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Few infant prodigies have successfully staged a comeback. The Honorable Robert Anthony Eden has. He was a celebrated beauty at three, a war hero at nineteen; at twenty he was gassed at Ypres and given up for dead. At thirty he was the coming man in England. At thirty-four his name meant hope and promise to all the world; no other statesman between the wars ever stirred the people’s imagination to quite the same degree. At forty-one he was an elder statesman. He preferred polite resignation to the scramble for the British premiership which might have been his for the asking. Since history suffers from a bad memory, he quickly became a forgotten man. A year and a half later another forgotten man came to wake the Sleeping Beauty.

Underwood & Underwood

ANTHONY EDEN

As Winston Churchill’s Foreign Secretary, Mr. Eden again occupies the Foreign Office, where the most important years of his life have been spent. It is not quite the Foreign Office of past days. Diplomats need no longer comply with the property qualification which previously required a private income of two thousand pounds a year. The foreign service is now open to all. Merit alone decides the career. It is no longer absolutely necessary—although it still does no harm—to be of aristocratic lineage, to have written Latin verse, to have rowed at Eton, and to have played football for Oxford. The Foreign Office no longer keeps aloof from the life of the nation as it did a few years ago. To a large extent these changes have been brought about by a chief who does come of aristocratic lineage, has written Latin verse and rowed at Eton, and did play football for Oxford. In our age of mass-production Anthony Eden stands out like a precious antique. But he is not getting dusty. His rich dark-brown hair is only slightly greying at the temples. The stoop of his shoulders has visibly increased. He carries heavy responsibilities. The times are gone in which the success of a Foreign Secretary was fully vindicated by the King’s traditional phrase to the Commons: “My relations with other powers continue to remain friendly.” The new times ask for courage, vision, sacrifice. Anthony Eden has many outstanding qualities. But he is best known for one—for his personal charm. Thousands of his friends and acquaintances call him, tenderly, “dear Anthony.” He has had to spend half his life living down his silly reputation as a playboy, another Beau Brummell. His rare refinement is above all spiritual. He belongs among the few responsible men who have heard the distant thunder of the new deluge from the first day. He will emerge from the turmoil as a man of vision and loyalty.

Robert Anthony Eden is of the old English breed. He descends from a North Country family which dates back to the fifteenth century. His father, the late Sir William Eden, baronet, was a conspicuous Victorian. Some called him a virile and violent individualist, others simply an eccentric Englishman. Undoubtedly, Anthony Eden’s quiet tastes, his horror of showmanship, even his sartorial earnestness, have been formed by a conservative rebellion against his somewhat eccentric father. Sir William was famous for his grey velvet knickerbockers and his dinner jacket made of silk handkerchiefs. He was well known both as a fox-hunter and a painter. Some of his water-colors have survived him. Anthony, his third son, has inherited the predilection for brush and palette. Painting is his only hobby—a hobby, incidentally, which he shares with Winston Churchill. But whereas Churchill indulges in strong oil-colors with aggressive red and blue as his favorites, Anthony Eden confines himself to almost transparent aquarelles. Perhaps this contrast explains the difference between them.

“My sons shall learn painting,” the late Sir William decreed. “But they shall also know how to drive a team, ride across country, box and shoot.” As far as Anthony was concerned, his father’s last-mentioned wish was not fulfilled. Mr. Eden despises the cruelty of hunting. He showed considerable courage in indicting the English gentleman’s favorite sport, fox-hunting, as bloody slaughter. There is only one hunting story about him on record.

In 1934, as Lord Privy Seal, he paid a state visit to Sweden. Of course an elk-hunting party was arranged for the distinguished guest. When the elk came within shooting range his companions politely dropped their guns to give His Britannic Majesty’s Lord Privy Seal the honor of the catchball. But dear Anthony also dropped his gun. He looked into the elk’s tender brown animal eyes, and turned around to his party: “Isn’t it a beauty?” The elk, it is reported, shook his horns and trotted comfortably away. It had a new lease of life—until another diplomatic visitor came to Sweden. Hermann Goering, among other things Master of the German Hunt, expressed with a shout of laughter, his desire to “shoot Sweden empty of elk.”

Anthony was born on June 12, 1897, at his father’s country estate, Windlestone Hall, near Bishop Auckland. His mother was known as the fairest lady in the land. The boy inherited her looks. Indeed, at the age of three, from when his first photographs date, he looked like a beautiful girl, thick dark hair tumbling on to his forehead, and enormous black eyes illuminating the round face with the cherry-lips.

His formal education began at the age of nine at Sandroyd Preparatory School, near Cobham. Perhaps there lies more than a mere coincidence of names in the fact that he passed two years later into Churchill’s House at Eton. In his black Eton suit and silk hat he looked like a miniature gentleman. Only his protruding teeth and an incurable habit of thrusting his hands deep in his pockets indicated some signs of youthful stubbornness. He achieved no eminence at Eton either as a scholar or an athlete, although he played some football and was even slated for Eton’s rowing team. He was a quiet boy, intended to pass quietly into the Church.

But Wellington had not said in vain: “The battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton.” Early in 1915, aged seventeen, Anthony went straight from school to join the colors as a lieutenant in the King’s Royal Rifles. He proved his heroism on the Ypres front in 1916. He was in command of a trench raiding party out to capture a few Jerries. His party encountered terrific German fire in no man’s land. One of Eden’s men was hit; Eden carried him to safety. The wounded man had to remain two years in the hospital; today he still corresponds with his lifesaver. A year later Eden again risked his life to save one of his non-commissioned officers. He received the Military Cross for bravery. His fame grew in the army. On June 4, 1917, just over twenty, he was promoted to the rank of Brigade-Major.

Winston Churchill once confessed that he no longer had enough patience for the quiet halls of Oxford after having heard the bullets whistle around his ears. Anthony Eden could muster the required patience. He returned from the war and entered Oxford. The war, it seems, had removed his inhibitions. As a retired major, the once indifferent pupil at Eton excelled in oriental languages at Oxford. He became a scholar in Arabic, wrote Persian verse, and took first class honors. His linguistic gifts are brilliant. He is one of the few Englishmen who speak French like a Parisian. German was more difficult for him. He endeavored to learn it in later years, when he wanted to impress the masters of Germany with his sympathetic understanding of their cause. But being by then a very busy man, he found time to study the intricacies of German grammar only during his morning shave.

His familiarity with oriental languages came in very handy in the recent past. In the spring of 1941 he visited Ankara to prepare the Turkish leaders for the German onslaught, then in the making. A crack regiment paraded before him. He surprised the troops by addressing them fluently in their own vernacular. The soldiers were stunned. Then they cheered. They had never before seen a foreigner who was able to say “Give Hitler hell!” in Turkish.

Fresh from the university, Eden ran for Parliament. Politics was a gentleman’s natural vocation; and besides, the lesson of the war had sharpened his sense of social obligation. In 1922, he contested a mining district, the Spennymore Division of Durham. It was a three-cornered fight between the young Tory, Eden, and his Liberal and Labour competitors. The miners of Spennymore turned down the Tory. They elected the Socialist candidate—the Countess of Warwick, a red millionairess, related by marriage to Anthony Eden.

Subsequently greater events have proved that Eden is immune to adversities. A few months after his defeat, he stood again for Parliament, this time for the safe Conservative seat of Warwick and Leamington, which he holds to this day. His busy campaigning left him just enough time to marry dark, graceful Miss Beatrice Beckett, daughter of a local banker who was also the owner of the influential Yorkshire Post. The marriage was performed at St. Margaret’s, Westminster. In his morning coat and light waistcoat, broad silk tie and top hat, the milk-faced bridegroom looked almost grown up. Unfortunately, dear Anthony could only spare twenty-four hours for his honeymoon. Mrs. Eden soon learned to become “diplomacy’s widow,” as she used to call herself during the years her husband was Europe’s most constantly traveling diplomat. She rarely accompanied him on his journeys. Golden silence is her rule. She is not as democratic as Mrs. Annie Chamberlain or Lady Baldwin used to be. Perhaps she is a little jealous of politics. The marriage was blessed with two boys, Simon and Nicholas, today both youngsters in their teens. For England the marriage was a blessing since Eden now had a mouthpiece of his own. In the heyday of appeasement, when even the old thunderer, the Times of London, bent back, the Yorkshire Post assumed the role of England’s conscience: until the Daily Telegraph joined it, it was the only conservative paper which uncompromisingly fought appeasement.

The Edens soon moved to London, where they established themselves in fashionable Fitzhardinge Street. They lived comfortable, if by no means extravagant, lives. Mr. Eden’s income has been assessed at £2,500 a year—not so very much for Mayfair high life, but enough to assure his complete independence and lack of any personal interest in politics. He was never compelled to seek office or to write his memoirs.

Three fortuitous qualities started him the smooth way. First, his gentle birth, his material independence and high connections. Second, his great knowledge and intelligence. Third, his intense seriousness of purpose. One is not allowed to add his good looks to his natural endowment. Anthony Eden does not resent any reproach as much as he does a compliment to his handsome appearance. One way to arouse this very quiet man’s wrath is to call him a glamour boy. He is nothing of the kind. He is very definitely Anthony minus Cleopatra. Proudly he points out his protruding teeth and the fact that his eyes are a little too close together. He is aware of his peculiar gait; he rolls slightly as he strides along. His chin is rather small. He has difficulty in discovering other faults in his appearance. He is a bit above the average in height, on the slender side. His face has classic lines. His thick hair falls over a high forehead. As the years go on, he is getting a little short-sighted. Sometimes he wears horn-rimmed glasses behind which his large dark eyes seek cover. Well-groomed, mostly in conservative black, and with his “Guardee” moustache, he is precisely the aristocratic young Englishman—Milord to foreigners. He looks like an officer, thinks as a patriot, and feels like an artist.

His facile approach to important people considerably eased his career. Although some time has elapsed since he was the center of world attention, his name and fame carry on. Students of the University of Paris, accustomed to go hatless in the Latin tradition, now wear Anthony Eden hats—the black fedora—to demonstrate their pro-British feelings. A little incident, both sad and funny, shows his prestige even among the enemy. A few weeks before the rape of Austria Dr. Gouido Schmidt, then Foreign Secretary in Vienna, an ambitious, handsome young man, had not quite made up his mind to become the Quisling of the Danube. Herr von Papen cut short his wavering. “If you play with us we will make you the continental Anthony Eden.” This vision sufficed to make Dr. Schmidt betray his country. The turncoat, of course, confused Anthony Eden with Sir Oswald Mosley. But when Schuschnigg, awaking too late to the dangers around him, finally discovered that he had been double-crossed by his Foreign Secretary, the latter tried to vindicate himself with the confession: “Papen told me that I have what it takes to become the continental Anthony Eden. Could you have resisted?”

No one could resist Anthony Eden’s image. Still less the man himself. Yet it was not the personal relations, it was the masses who made him. As a young progressive statesman he was the people’s choice. His public popularity was unparalleled, when he expressed the average man’s dream—eternal peace through a league of nations. Unfortunately, his friendly personal relations made him abandon the dream for a time. In this most tragic interlude in his life, dear Anthony was just a little too nice a chap.

After three years as an unassuming back-bencher, Eden became Parliamentary Private Secretary to Commander Locker-Lampson, then Under Secretary in the Home Office, and a veteran friend of Churchill’s. The job carried no pay, but it gave the young M.P. intimate insight into the functioning of the government machine. It also brought him to the attention of the bigwigs. Mr., now Earl, Baldwin was always looking for new talent, particularly for gifted vote-getters. He was well aware that the female vote in England outnumbered the men’s vote by hundreds of thousands. This was an important factor in Eden’s favor. Besides, his elegant appearance and easy manners concealed much hard work and seriousness of purpose. Baldwin appreciated these qualities the more, as indefatigability did not belong among his own outstanding virtues. He flashed the green light when Sir Austen Chamberlain, then Foreign Secretary, made young Eden, after a year of apprenticeship in the Home Office, his own Parliamentary Secretary. Eden entered the Foreign Office at twenty-nine. His stay was twice interrupted. Yet he had found his place in life.

True, he again held a job without pay, but once more it was an unrivalled opportunity for inside study. Older M.P.’s recall that Eden at this time was a somewhat frail fellow with a marked stoop and the tired eyes of an overworked student. Neither will-power nor drive was obvious. He developed slowly. He was the typical representative of the generation that had been shattered by the war. His idealism was blended with pacifism, or rather with hatred for war. He believed in a new order and peaceful negotiation. The English were easy-going at that time. Nobody suggested the perils of unilateral disarmament. Nobody questioned whether luxurious social services were indeed more important than military preparedness. The Conservatives outbid the Socialists to preserve shaky majorities that involved ever costlier concessions to the electorate.

In these surroundings Eden was fortunate in having Sir Austen Chamberlain’s sympathy and advice. He learned from his chief that France’s military supremacy alone held Germany at bay. As a student of history he foresaw Germany’s rearmament at the first possible moment. As an insider in the Foreign Office he knew that the Germans had never fulfilled their disarmament obligations.

He soon proved also a good pupil of Mr. Baldwin’s. He learned the old statesman’s inimitable art of making friends. He learned the trick of asking even the dullest companion for his opinion. Such dull companions often forgot in front of Eden that they were speaking to a man of deep knowledge and wide experience. Talking to him they could let off steam. He was sure to congratulate second-string speakers on their most abysmal orations. Frequently he had a bit of information for politicians who did not really belong to the inner circle. He never indulged in shoulder-patting, but a very slight and rapid touch with the tips of his fingers made his information appear considerably more confidential. In the grand style of English parliamentary tradition, he maintained genial contacts with his opponents. He often stepped over to the opposition benches to whisper urgently with his most violent critics. After a few years of parliamentary practice he had not a single enemy in the House. His friends cheered his utterances, although these were sparing and not very exciting. His quiet, confident, well-polished speeches, delivered in an unhurried, agreeably modulated voice, which sometimes grew weary or could even sound blasé, produced a stream of well-regulated sentences that meant something and always carried righteous conviction. Everybody could agree with them. In a time of wild talking, uneasiness and unrest, this young Conservative never lost his poise. To him Conservatism was the means of preserving civilization by orderly, regulated progress, with eyes and ears wide open to ever-changing conditions. His moral basis, however, remained unchangeable. Sometimes Eden’s speeches sounded like religious rather than political conviction. It became a matter of course to cheer him. A habit was formed to cheer the coming leader.

His strongest conviction rested with the League of Nations. In this field he was the teacher and his chief the pupil. Sir Austen Chamberlain took some time to grasp Eden’s idea of the League. But ultimately the success of Locarno convinced him. Intimate personal co-operation with Briand and Stresemann was established. The friendship among the big three was patterned after Eden’s conception of agreeable personal contacts. Of course none of the three statesmen saw the skilful hand, which, if it did not mold their politics, certainly smoothed their collaboration.

Locarno secured, so it seemed, peace in Western Europe. Unfortunately, it was not followed up by an Eastern Locarno, which Dr. Benes advocated. Even Mussolini was ready to behave himself. Thus Eden matured under hopeful auspices. But fate had willed it otherwise. In rapid sequence, Stresemann, Briand and Sir Austen Chamberlain were removed from the scene by death and disease. There is little doubt that the three men, given another few years in full possession of their physical strength, could have established peace in our time. They were irreplaceable. After Stresemann’s death there was no man in Germany left to stem the rising tide of Nazism. Briand was followed in France by Laval and others on the same level. In London Sir John—now Viscount—Simon moved into the Foreign Office.

In 1931, MacDonald promoted Eden to the rank of Under Secretary in the Foreign Office, to offset the dissatisfaction caused by his choice of Simon. But this promotion was just one of the ex-red Prime Minister’s habitual palliatives; not even Eden’s popularity could help. Sir John Simon blundered from his first day in office to the last. His constant indecision was mixed up with a tendency to elude or postpone difficulties at any price. His ice-cold legalistic mind found ever new escape clauses. He was inordinately proud of his “legal brains,” a gift that is more highly appreciated in England than anywhere else, and he bothered little to conceal the fact that this shrewd legalism was outweighed by a total lack of political character and courage. He was ever inclined to comply with the powers that be, with a strong Prime Minister at home or with the bullying dictators abroad. By way of compensation he terrorized his collaborators. He recognized but one handicap—the fact that he belonged to a splinter group, the handful of National Liberals. In shaping Britain’s destiny he knew but one aim—to smooth his own way to Premiership, in spite of not commanding a Parliamentary following. Fortunately, he was stopped at the next to the top rung of the ladder.

The Disarmament Conference opened in February, 1932. Eden had anticipated it with high hopes, and had done yeoman service in bringing it into being. He accompanied his chief to Geneva. But there the mere presence of Sir John Simon paralyzed him. Sphinx-like, the mask of Sir John gazed into empty space. He was a sphinx without a riddle; his only aim was to avoid committing himself.

To public opinion at home, Anthony Eden rather than Simon was connected with the Disarmament Conference, since the English people had come to associate his name with Geneva. Eden labored untiringly to save what could be saved from the conference, ill-fated from the beginning. He outdid himself. He became the Prince Charming of Geneva. His personal amiability was the talk of the Quai du Mont Blanc, the street of the gossiping, diplomatic hotels. Again, as during his apprenticeship on the front bench, dear Anthony had a “choice bit of information”—even for the Nicaraguan delegate. He never forgot to send his compliments to Madame, Her Excellency. “Avez-vous bien dormi?” he started important negotiations. In England such a question would have miscarried. Foreigners, however, were convinced of its sincerity.

His infectious smile, his multi-colored politeness and his genuine charm never distracted him from concentrating on his work. Nor did he abandon hope of a happy outcome. He had to stomach many events that would have discouraged a less fiery believer. He recognized that Japan’s invasion of Manchuria would set the style for a series of aggressions. But Sir John Simon remained apathetic to the first arbitrary breach of international agreements in the post-war period. He refused an American offer for joint action in the Far East—America’s first and last offer of this kind. He just could not find out which paragraphs of international law Japan had violated. He did not care for right, but only for jurisprudence, with a strong accent on the second part of the word.

Eden was forced to watch helplessly. He could get things done only when he was free of Simon’s paralyzing presence. In such a brief interlude of independence, his artful mastery of negotiation averted a Hungarian-Jugoslavian war. But in matters of world importance, he saw that his own chief, frightened by fraudulent aggression, was conciliating the law-breakers and disputing away their illegality. Mussolini was allowed to prepare quite openly the rape of Abyssinia. Hitler came to power in the Reich. Sure enough, after a few months of his regime, in October, 1933, the Germans left Geneva, banging the door behind them. The blow came as a relief to Eden. Now the test was approaching. But Sir John Simon yielded again to blackmail, leaving his successors to pay ten-fold afterwards.

Eden’s forehead was deeply furrowed when he came back from Geneva. For the first time his hair was touched with grey. His bright smile faded quickly. He used his strong-lensed spectacles more often. Sometimes, with an impetuous movement, he tore the glasses off—as if he did not want to see too much. His voice had lost some of its enchanting ring. He delivered speeches in a high-pitched, tired, sometimes superior tone; not everybody understood that this was superiority enforced by solitude. He did not speak more than was necessary. Above all, he was to carry on, not to revolt.

A strange fate destined Anthony Eden to spend the crucial years of his life in an effort for appeasement, which disgusted him although he was fundamentally peace-minded. But of course for him there was no peace thinkable, save peace with honor, peace with the powers of civilization prevailing, the very opposite of appeasement. This was too natural to need mentioning. Perhaps Mr. Baldwin misunderstood Eden’s silence. He chose his slightly fatigued Prince Charming to establish personal contact with Hitler. The year was 1934. The monster was still in his puberty. Perhaps one could polish him up a bit. Eden, if anyone could do it, was the man for the job. To invest him with sufficient authority, he was promoted to the rank of Lord Privy Seal.

Hitler expected to receive a chocolate soldier; he was stunned to see a “Frontsoldat.” He rejoiced to discover that his visitor had been at Ypres. Of course Hitler had been at Ypres also, though, it is true, as a dispatch rider at a safe distance from the firing line. The Führer’s hospitality reached a high mark when it came out that Eden had been gassed at Ypres. Hitler had been gassed there, too. As a matter of fact, his gas-poisoning was thought by the doctors in the Pasewalk hospital to be a case of nervous breakdown, and it happened almost two years after Ypres. But Hitler could not miss the opportunity of establishing what seemed to him cordial relations with his first distinguished English visitor. His air fleet was still in the making. As soon as the armada was finished, the Führer singled out Mr. Eden for his coarsest and vilest personal attacks.

Was Eden captivated by Hitler’s crude amiability at their first meeting? All the signs indicated that he was both amused and slightly disgusted. But he did his best to avoid a new conflict. In the winter following his visit to Hitler he became a leading figure in the negotiations with Germany, and was instrumental in handing back the Saar to the Third Reich. Some critics believed that the independent, anti-Nazi vote in the Saar territory had not had a fair chance in the plebiscite. But Eden’s position at home was unassailable. The ballot in the autumn of 1934 showed a great majority in favor of collective security. The eleven million votes commanded by the League of Nations could not be disregarded. They were, indeed, cast for their hero, dear Anthony.

The dream of a peace with Nazism lasted a few months. In the spring of 1935, Hitler was burning to establish his “equality of status,” meaning the formal abolition of the military clauses of Versailles. Sir John Simon wanted to build himself up in the public mind as the man who brought about Anglo-German understanding; in view of the lethargic apathy then prevailing in England, there was no better way to Premiership. He was willing to grant Germany a free hand in the East. His Foreign Office advisers warned him that such a course was fraught with danger for England. Baldwin was warned. Eden engineered a two days’ conference with the French cabinet leaders to bring about a compromise and to choke Simon’s plans, which were running wild. The outcome of this conference was a new, if modified British advance to Germany. London proposed a “Western Air Pact,” together with a status of security for the Eastern States. Politely, Sir John inquired whether Hitler would care to receive him to discuss the matter.

Hitler was “indisposed.” He cancelled the English visit after having agreed to it at first. His alleged sore throat, however, did not prevent him from delivering a boisterous and offensive speech, denouncing the clauses of Versailles and announcing that thirty-six German divisions had already been established. Then he had the effrontery to renew his invitation to Simon. “The angel of peace is unsnubbable,” Winston Churchill commented when Simon hastened to accept the preposterous invitation. He went to Berlin. Eden accompanied him. The Führer spoke for seven hours. His interpreter, Dr. Schmidt, took half an hour to translate Hitler’s peroration. Sir John Simon confessed himself a little tired—too tired to continue the journey. Eden was left alone to go on to Prague, Warsaw and Moscow. His trip to the Eastern capitals was clearly a demonstration on his part. He wanted to offset the general impression that England was helplessly yielding to Hitler. But he was well aware that even this gesture could not affect the fundamental problem. It was no longer to be solved by demonstrations and gestures. A decision was demanded from England—and England remained undecided. A decision was demanded from Anthony Eden, too—and he, too, could not make it. He could neither acquiesce in the spinelessness then prevailing in London, nor could he quit his job, lest the last line of British resistance should break.

Upon his return from Moscow where Stalin, who rarely receives European diplomats, had treated him with the astonished friendliness of a jungle chieftain confronted for the first time with a white man, Eden suffered a heart attack. He had to take to his bed for a rest. The official explanation was that the airplane in which he flew back from Moscow had been so badly battered by air storms that Eden’s heart was affected. One may be permitted to believe that it did not take an air storm to affect the heart of a man in Eden’s tragic dilemma.

His delicate state of health forbade his accompanying MacDonald and Sir John Simon to Stresa. This, again, is the official version. He would certainly not have consented to the British delegation’s decision not to raise the Abyssinian question. Stresa was widely hailed as a success for the policy of keeping Germany at peace by encircling her with overwhelming power. In fact Stresa was eyewash. The fundamental difficulty, arising out of the Duce’s aggressions, was not even alluded to. The collaboration among the Western democracies and the Southern dictator was cancerous from the outset. Stresa, in fact, had no other result than the strengthening of Mussolini’s bargaining position with Hitler. Mussolini could delude the softy MacDonald and the imperturbable Sir John Simon. He knew that he would not have fooled Eden. He hated Eden before he ever met him.

Even the patient, sleepwalking English people were fed up at last with the MacDonald-Simon combination. Reluctantly, Baldwin had again to come into the foreground. He reshuffled the cabinet. Sir Samuel Hoare followed Simon and Eden became Minister for League of Nations Affairs. British foreign policy was now under dual control: it did not work quite harmoniously. Sir Samuel Hoare inherited not only his predecessor’s office, but also most of his inhibitions and, above all, his total indifference to the Nazi virus. Eden, on the other hand, used his newly won ministerial independence to achieve solid international settlements. He proved his tenacity of purpose and great patience in negotiations, combined with firmness of attitude. At the age of thirty-eight, which he had by then reached, he was emerging from strokes of good and bad fortune, a perfectly matured man.

“One man has stood out with courage and consistency for the translation of the ideals of the post-war peace system into realities,” wrote the Spectator at this time. “At thirty-eight, Mr. Eden has won a position for himself at home and abroad that no man of comparable age has achieved in our time. The fundamental cause is his deep sincerity. Politicians in England have ceased to believe in anything. Anthony Eden believes passionately in the League of Nations. It is that essential disinterestedness and honesty of purpose that has impressed the foreigners. They feel that Albion could never be perfidious if Eden was in charge of her affairs.”

To most of his senior cabinet colleagues, however, he was still the blue-eyed boy, irrespective of the fact that his eyes are dark brown. The elderly gentlemen were isolationist minded. Many of them never left England, and they could ill conceal their slight condescension toward the government’s traveling salesman. Why, if the “young man on the flying trapeze,” as one of the amiable colleagues called Eden, was hell-bent on personal contacts—why, by Jove, didn’t he visit Mussolini? The meeting was arranged. It was doomed to failure, exactly as certain jealous elements in the cabinet had hoped.

Indeed, the interview in Rome went off even worse than was expected. Benito’s outstanding quality is his maniac vanity. Now “Il Duce,” to use Walter Winchell’s unforgettable word, was confronted by a young Hollywood star—or so Eden looked to Mussolini’s crude perceptions. This fellow Eden had the truly British impertinence to be neither hard-faced nor overweight. He looked odiously perfect. Edda, the Duce’s daughter, seemed to feel differently about Eden’s perfection. The Cianos took the English guest to dinner in Ostia. They sat on the terrace of a fashionable hotel, and everyone around them giggled. Indeed, Countess Edda Ciano, conspicuous in her white dress and bright red hat, forgot about her meal as she devoured dear Anthony with her eyes. Her husband remained unperturbed. He is an understanding type, whether it is his wife or his father-in-law who is preparing a conquest.

Demonstratively Mussolini sped up his Abyssinian preparations during the British Cabinet Minister’s stay in Rome. Count Ciano remarked to the playboys in the lobby of the Hotel Esplanade, out of whose ranks he had emerged to become Fascism’s son-in-law: “Boy, oh, boy, you certainly learn shoulder shrugging!” Maybe he only had the Abyssinian venture in mind, which he, with the sharp wit you acquire in the Esplanade, considered a dangerous blunder.

Mussolini knew that he could safely disregard Eden. When the British cabinet reshuffle came to pass, England was already half pledged—and France, under Laval, fully committed—to go back on the League of Nations and support the aggression against Abyssinia. The new government in London was trapped. Sir Samuel Hoare made an abortive effort to free his hands. At the September session in Geneva, Britain stated that she was prepared to stand by the League principles to the full.

The attempt failed. Sir Samuel Hoare looked for a compromise to prevent Italy from joining up with Germany. He did not understand that an abyss divided the peace front from the gangster front. He attempted to bridge the abyss with petty politics. After the invasion of Abyssinia had started, Sir Samuel made a declaration of British determination in Geneva, which nobody could take seriously. Immediately he returned to London, leaving Eden, the League of Nations Minister, behind to cajole the delegates for six long weeks and to impress them with England’s sincerity and determination. Thus Eden became identified with the sanctions. Mussolini stigmatized him as public enemy number one.

The French and English governments worked out the Hoare-Laval plan which conceded to Mussolini the better part of Abyssinia. It was Eden’s duty to lay the plan before the League Council. He did so, but he refused to say a single word in its favor.

This plan of shameful surrender in the end outraged the patient English people. Sir Samuel Hoare, its co-author, had to go. Eden became Foreign Secretary. Baldwin could not well have promoted anyone else. Besides, Eden owed this advancement primarily to the mounting influence of Neville Chamberlain, then Chancellor of the Exchequer, who was already singled out to succeed Baldwin. Mr. Neville Chamberlain had known and liked Eden since both had entered politics, the one in his fiftieth year, the other at the age of twenty-two. Perhaps the distrustful, secluded man with the face of a raven enjoyed dear Anthony’s facility. Certainly he appreciated Eden’s vote-getting qualities, which had just gloriously stood another test. After the General Election in 1935, many a Tory member shook hands with Eden, assuring him: “You have done me a lot of good in my constituency.” Furthermore, Mr. Chamberlain felt sure that he could always handle easily the likable featherweight. Although he had already expressed his opinion that England should not commit herself any further on the continent of Europe, Neville Chamberlain still wanted to cash in on the popular enthusiasm that the League of Nations idea and its chief spokesman aroused.

Anthony Eden took the Foreign Office under extremely difficult circumstances. France was against him, and so were some of the most influential members of his own cabinet. The conscience of the British people furnished his only support, when, by intense personal efforts, he rallied the League of Nations to economic sanctions. But he was not able to put through oil sanctions, the only ones that mattered. The elder cabinet colleagues stopped him. Grown rather cynical during the many years they had observed the European scene, they felt, rightly, that none of the League members would fight a war to enforce oil sanctions. No nation would go to war for the much-vaunted collective security. They would, at best, fight if individually attacked. This scepticism was fully borne out by the events that followed. The tragedy of Europe’s neutrals and little nations is entirely self-caused, since they preferred to lie low and be devoured piecemeal. But Eden argued in the cabinet that it was England’s task to set the example and act as the center of resistance. He would awake the world’s conscience. Unfortunately, he could not even wake Stanley Baldwin who, in his last months in power, used to take a peaceful nap during his cabinet conferences. Eden’s own government declined to limit Italy’s oil-imports, thus making a sorry farce of the whole business of sanctions. Besides, Laval had promised Mussolini never to agree to this measure. “If Mussolini can’t fight in Abyssinia he will make war on England!” he declared. Eden understood that oil sanctions would have broken Fascism. The chain of further aggressions, he foresaw, would be nipped in the bud. But Haile Selassie collapsed while Geneva was split; London super-cautious, Paris treacherous. Eden was defeated, the League discredited, collective security shattered. The small nations had heard from Mr. Chamberlain, Great Britain’s coming man, that they could never again count on English help. Mussolini, of course, ended in Hitler’s arms.

It was a desperate situation. In restoring it Eden proved that he had grown to full stature. After Laval’s fall he re-established closer relations with France. He even approached Russia. Litvinov promised co-operation; he developed into the chief advocate of “indivisible peace.” In his two modest rooms in the Kremlin, which Stalin had converted into an Asiatic quarter for his private use, tovarich number one may well have laughed about the white men’s funny preoccupations. The Spanish War broke out. Together with Léon Blum, Eden proposed a general treaty of non-intervention. Everyone nodded agreement. Then Berlin sent the “Condor” flying-squad to Spain; strong-arm detachments of the Gestapo followed. Mussolini dispatched troopships bulging with human cargo. The wretched Italian soldiers in these bottoms were betrayed. They had been told that they were off for a frolic of head-hunting in Abyssinia. Russia had just a few airplanes to spare, but unloosed thousands of Commissars. “A leaky dam is better than no dam at all!” Anthony Eden consoled himself, and the world. In the midst of adversities and failures he never lost his poise.

Neither the adversities nor the failures were of his making. His powers as Foreign Secretary seemed unlimited since Mr. Baldwin no longer exercised the Prime Minister’s privilege of directing foreign affairs. On the surface he let his blue-eyed boy do the job. But this semblance of independence was deceptive. Since the Prime Minister persistently dodged the issues, Eden had to take up all important matters with the full cabinet. Perhaps some critics were right in their repeated assertions that Baldwin had made him Foreign Secretary too early. In the councils of government, Eden could only suggest various courses. He had to leave the decisions to much older colleagues who were all obsessed with the idea that dangers had to be deferred, and never challenged. Eden, and the younger generation with him, believed that dangers could be averted only by showing one’s teeth. But England, in her woeful state of moral and material disarmament, had not much to show by way of teeth, anti-aircraft guns and war planes. So Eden was in the tragic position of wanting to conduct a strong policy without the force to back it up.

One must bear this situation in mind to understand Anthony Eden’s gravest sin of omission—his silence when Hitler tore up Locarno, after having voluntarily confirmed the treaty, and remilitarized the Rhineland. The German generals who led their troops into Rhenania carried sealed orders to be opened at the first shot. These orders, signed by Hitler, commanded their immediate retreat if they should encounter armed resistance. At that time Germany would not yet wage a war. It was the God-given moment to prevent the mass slaughter of a second World War, and to eradicate the Nazi pest from the face of the earth. “We will clutch ourselves into the German earth, retiring step by step,” Rudolf Hess, Hitler’s lieutenant, threatened. It was Nazism’s maximum threat—and an empty one. The German people—still unwilling Nazis—would gladly have wrung their home-grown oppressors’ necks. Only suicidal folly could prevent world democracy from using the unique opportunity. On this very suicidal folly Hitler gambled. His bluff was not called.

At the height of perversion, English public opinion asked why the Germans should not occupy their own soil with their own army. Shrewd Nazi propaganda, largely supported by truly innocent American “liberalism,” had aroused their conscience about Versailles. In fact Versailles was the mildest and weakest peace victors have ever imposed on the vanquished. Only a few border-provinces, settled by restive minorities, had been sliced off from the Reich. And for the ten billion marks in reparations they had to pay, they made good in borrowing and embezzling twenty billion from the English, American and neutral money-lenders. Yet, their “moral cause” was accepted by great majorities in England and America.

Sir Austen Chamberlain, for a few years retired, reappeared to warn Eden that England was committing a grievous mistake. The militarization of the Rhineland would definitely shatter France’s supremacy in arms. The only solid basis of peace would be gone. Anthony Eden remained silent. He spoke up no earlier than three weeks after Hitler had declared Locarno a scrap of paper. “I am not prepared to be the first British Foreign Secretary to go back on Britain’s signature,” he stated. But these proud words were not followed by any action. Undoubtedly, Eden could not swim against the current. He had not what Kipling once called “the essential guts” to turn the tide. Up to this day he has never revealed how he thought and felt when forced to acquiesce in an act of aggression that changed the balance of power in Europe. One can only guess that the darling of the gods was a deeply unhappy man—too well-bred, however, to show his sentiments. He was still regarded as the spokesman of the oppressed, the personification of British understanding and decency to small nations, to minorities and refugees. But the great hope in him was fading.

For a last time he could revive something of this hope by his determined stand at the Conference of Nyon, which decided to clear the Mediterranean of submarine raiders of “unknown nationality”—Italian, of course. Mussolini refused to send a delegation to Nyon, but his submarine pirates vanished without leaving a trace. Then Mr. Neville Chamberlain took over the British government.

Anthony Eden received his new chief with undismayed pleasure. The merchant from Birmingham as Chancellor of the Exchequer and strong man of the old government had frequently supported him. He liked to call himself Eden’s elder friend. One of his first acts was to relieve the Foreign Secretary of the duty of reporting all important matters to the cabinet. They would settle England’s foreign affairs between them. Although Mr. Chamberlain’s experience was limited to local and financial administration, he decided to direct foreign policy. Eden, the popular, vote-getting, handsome young friend would advocate it and carry it out. Two other promising junior members, Leslie Hore-Belisha at the War Office, and Alfred Duff-Cooper at the Admiralty, had similar tasks. Lord Swinton, an old follower of Mr. Chamberlain’s, would take good care of the Air Ministry, the importance of which increased rapidly since the gadfly Winston Churchill raised such an infernal racket. Finally, through retaining spineless Sir John Simon as Chancellor of the Exchequer, the personal supervision of the Treasury by the Prime Minister was also assured.

Neville Chamberlain, to whom power had come late in life, was a dictator, if of the helplessly faltering type. He was too narrow-minded and unimaginative to understand the real dictators, but he did not feel averse to regarding them as good neighbors. One of his first blunders in international affairs was to write Mussolini, during the August holiday in 1937, a personal letter full of brotherly feeling. If there was some fooling about these feelings, Mr. Chamberlain must have erred as to who would be fooled. He was growing ever more impatient to remove old enmities and establish personal contacts, lest war become inevitable. Disregarding his dignity abroad, which he stressed so firmly at home, he did not mind how many snubs he got. He considered it his duty to accept them and to renew his efforts and offers.

Once more Eden was condemned to watch disastrous dilettantism. He understood that running after dictators only convinced them that Britain was frightened. His world-wide personal contacts revealed to him how rapidly England was losing, first the confidence of her friends, then her friends altogether. In view of the Duce’s systematic and unblushing perjury, he resented Chamberlain’s eager professions of friendship toward Mussolini. He soon felt powerless in his office, but matters were still worse when he was not present. Mr. Chamberlain used the occasion of a short visit of Eden’s to Paris to give an unfavorable answer to certain confidential suggestions from Washington which he knew Eden would gladly have accepted. He did not even inform his Foreign Secretary of the incident. Eden had to learn of it from documents.

The situation was unbearable. The elder friend had turned out to be a stubborn boss, unflinchingly determined to go his way to ruin without accepting advice from his responsible adviser in the Foreign Office. The open breach came over the acceptance of Mussolini’s demand that the English must come to Rome to talk peace “now or never.” Eden refused pointblank to be bullied into an agreement that would give Italy direct advantages and, by the same token, expose England to new shame. But this refusal was the very drop that made the bucket overflow. After a prolonged war of nerves, the breach between Chamberlain and Eden might as well have come over the dispatch of Halifax to Berlin or over a showdown of British strength in the Mediterranean, which Eden advocated. In fact, it seems that the ultimate motive that shook Eden out of his painfully preserved complacency was entirely unconnected with Mussolini. In his famous speech of resignation on February 21, 1938, he lifted the veil of diplomatic secrecy just enough to refer to his disagreement with Chamberlain with the words: “Within the last few weeks upon a most important decision of foreign policy which did not concern Italy at all the difference was fundamental.” The House buzzed with whispered speculation. Was there a new disaster to come? Three weeks later Hitler invaded Austria. The series of German aggressions had begun.

His speech of February 21, 1938, became the most famous utterance in his entire career. Yet the importance of this speech lies rather in what Eden left unsaid. His decision to part from Chamberlain was more than the end of a basically unsound friendship. It was more than a personal disappointment to both. It revealed the cleavage between England’s older and younger generations. At forty-one, a little worn out by years of self-imposed, but deeply resented, restraint, still rigid, if entirely easy in his bearing, in a low voice with occasionally strong accents, he proclaimed the demands of those who had not yet resigned themselves to apathy. “I do not believe that we can make progress in European appeasement if we allow the impression to gain currency abroad that we yield to constant pressure.” But he did not go beyond hinting at generalities. He carefully omitted any word that might have been construed as an attack on the man who had forced him out of office. Neville Chamberlain was no longer his friend, but as his party’s chief he still commanded Eden’s respect.

The speech followed the act of resignation by forty-eight hours. Once more a private member, Eden spoke from his seat on the back-bench next to the gangway. On this gangway crouched his Parliamentary Private Secretary, handsome young Jim Thomas, Jimmy-boy to Westminster. Jimmy listened respectfully to his master’s voice. But somehow he seemed disappointed. He was a youngster of real youth, neither polished nor restrained, not schooled by years of responsibility. Dear Anthony seemed a trifle artificial next to him. Why did Eden not burst out? Why did he not risk a “damn it all!” It would have been easier, but considerably less cricket.

The most “cricket” family in England, next to the dynasty, is the Cecil clan. Bobetty is a Cecil. Bobetty, of course, was Lord Cranborne, Eden’s Under Secretary in the Foreign Office. Faithful to dear Anthony he resigned with him. But now he stole the show.

The House was stunned as Bobetty, of all people, in his “personal explanation,” showed the driving force they had been expecting in vain from Mr. Eden. “I am afraid that to enter on official conversation with the present Italian government would be regarded not as a contribution to peace, but as a surrender to blackmail.” Fancy Bobetty saying that!

Never would Anthony Eden have used an expression like “surrender to blackmail.” He silently tugged at his moustache, as had become rather a habit with him since Hitler’s access to power. He had obviously been bettered by Bobetty. But he smiled at his fidus Achates. Good boy!

Another back-bencher next to him did not content himself with a smile. On his rotund cheeks the scars of his latest motor accident flashed dark red with excitement. So pleased was Winston Churchill to hear the genuine Cecil ring again. A Cecil—Lord Hugh—Bobetty’s uncle, had been his own political discoverer, the most intimate friend he had ever had, and best man at his wedding. Lord Hugh Cecil had meanwhile retired to top a life of exquisite wisdom as provost of Eton, far from politics. But the tradition of the clan carried on. This was the true Cecil touch. Winston Churchill rose to shake hands with Bobetty. Anthony Eden had just delivered the speech of his life. But everybody looked at Churchill and Bobetty.

Anthony no longer tugged at his moustache. His hand was quiet. Peace was on him. He hates the limelight. He is happy to have the show stolen. He sank into silence.

The most faithful among his followers did not quite understand this silence. A dangerous word went the rounds: Anthony is half a hero ... Gilbert Murray, famous translator of Greek tragedies and champion of the League of Nations, offered an explanation. “There is one figure in British political life,” he wrote, “which stands out from the overtired and slightly discredited cabinet members as somewhat different in quality. There is a feeling that Mr. Eden was right and the cabinet from which he resigned was wrong. He is an object of interest in the general dullness, a hope in the midst of continual bad news. He, at least, tried to stand firm, and to put an end to the long retreat. If only he would speak out ... If only one could be sure what he wanted ... If only he did not remain an enigma ...”

The public shared this anxiety. They still expected a tornado from Eden instead of mild spring breezes. After his resignation he addressed a meeting of the League of Nations Union, in London. Throngs packed Queen’s Hall and Caxton Hall as well. A third meeting had to be improvised in the open air. Lord Lytton, the chairman, had whetted the listeners’ appetite. But Eden in his anxiously awaited speech insisted that the discussion must remain non-partisan and unpolitical, and evaded any attack on Chamberlain. His utterances were sensible and well phrased. But they failed fully to explain his stand. They did not indicate any plans he might have for the future. Thousands had come to get their cue from him. The nation wanted him to lead. He refused leadership. In concluding, he did not receive more than polite applause, whereas Lady Violet Bonham Carter’s caustic sallies, which followed, swept the audience.

Seven months later Munich interrupted Eden’s silence. Now was the propitious moment for a return. Dozens of dissident Conservatives were ready to desert Neville Chamberlain. The government itself was divided. Duff-Cooper resigned in protest. Hore-Belisha was on the brink of resignation. Walter Elliott, Oliver Stanley, W. S. Morrison, Malcolm MacDonald were ready to follow suit. Outside the cabinet Churchill mustered his shock troops: Lord Wolmer, Leopold Amery and a score of others. The Liberals under Sir Archibald Sinclair, and most of the Labourites declared their willingness to fall in line if Eden wanted to lift the banner.

Munich had been signed on September 30, 1938. On the Monday following, October the third, in the evening hours, Anthony Eden rose to deliver the speech that had been overdue for more than half a year. The House was already tiring from the stormy debate throughout the day, yet its nervous attention kindled again when it heard the well-modulated voice, long familiar, and now long missed.

After three-quarters of an hour the House was half asleep. Eden had not delivered a fighting speech; he had preached a sermon. He mixed eulogy, comment and criticism of Neville Chamberlain. His eulogy and comment were outspoken; his criticism was oblique and gentlemanly. The leitmotiv was Unity. “If there ever was a time for a united effort by a united nation, it is my conviction that the time is now!” was the pillar of his argument. Next morning the speech read better in the newspapers than it had sounded to an over-strained audience.

But next morning Bobetty, too, was back again. Lord Cranborne looked pale with shame and suppressed passion. He took Munich as a personal insult. “Peace with honor?” he lashed out. “Peace the Prime Minister certainly has brought back to us. But where is the honor? I have looked and looked, but I cannot see it!”

Was it as certain as that that Chamberlain had brought back peace from Munich? Winston Churchill did not conceal his grave doubts. But he carefully refrained from pouring oil on the flames. On the contrary, while a majority in the House was openly disappointed in Eden, the old warrior praised him as the “one outstanding young man of the generation that has been ravaged by the war.”

“What about Hore-Belisha?” a Labourite shouted.

For the first and probably last time in his life, Leslie Hore-Belisha lowered his head and hid in embarrassment.

Anthony Eden, England was agreed, had missed the bus. They did not quite understand that a gentleman of such exquisite quality was not in the habit of traveling by bus. Certainly Eden wanted to reach the terminus—Premiership. But he was constitutionally unable to ride the wave of a popular upheaval. It was no secret that Baldwin had changed his political testament, crossing out the name of Sir Samuel Hoare as the eventual successor to Neville Chamberlain, and replacing his name by the two words: Anthony Eden. Dear Anthony might have believed that Earl Baldwin’s will would some day get him more safely, and in better company, to number ten. But what might become of himself was certainly not his prime consideration. He could not split the Conservative Party to which, he felt, he owed his entire career. True, all his worries also had always come from the appeasement-ridden Conservative camp. He had slowly formed the habit of swallowing deceptions and carrying on in good bearing so as not to mar the team-work. The crucial question that now confronted him was the logical outcome, indeed the quintessence, of a dilemma that had pursued him all his life in office. He has always had considerably more vision than his friends, his patrons, his colleagues. But he belonged to them. With his eyes wide open he belonged to the blind men. Now was the last moment to make up his mind whether to acquiesce as a gentleman or to fight as a patriot.

He showed more self-restraint than ambition when he decided not to oppose Neville Chamberlain. It was a grave decision. He breathed uneasily. He took a trip to the United States.

His visit to this country in the winter of 1938 was strictly unofficial. Yet Americans donned their Sunday best to welcome Prince Charming. Eden, unfortunately, had to disappoint some dowagers and prospective hostesses. He showed more interest in the social reforms of the New Deal than in the gaiety of the smart set. This well-groomed English gentleman became ever more confusing. He dashed to visit housing projects and exposed his immaculate white tie in nightly wanderings through the slums. There was much head-shaking over him. Most determinedly the State Department shook their heads when the discreet question arose, whether Mr. Eden might be welcome as Britain’s next ambassador. There was no need for him in the capital. Washington has its own old charmer.

It was widely believed that Eden’s trip across the ocean would be just a cooling-off period. On his return he would join the Chamberlain cabinet again and use the lessons he had learned in Roosevelt’s America as British Minister of Labour. The Ministry of Labour is notoriously a political graveyard. Neville Chamberlain was unafraid of burying his young friend there. He longed so much to have him back—in safety, not as an uncontrollable political free-lancer. But the outbreak of the war disturbed this plan. Now Anthony Eden was wanted for a job that demanded both his unfaltering patriotism and all his powers of persuasion. He became Secretary for the Dominions “with special access to the war cabinet.”

Again he had an opportunity to use fully his gift for making friends. He invited every Dominion to send permanent representatives to London, thus, by the same token, tying the Dominions closer to the war effort in common and giving them greater opportunity to wield their influence in the councils. When the first Canadian troops landed on English shores, Eden was there to welcome them. Now there were no more inhibitions. Joyfully Eden embraced the Empire-idea.

When Winston Churchill stepped on the bridge, he made Eden his War Minister. In the short time he held this office, Eden played a much more important role than is generally realized. General Wavell came to London to complain about his difficult position in Egypt, which after the fall of France threatened to become untenable. He needed more men, more armaments and munitions, and he needed them immediately. Sir Archibald Wavell is no parlor general. Besides, he holds no brief for politicians. His conversations in Westminster did not go off well. The impression he made in not mincing words and in pointing out the imminence of danger awakened—strange as it seems now—some doubt whether he was the right man for the difficult job in Cairo.

Eden prevented the minor catastrophe that Wavell’s recall, then dangerously near, would have brought about. It is hard to imagine two men more different than dear Anthony and the gruff, short, somewhat brusque Sir Archibald. Yet they understood each other at first glance. Eden strongly supported the General’s demands. The majority of the war cabinet feared that it would be too dangerous to denude the British Isles of important war matériel, as the invasion seemed in the making. But Churchill, whose delight in action and adventure remains unrestrained by his realistic shrewdness, decided for Eden. Vital convoys were dispatched to Egypt. General Wavell could prepare his offensive.

Eden flew to Cairo to watch the preparations personally. Cairo is a hotbed of axis espionage. The German spy-masters received hundreds of reports as to the places Eden was going, the modest number of drinks he had, and even photographs showing dear Anthony’s smile of perfect insouciance. The German High Command was elated to have a playboy in the job of British War Secretary. Sir Archibald Wavell confessed later that he could not have struck without Eden’s invaluable help.

Almost at once a new crisis arose. Greece had entered the war and was badly in need of airplanes and supplies. Again Eden acted as spokesman for the Greek demands in the London war cabinet. Again Winston Churchill backed him up. In spite of the gravest handicaps, England discharged her moral obligation toward her heroic little ally to the full.

The choice of Lord Halifax as ambassador brought Eden’s career in the War Office to a sudden end. For the second time he was his Prime Minister’s natural choice for the now orphaned Foreign Office. He was back again in the large room with the high ceiling and huge windows on two sides, which is really his home. Both the room and its master look a little old-fashioned. The predominant colors in the room are deep reds and browns with touches of gilt on the ceiling and along the edges of the wall panels. At one end there are two large oak doors, one leading to the red-carpeted corridor, the other to the room occupied by Mr. Eden’s two private secretaries. In winter a coal fire burns in the spacious, ancient fireplace with its marble mantelpiece and overhanging gilt-framed mirror. Two mahogany tables, a dozen chairs covered in red leather, large bookshelves and the Foreign Secretary’s desk make up the furniture.

Mr. Anthony Eden looks true to type in these surroundings of marble and mirrors and gilded armchairs. Undoubtedly, the young man looks a little vieux jeu. They don’t come quite so precious in our times. But his face is tense with energy. His carefully chosen words are to the point. His every minute is closely organized. His desk is littered with the small red boxes that flow into his room in a constant stream. They contain dispatches, memoranda, reports from all corners of the world. Studying these papers, writing “minutes” upon them, discussing them—so Anthony Eden makes history. He does not, incidentally, confine himself to his desk. When the war threatened to engulf the Balkans and the Near East, he visited Cairo, Athens, Ankara. Belgrade would not admit him. It was a suicidal mistake on the part of the Jugoslavs. A few weeks after they had snubbed him, their new government frantically asked him to come. But by then they were already done for. Eden’s companion on his journey was not some grey-haired dignitary as would befit a Foreign Secretary. It was Sir John Greer Dill, Chief of the Imperial General Staff. This proves that Anthony Eden, wherever he goes, is constantly on Adolf Hitler’s track.

This is the story of Eden’s private life. It might read disappointingly, since it contains nothing but war activities, parliamentary and military battles, and a rich record of work. There should be more to the story of a handsome young man. Life, after all, is full of possibilities. Once the author asked Mrs. Eden about her husband’s private life. “Private life?” she repeated. Then she smiled a bitter-sweet smile. “Of course he has a private life. Sundays he sometimes takes an hour or two off for tennis.”

But that was before the war, when he had plenty of time.