Rumours about his illness were already circulating at Christmas. They were officially denied. The king even broadcast his Christmas appeal to the Empire and many, including Bernard Shaw, complimented the king publicly on his skill at speaking over the radio. Then all the rumours faded. Not until the evening of 17 January did a medical bulletin appear dedicated to the state of the king’s health. Listeners were informed that the weakening of the king’s cardiac activity ‘gives cause for concern’. That was a very serious symptom and a serious warning. Things went from bad to worse. A prominent cardiologist was summoned to Sandringham, bulletins began to come out more often and their contents were ever more disquieting. On Sunday, 19 January, I notified Moscow by telegram of the possibility of the king’s death and requested that condolence telegrams be sent in that event to the queen and the royal family from Kalinin,

Mikhail Ivanovich Kalinin, member of the Politburo, 1926–46, and chairman of the USSR Supreme Soviet, the titular head of state of the Soviet Union, 1938–46. Although he survived the purges, his wife was arrested, tortured and sent to a labour camp, from which she was released in 1945, a year before his death.

and to Baldwin from Molotov. On 20 January, Agniya and I went to the cinema. On leaving the cinema at about 11 p.m., we saw on newspaper posters: ‘The King Is Dying.’ When we got home, we tuned in to the radio and began listening. There was a bulletin every quarter of an hour. The Kagans came over to listen with us. At 12.15 a.m. the radio announcer said with emotion: ‘It is with deepest regret…’ All was clear. The king had died at 11.55 p.m. on 20 January.

We woke up Falin (our chauffeur),

Maisky could hardly trust his own driver, who had clearly been set up in the embassy to watch over his movements. Beatrice Webb recalls a party, attended by the Maiskys, Lord William Percy and a certain Captain Bennett, who had been caught by the Bolsheviks while fighting with the White Armies in southern Russia – but had escaped. When Maisky’s chauffeur appeared on the scene to take them back ‘there was an instantaneous recognition between former gaoler and escaped prisoner – the Soviet chauffeur turning out to be a GPU [Soviet Secret Service] official. They chummed up and were joined by Dick and Lord William Percy – both of whom were connected with the British Secret Service – whereupon the four “mystery men” strolled off together for a friendly glass and a smoke – much to the astonishment of Their Excellencies and the other guests!’; Webb, diary, 27 August 1934, p. 5763.

and the four of us (the Kagans and we) drove into town to see what was happening. The traffic was unusually heavy. There was a long black queue near Buckingham Palace, which was slowly passing the gates, on which hung a notification of the king’s death. The square in front of the palace and the adjacent streets were crammed with cars. A large body of policemen had a hard time trying to keep order. There was a restrained, intent silence, but there were no tears or hysterics – or perhaps these were concealed by darkness. We drove on to Fleet Street, which was noisy and lively. Newspaper boys carrying huge piles of fresh print were running in all directions, shouting: ‘The king is dead!’ The passers-by stopped them and hastily bought newspapers still smelling of ink. We also bought some. They were the next day’s issues of all the major papers (Daily Herald, Daily Express, Daily Mail and others) and were almost entirely given over to the king’s death. They already carried editorials on the subject, lengthy surveys of the king’s reign, character sketches of George V as monarch and man, and salutations to the new king, Edward VIII. I checked my watch: the time was not yet 1 a.m. The king’s heart stopped beating only an hour or so ago. London journals work fast! There is no doubt that the editorials, recollections and salutations were written in advance, and that the printing presses were just waiting for the signal to unleash millions of copies on the world, but all the same…

Memories of Mongolia came to mind. It sometimes happens there that relatives who, having grown tired of waiting for an old man to die, may carry him, still breathing, into the fields and leave him to the mercy of fate. Corpse-devouring dogs gather in a circle around the dying man and wait, gnashing their teeth, for the end (the dogs do not touch the half-dead)… Another country, another culture, another age, but don’t these journalists who pen obituaries at the bedside of a still living man somewhat resemble the Mongolian corpse-devouring dogs?

I sent a telegram to Moscow suggesting that Litvinov, who is nearby in Geneva, should attend King George’s funeral. Will they consent? We’ll see. They ought to, otherwise it will look like a demonstration of deliberate coldness on our part, which politically would be highly undesirable for us right now.