‘Well, that’ll be enough,’ I remarked jokingly, ‘to put some questions to the foreign secretary that will spoil his mood.’

‘Alas! Alas!’ Monck answered with a touch of melancholy. ‘In the old days, it was not the done thing to touch upon serious matters during one’s first visit to a newly appointed foreign secretary. The aim of the first visit was merely to establish contact between the minister and the ambassador. Nowadays, it’s all mixed up. No one pays any attention to time-honoured traditions, and ambassadors will talk about whatever they fancy during their first visit, even complicated financial matters.’

I could only offer my sympathy to Monck, without expecting it to be taken at face value.

Conscious of having so little time at my disposal, I asked Halifax just two questions.

(1) What is Britain’s stance toward Central Europe? The answer was barely intelligible: Britain considers itself an interested party in this region, but cannot take on any commitments in advance. Everything will depend on the circumstances. This attitude seems almost deliberately designed to excite Hitler’s appetite and provoke him into aggression.

In retrospect, Maisky regarded this response as the blueprint for the surrender in Munich, where Hitler is given a free hand in the east; Maisky, Munich, p. 21. See an even more blunt version in VSD, pp. 336–7.

(2) What is Britain’s stance toward Spain? More specifically, is an agreement between London and Rome, which would ignore the ‘resolution’ of the Spanish question in terms of the evacuation of foreign troops from Spain, conceivable? The answer was again vague and evasive. Halifax first declared that the British government regarded the ‘resolution’ of the Spanish problem as part of a general agreement with Italy. But when I pressed him with more insistent questions, he gave in and admitted that much would depend on whether or not it was Mussolini who was to blame for the fact that the ‘volunteers’ could not be withdrawn speedily from Spain.

My questions certainly spoiled Halifax’s mood, but at least I now know where we are. The new leaders of British foreign policy will not move a finger in regard to either Central Europe or Spain. I even have the feeling that Chamberlain has already decided in his soul to ‘sell’ Spain to Mussolini for whatever price he deems fair.

Halifax’s manners are those of a well-bred English lord. He is polite, almost friendly. Talks little and uses platitudes. Likes to appeal to exalted feelings and noble principles, in which he half believes and, playing the hypocrite, half pretends to believe. He is always mindful of his own interests. Let’s see how we get on.

On leaving Halifax, I ran into the doyen, the Brazilian ambassador, Oliveira.

‘Tell me,’ I asked the doyen, ‘how many foreign secretaries have you dealt with during your stay in Britain?’

Oliveira thought for an instant before replying: ‘This is my ninth foreign secretary: Lord Curzon,

George Nathaniel Curzon (1st Marquess Curzon of Kedleston), prize fellow, All Souls College, Oxford, 1883; viceroy and governor-general of India, 1899–1905; lord privy seal, 1915–16; foreign secretary, 1919–24.

MacDonald, Austen Chamberlain, Henderson, Lord Reading,

Rufus Daniel Isaacs (1st marquess of Reading), secretary of state for foreign affairs in first National Government, 1931.

Simon, Hoare, Eden, Halifax. And you?’

‘It’s my fourth: Simon, Hoare, Eden, Halifax. Don’t you think it’s a bit too many for my five and a half years in London?’

‘Indeed,’ Oliveira agreed. ‘They change their foreign secretaries rather too often here.’

When I returned to the lobby, Monck was saying to the Belgian ambassador: ‘Just imagine, the new American ambassador, Kennedy,

Joseph Patrick Kennedy, American financier and major contributor to Roosevelt’s presidential campaign; US ambassador to London, 1937–40.

is arriving in London tomorrow morning at four o’clock! His steamer reached Southampton behind schedule. Of course, I won’t be meeting him. Not at such an ungodly hour!’

And Monck added with a little laugh: ‘While discharging my official duties, I wear either tails – until midnight, that is – or a morning coat from 8 a.m. From midnight till eight in the morning I’m in pyjamas, which means I’m off duty.’