Baldwin

Index

Part One

THE LIFE

Chapter 1: Origins

I was born in the year which saw the publication of Marx’s Capital [sic] … and Disraeli’s extension of the franchise to working men … I mention these two events … because they are the keys to much of what has happened in the past seventy years …¹

It is a curious fact that, at least for a time, Stanley Baldwin gave his name to the period between the end of the First World War and the start of the Second. The ‘Baldwin Era’, the decades of the Charleston and the slump, of upper-class frivolity and working-class penury, political instability and the ascendancy of the dictators, are strange years to bear the name of a politician whose beliefs were shaped in the reign of Queen Victoria. Baldwin, like most of his colleagues in government, had been brought up in a world quite differently ordered. The Great War had shaken that order to its core. Its survivors, men too old to fight, felt most profoundly that they were in power because the generation that might have succeeded them had died among the barbed wire, the bullets and the shells of the first global conflict. To their years in government in the 1920s and 1930s, to the Brave New World, they brought the pessimism of a generation that had seen its own assumptions destroyed, who now felt threatened by change, by the triumph of materialism over spirituality, of the masses over the individual.

Baldwin’s annus mirabilis, the year of Das Kapital and Disraeli’s Reform Act, was 1867. He was the first and only child of a prosperous ironmaster, Alfred Baldwin, and his wife Louisa MacDonald, of Bewdley in Worcestershire. From Louisa, he inherited a Celtic streak along with sandy-coloured hair and blue eyes; from his father, a growing business and a sense of service; from his birthplace, a sense of Englishness. Baldwin never lived more than ten miles from Bewdley. The Malvern Hills were the backdrop to his private life and often a prop to his public image as a countryman, a man who would rather keep pigs than trouble with politics.

In the Baldwin family, pigs were a lifelong private joke. As a small boy, his parents made him a present of a toy pig. Thereafter, family and friends added to his collection. Rudyard Kipling, Baldwin’s first cousin, wrote him a poem that began: ‘Some to Women, some to Wine – /Some to Wealth or Power incline,/ Proper people cherish Swine.’² Kipling presented it to Baldwin in 1919, inscribed on the flank of a wooden pig made by a war veteran.

As a child, most of his waking hours were spent not in the farmyard or in the countryside, but in the immediate neighbourhood of heavy industry. When he was still an infant, his father bought out one part of the Baldwin family’s industrial holdings and became sole proprietor of the sheet-metal firm of E P & W Baldwin. The family moved a few miles from Bewdley to Wilden, just north of Stourport, where they lived in the ironmaster’s house in a village that was dominated by ‘the works’. The relationship between master and men, benevolently paternalistic, was not unusual for the time although in Baldwin’s later campaigns against the politics of class, it became a kind of industrial utopia where the obligations of status of both master and men contributed to a wholesome, harmonious existence. A fête to which the entire village was invited marked the young Baldwin’s birthdays, a public function with bands and balloons and sack races, a great community event. The child at the centre of it became a prince, touched by the burdens of the patriarch.

Although he spent much of the first 21 years of his life away from home at school and university, this patch of Worcestershire retained an unshakeable hold on his affections and gave distinctive colouring to his political imagination. His literary mother and his bookish father encouraged his romantic spirit. There was an extensive library at Wilden and in the holidays stimulating visits to his artistic extended family. All politicians’ outlooks are shaped by their own experience, but Baldwin, despite later travels throughout Europe and in America, seems to have relied with extraordinary consistency and confidence on what he learned from contacts made at work, at church and in the local politics of this small semirural world. Years later, in passages of some of his most famous speeches, a nostalgia for the sights and sounds of childhood was transposed into evocative motifs of a semi-mythical world: the ploughman, a particular birdsong (sometimes the lark, usually the distinctive rasp of the corncrake) and the flap and caw of rooks coming home to roost. In adulthood, Baldwin’s favourite writer was Mary Webb, author of a series of mystical depictions of Shropshire country folk which appealed to his own idealised vision of rural life. As a child, he read precociously from the Victorian classics, especially Sir Walter Scott. Various cousins were frequent companions: two of his mother Louisa’s sisters had married into artistic circles, one to the neo-classical painter, Sir Edward Poynter and another to the pre-Raphaelite, Sir Edward Burne Jones. A third sister married John Lockwood Kipling. While they were in India, their son, Rudyard, a couple of years older than Stanley, had been sent home to school in England. Another cousin, Harold Baldwin, perhaps his closest friend, lived at Wilden after his own father died. It was a source of great grief when as an undergraduate he developed epilepsy and had to live as a semi-invalid.

Literature and the arts, in their more comfortable and less provocative forms, were one enduring interest. (Years later, he shuddered with ill-concealed horror when he unveiled Epstein’s Rima in Kensington Gardens.) A concern for the spiritual was another. Both his parents, brought up in devoutly Methodist families that had produced ministers and missionaries in the recent past, had converted to a high form of Anglicanism. They built a church and a church school in Wilden; their lives were imbued with notions of Christian social concern, a sense of responsibility not for changing the lives of their workers but for ensuring that they were in neither spiritual nor material want. In twenty years in business, Stanley was to boast in his maiden speech in the House of Commons, there had never been the shadow of a dispute with any of his own men.³ His understanding of the demands of industry and his familiarity with the outlook of the working man influenced his later ideas about what it meant to be a Conservative in the first part of the 20th century.

The emphasis on service in the ethical and moral framework that Baldwin took from his family, together with a strong faith, led him briefly to consider a career in the Church. He left nothing to explain why he preferred public life instead. But a sense of religious purpose underlay his decision to enter politics, although he made little public show of it. He might write to his mother: We both believe there is guidance in these things. I never sought a place, never expected it, and suddenly a way opened and an offer of wider service was made. If one tackles public life in the right spirit, it is unselfish service,⁴ but there was never a show of church-going. Nor did he speak directly of the importance of his Christian convictions, from which he learned always to take the harder path. Instead, he intended his Christianity to be in everything he did.

Louisa and Alfred were distant but influential figures in the young Stanley’s life. Louisa wrote novels and often was reduced by an unspecified complaint to lying in darkened rooms. The handsomely bewhiskered Alfred dominates contemporary photographs with a sharpness of gaze that betrays the successful businessman. Stanley’s education reflected his family’s growing social status: with his cousin Ambrose Poynter, he went at the age of ten to a prep school, Hawtrey’s, with a view to continuing on to Eton. Instead he was separated from Ambrose, whom he was considered to dominate, and went to the rival school, Harrow, where his academic career, initially promising, declined sharply. Presumably echoing a story first told to his official biographer G M Young,⁶ subsequent biographers cite a discipline problem involving a pornographic joke which, if true, must be the only recorded occasion when Baldwin acted with less than propriety. He went up to Cambridge and, he confessed later, was overcome with an indolence that resulted in a third class degree. It has been said that this was a disappointment to his parents. Yet most history graduates at the time were awarded third class degrees, and there is no contemporary evidence of his father’s chagrin apart from a quote from Baldwin himself, drily remembered many years later when he was an acclaimed politician. ‘I hope you don’t get a third in life.’

We do not think of the laws of gravitation when we move our limbs, Baldwin said in a 1931 address on religion and national life, We need not proclaim our religious convictions at every street corner. What matters is that religion should sway our motives, sustain our principles, surround and bathe our spirits like a secret atmosphere as we go about our work.⁵

After Cambridge, Baldwin settled into the conventions of life in the late Victorian upper-middle classes, a kind of Forsytean progression where an increasingly successful family business absorbed his working hours, public works his evenings, and family parties the weekends. In 1898 he oversaw the business’s flotation on the Stock Market, and in 1902 the rationalisation of its various arms which now stretched down into South Wales and across into the Black Country. A series of horizontal and vertical mergers brought the whole ironworking process, from commodity extraction to finishing, under one umbrella, partly in the hope of ensuring regular work for employees who now numbered in the thousands. E P & W Baldwin had a publicly-quoted value of £1 million (about £60 million at today’s prices) which probably put it among the hundred largest British companies.⁷

In 1892 Alfred Baldwin was elected Conservative MP for Bewdley. The Baldwin family had once been Liberals, but at about the same time that they shed their Methodism, their political allegiance shifted too, a reaction to Gladstone’s increasingly radical stance. For the next 16 years Alfred played a respected role as a Tory back-bencher. In the same year, Stanley, usually stricken with shyness among women, met and married the jolly, loyal, sporting Lucy Ridsdale, whom he was said to have first seen as she scored a half-century in a local cricket match. Lucy – Cissie to her family – was a friend of the Burne-Jones cousins who lived at Rotting-dean in Sussex. After the tragedy of a stillborn son in 1894, six healthy children followed, two sons and four daughters. Baldwin’s family life remained deeply private, even after the election as a Labour MP in 1929 of his elder son Oliver, who was as openly homosexual as it was possible to be in an era of sexual prohibition (he lived with his partner, John Boyce, whom the Baldwins came to treat as part of the family). Lucy seems to have been tireless and inventive, filling the large Jacobean house at Astley, to which the family moved in 1902, with an Edwardian parade of large informal parties, tennis and cricket and, when he was at home, billiards with Stanley. She was more reluctant to accompany her husband on the long walks which he took almost as a daily routine whether he was in London or in the country. For companions on these excursions, she would summon friends, apparently untouched by jealousy of the close relationships which were formed with at least two companions – Phyllis Broome and later, and for 40 years or more, Joan ‘Mimi’ Davidson.

Financially secure, with a growing family and with a standing in local society reinforced by his role as parish councillor, county councillor, JP, school governor, a member of various friendly societies and the local Conservative Association, by 1904 Baldwin’s thoughts had turned to following his father to Westminster. Even at school, parliament had been his intended destination. Disraeli, branches of whose Primrose league Baldwin nurtured at home in Worcestershire, was the prime minister of his formative years, he studied his speeches at Harrow. Disraeli had modernised Conservatism for his time. His ideas of service were reflected in the new public-school ethos and reinforced in the Cambridge history schools, which taught ideals of Christian duty, service to one’s fellow men within an organic society where what would now be called active citizenship was an obligation upon every member. The British constitution was the keystone of the nation’s greatness, and parliament the indispensable forum for mediating opposing points of view, ‘preserving,’ as Philip Williamson says in his biography of Baldwin, ‘the vital balance between stability and change’. But at Cambridge, Baldwin also learnt that democracy was ‘by far the most difficult’ form of government, vulnerable to demagoguery and destabilising radicalism, no guarantor of progress. These were themes to which he continually referred in his political