple, and seemingly so oblivious of their vast, vast wealth, which is really too much for them. It is so enormous, so secreted that they cannot understand or appreciate its power: instead they try to hide it, thus putting it from them.
A daughter was born to the Duchess of Kent this morning. She is now sixth in succession to the throne. The Duchess of Kent is very healthy and regular. The baby was, she told me, expected on Xmas Day. She wanted another infant Prince, he, however, hoped for a daughter.
Saturday, 25th December, 1937.
In our rooms this morning there was a parcel party, beginning with Paul’s presents, an ark from me, a car from his doting grandparents, a Bavarian dolls’ house from Countess Toerring, a train from the Duchess of Kent . . . etc. Then we undid our presents; to H I gave a huge baroque emerald cabouchon ring and bracelet and bits of junk; she gave me Victorian turquoise links and a Swiss XV watch. The Iveaghs gave us a pair of Adam urns ‘garniture’ for Kelvedon.
Sunday, 25th December, 1938.
I went with the family and the Elvedens to church. Honor stayed behind in a bad temper. She is always sulky and surly now . . . Patsy came down in her green Salzburg clothes which she has been wearing for weeks, with a deplorable lack of vanity. They irritate Alan, and I begged Honor to get her into something else, which she did.
Arthur Elveden, enormous again, read the lessons and later we went to the Old Rectory for family Christmas luncheon. They have made the old Suffolk house charming: it is gay, liveable pleasant and rather American. Delicious food, and we stuffed.
Breakfast was a function and a feature. Even Honor came down and there was a big present distribution. I gave Honor three Fabergé cigarette cases, and had them marked and arranged. One I had given her years ago I had converted by Cartier into a vanity case. She has now two complete sets, a white one, and a blue one of great value and beauty. She gave me a pair of emerald links which I am to return to have made into ruby ones, which I want . . . . Lady Iveagh gave me a watch that had belonged to the Sultan; while Patsy and Alan gave me a beautiful blue watch with a fountain on it, a real bibelot. Paul had many presents from Princess Olga, the Kents, his godmothers, others . . .
More food, crackers and fun. Appalling weather: we are snowed up. And what of the wedding?
Monday, 25th December, 1939.
Essex is wrapt (sic) in fog: it is a winding sheet. Catarrhal, and half-suffocated, I came down to breakfast after sending a sheaf of telegrams and telephoning to poor Peter at the Olde Bell Hotel; but Peter Pan had fled, gone philandering somewhere no doubt. I was relieved, yet subdued, too . . .
Breakfast en famille with Honor, Brigid and Fritzi who must be thinking of Potsdam and of other happier holidays. We had a plethora of presents, and quite forgot about the war in the excitement of opening them. From Honor I had a magnificent pair of Dresden apostles, St Thomas and St Peter; from the Iveaghs a set of Saint-Simon; and from the Duke and Duchess of Kent a satin Fabergé-esque cigarette case; from Alan, a real gold Fabergé case with a ruby – very grand; from the Prince Regent a pair of gold links with his chiffre surrounding the garter; etc., etc. From my baby boy a diary; from Peter his photograph framed and books; after breakfast I rang up Clandeboye and had a word with little Paul who seemed pleased and we talked for a moment. And I also rang Alexander of Yugoslavia who is staying with Miss Fox and a tutor at 13 Grange Road, Cambridge. Then we dressed, went for a walk and the day passed pleasantly enough. My war was forgotten in the land of plenty of Kelvedon, where there is always too much to eat and drink. Rab rang me from Stanstead after lunch, and we had a good gossip; he loathes holidays, rest and country life . . . Yesterday we had a tree, presents and party for the gardeners and staff – about thirty in all, and Honor distributed presents and I made a speech. All very feudal. Kelvedon looks a dream of beauty . . . I went for a walk and in the woods came on many pigs – it was almost classical.
I read Paradise City (Channon’s second novel) today and thought how excellent and really underrated it is. Peter liked it: and I wondered, too, to what lengths will my fecund friendship with him take me? . . . And I read Caroline of England, an excellent and highly readable book by Peter Quennell. Harold Balfour, who was here, left us yesterday: he wants me to go to France to visit the front this weekend. And such an expedition would recall adventures (sic) paid in 1918 to the then front.
Fritzi at dinner was very charming and he told me of the revolution in Germany (in 1918), and how his grandfather, living in his special train near Spa, had refused to abdicate; after a strong interview with Hindenburg he had gone to bed. It was Hindenburg, so Fritzi assures me, who gave the order for the train to move on, and the Kaiser was astonished and enraged to find himself over the Dutch frontier. It was then too late. The Imperial children with the Crown Princess had gone to the Neues Palais from nearby Cecilienhof to spend a few days with their grandmother, the Kaiserin, who was alone. When they heard the Kaiser had fled, or been abducted into Holland, they sat up all night wondering what to do. The guards were thought to be rather revolutionary, and the children were ordered not to look out – but they climbed up in one of the ballrooms, peered out and saw nothing.
The Kaiserin, ever the faithful wife, decided to join her husband and left next day. She was quite unmolested. The Crown Princess, however, said that they had to deal with Germans, not Russians, and she refused to leave Potsdam. Instead she removed her six children to Cecilienhof, where they remained. The first few weeks were anxious, and there were occasional alarms. Fears of reds who might want to assassinate or perhaps assault them. But nothing ever happened and they survived the storm in increasing safety . . .
London is deserted: the Cabinet has flown; half the army is on leave; luckily a heavy fog envelops England and there will be no air raids tonight!!
(To be continued)