Love.
R.
4 January, [1941]
Dearest Jeanie,
... I see a poem of mine on ‘New Year 1918’84 is quoted in The Investor’s Journal, an odd place for it rather, but I suppose even financiers like a little verse sometimes….
I go to-morrow afternoon to rehearse my American broadcast, and deliver it 4 a.m. Monday. I wonder if Will will happen to be listening; I know he often does listen to the English broadcasts—talks. He won’t know it’s to be by me this time until just beforehand. Perhaps I ought to be allowed to say ‘Hullo, Will, how are you? I’m fine’, as the Canadian and Australian soldiers sometimes do when on the air….
My talk to America is about ‘Consolations of the War’. I am mentioning ruin-seeing, the beauty of the black nights and the moonlit ones, the romantic scenes during raids (fire lighting the sky, etc.) increased companionableness, shelter life, the pleasure of waking up still alive each day. The foreigners among us, and the sympathy of Americans. Some one just home from New York told me that Americans didn’t like us to be so pompous and grand about the war, so I’ve tried not to be. People too often are, with all this ‘Christian civilization’ business and self-praise. I’ve tried to sound humble, and not once said ‘we can take it’.
V. much love.
… E.R.M.
During the six months after this letter was written two shattering sorrows came to Rose. Her sister Margaret died in March 1941, and soon afterwards her Luxborough Street flat was destroyed by bombing. She herself escaped—she was away at the time—but the shock of losing all her books, papers, and belongings was cataclysmic and enduring.
After this she found a flat in Hinde Street, off Manchester Square (where she lived for the next seventeen years—until her death). By July 1941 she was beginning to build up a home again, despite all the hindrances of wartime.
20, Hinde House, Hinde St, W.1
24 July, [1941]
Dearest Jeanie,
Many very happy returns of to-morrow—much happier than this one can be. I do hope that by the next one we shall all bė happier. It is a great thing that you have got through this year without a breakdown, and can now retire on your pension any time you like. I hope you will, directly the work grows too much.... I return your ration book, with very many thanks, having taken 3 coupons and bought a waterproof, so I now don’t care if it rains. Remember I owe you 3 coupons.
I have heard from Will to-day. He offers me a typewriter for a birthday present, but unfortunately no typewriters can now be got, and he isn’t allowed to send me one. He says he has been trying to figure out how old I am, but it doesn’t make sense. Our ages have long ceased to make sense to me, I just accept them. It will be rather grand to be 3-score years, I must say….
Did you see about the D.K.S. order that the Danes are wearing, Den Kolde Skulder?85 I hope it won’t catch on in private life; it’s the kind of thing children might like in their quarrels.
I enclose two snippets about Wodehouse.86 It is odd that Duff Cooper should be so vulgar. He could so easily have got the job done by a respectable speaker and not antagonised people. I believe he really simply doesn’t know what is vulgar and offensive and what isn’t. The Evening Standard (the other cutting) doesn’t care.87 It probably likes it.
Very much love for the year….
Your loving E.R.M.
1944-1947
The years between 1941 and 1944 (from which no letters survive) were years of continuing strain and intermittent illness for Rose. Early in 1942, and again later during the war, she suffered from a gastric ulcer; heart trouble also prostrated her more than once. These illnesses involved several periods in hospital and times of convalescence with Jean at Romford. Between-whiles, however, she visited Portugal (in the Spring of 1943) in connection with her book ‘They Went to Portugal’, immersed herself in further researches for it at home, and also enjoyed her usual busy life in London.
Friday [probably 25 February, 1944]
Dearest Jeanie,
I send the 2 Hansards (no hurry about them). The bombing debates were interesting.1 I thought the reply speeches (to Lord Lang) of Lords Latham, Trenchard, and Winster in the debate on Feb: 16th most unfair. I wonder what it is about any plea for greater humanity or civilized care in war that makes so many people see red. I have heard the most passionate references to ‘those old bishops’ in shops; one woman said it was lovely to think of the way we ‘gave Berlin a doing’ on Tuesday night; and she’d like to ‘throw old Chichester on top of the bonfire’.2 It is nonsense of Lord Latham to say ‘there is no gloating or exultation’ among the English; he can’t listen much; Lord Lang is quite right about that.3
I see Monte Cassino monastery, which was, before we destroyed it, ‘last rebuilt in 12th century’, has now become ‘a set of 19th century buildings painted inside with German frescoes’.4…
I had such a nice letter from Aunt Mary, who listened to my broadcast5; so did Sara,6 and the builder who is doing something to the house. The builder thought my opponent had been ‘carping’, I gather; ‘but Miss Rose got the better of him’. I don’t know if they knew how carefully prepared and scripted it was; I was pleased to hear that some listeners thought it spontaneous, which is the effect it is desired to produce, of course.
It is snowing; I expect worse with you. I am so sorry you have to bicycle about, and glad I don’t. I shall now go by bus to the British Museum. I am being continually frustrated by evacuation of the MSS room there, which has MSS necessary for my subjects, so that I have to leave them wretchedly incomplete & shallow….
V. much love.
E.R.M.
‘They Went to Portugal’ was published in 1946, and in the following summer Rose embarked on new researches, in Spain as well as Portugal, this time in preparation for her travel book, ‘Fabled Shore’.
Hotel Lloret, Barcelona 17 July, [1947]
Dearest Twin (or nearly),
If I post this to-morrow, it may be in time for your birthday.... It took 4 days from the frontier to here, dawdling and stopping at what I wanted to see. The coast is very beautiful, bathing superb, some of the roads atrocious, and v. hard on my tyres, which are causing me some anxiety. One has gone to pieces altogether, and now I have only one spare. The drive along the zig-zag mountain road above the sea yesterday, between San Felíu de Guixols and Tossa, was magnificent—rather like the steepest and windingest parts of the road above the Italian coast, but higher & steeper & more zig-zag. Fortunately there are very few cars, and I only met, in that 30 miles, one mule-cart and two civil guards who inspected my papers. The Spanish government is very nervy, obviously, about attack. There are some coast places near the frontier where British may not sleep, but only pass through; the French, of course, mayn’t go near them at all.7 I am quite out of touch with the news; the radio doesn’t get England, and one has to pick up French stations as one can. The French papers give some news (particularly about the royal engagement8 and the Conference9) but the Spanish give practically none, and make little of the Conference, which is quite natural, as they were insulted.10 To-morrow is a fiesta all over Spain, everything closed for the 18th, which is the anniversary of Franco’s rising, of blessed memory. So there will be great demonstrations and shoutings—but it seems there always are, night & day, in Barcelona. It isn’t easy to sleep—very hot, and non-stop noise; cars hooting all the time, as they never do in London.
I am seeing beautiful things. A sad number of old churches blown up in the Civil War by the Reds (perhaps annoyed by the church clocks striking all night, perhaps by the notices on the doors about women’s clothes in church, which do sound very suggestive and not nice). Or perhaps merely an old Spanish pastime.
Yes, you had better argue with Aunt Mary about R.Cism; but not too much, as she respects your judgment. I do hope she’ll go over. I shall look forward to your next letter… But how impossible to join a church with such ideas about not going to church in one’s ordinary clothes, but cover
ing oneself up so as not to provoke licentious thoughts in gentlemen! They even have to put on stockings, in the seaside places where no one ever wears stockings. And clothes must not reveal the shape of the body. How can this be managed? What a way to bring girls up! If they are insufficiently covered, the notices say, they may be refused communion in the sight of all. And those who come to confession insufficiently covered will be refused absolution….
Very dear love. What a lot to talk about when we meet! Love to Nancy.
Your very loving Twin (or nearly)
Rose
Lis Hotel, Lisbon Sunday, 17 August, [1947]
Dearest Jeanie,
I am still here, waiting to hear from the Turismo at Madrid about whether it is any use my going there….
I had a tiresome disaster last night; I was just going out to dinner with Ann Bridge (Lady O’Malley, the last ambassadress, who is staying here) and when I switched on my engine the bonnet broke into flames. In a second the whole of Lisbon was surrounding the car, including half a dozen policemen, who began flinging my bags out onto the street (silly, as the fire was merely in the engine) and shouting at the top of their voices—you never heard such a fuss. I think I must have been the only person not shouting. We soon put out the flames by throwing earth on them, and meanwhile some foolish person (I think a policeman) had summoned the firemen, who arrived in helmets & hose long after the fire was out. Then they and the police wanted to see all my car documents, my passport, and heaven knows what—such a fuss, just when I was busy seeing what was wrong. It turned out that the transmission tube to the petrol supply had worn out & fused, and nothing could be done but leave Elk in the street, as my garage, to whom I went for a mechanic, refused to send anyone. Meanwhile Lady O’Malley, to whom I had telephoned that I should be late, kindly sent down her car and chauffeur for me to take me to her house. Elk still stands outside the hotel, immovable till I can get a new tube, and I can’t tell when that will be. I do trust I am never in a real disaster with the Portuguese—fire, shipwreck, earthquake, etc; their excitement and panic would be most trying. I can’t think what they’d do if Lisbon was bombed! The porter of the Lis (who talks French) said, hearing me say ‘Quelle agitation!’ that he expected in England people took things more calmly. I said they did rather. Life must be very exciting for them, when even a fire in someone’s engine causes all that to-do. It was funny to think of London policemen in the same circumstances.
The extreme inefficiency and lack of brains in most Portuguese is put down by scientists to their negro blood; a census of 50 years ago showed 43% of negro descent. It seems that the chromosomes which cause physical racial characteristics are recessive in negroes, and give way before white ones, so that their skins whiten and their hair untwists gradually; but the mental chromosomes remain dominant; so, since the great influx from Africa began, in the 15th and 16th centuries, the Portuguese have been backward mentally—discovered and invented nothing, created nothing, and been unable to organise the country intelligently. This is what the intelligent Portuguese themselves say. But they are amiable and cheerful people, & enjoy life, even when very poor. Nothing is done by the government for the poor. But this seems a feature of the Latin countries. Foreigners in Portugal organise relief societies; Ann Bridge, when ambassadress, was president of one. What a humiliation, if foreigners in England had to organise relief for our poor! We are sinking fast, but at least we see to the poor still—in fact, more than ever.
I am reading an interesting novel about Russian life during the war, by an American who lived there. It is amusing and informing, though disjointed. Some of it is very like Kravchenko’s account.11 The author likes Russians and knows them well.
Later. A mechanic from the Embassy garage has arrived with a new tube and fitted it in—what a relief! Now I can go to Estoril for lunch with the Marques’s12 as I had planned. It is on the coast, and good bathing, but I rather despise Atlantic bathing after Mediterranean, it is never really warm.
I am busy running round from one office to another to get a visa for entering Spain again and a police permit for leaving Portugal. What a fuss the world has become! To think of the old days when one simply took a ticket and crossed frontiers without passports or visas or any fuss except customs. I feel they will never return. The young can’t believe they ever were like that; they think we must have had passports and have forgotten….
Parliament seems to be taking extra long holidays, which seems wrong. I see the Lords propose to hold the fort.13
Very much love.
E.R.M.
Hotel Internacional, Madrid 25 August, 1947
Dearest Jeanie,
... I hustled round this morning from one place to another—Turismo for photographs, Consulate, British Institute, shops to replace the essentials in my stolen bag,14 but of course couldn’t get everything done. At 1.0 all Spanish towns shut down, some things opening for a few hours again at 4, some not. I see in old guide books that the Prado picture gallery used some years ago to be open from 10-6 every day; now it shuts at one. I dashed round it from 11-1 yesterday morning, and saw most, but should have liked longer; it is a wonderful collection of course. The same with churches. What has happened to the human race, that it does less & less work every year? You would say that in England it is the present [Labour] government, but I think that doesn’t account for the great psychological blight that has descended on the world, though they make bad mistakes. I wonder what Churchill would, do? I noticed when I read his speech that he didn’t say. He said ‘I would pass the necessary decrees’.15 But anyone could say that. Still, no doubt a non-Labour gov: would be more sensible & experienced, and avoid many of the present mistakes. I don’t think we shall change the government, as the majority think they are getting a better time out of it than they would under another. Apparently the miners think the crisis is all fancy. Their free coal should be stopped, that would wake them up.
I liked the Observer ‘Portrait of a Spiv’.16 At last now we shall recognise them when we meet them.
Yes, I Chose Freedom is a nightmare indeed.... It must be much the same also in the Soviet-dominated countries, where people are continually seized and arrested for having been seen with a foreigner, particularly British. An awful atmosphere of suspicion & espionage & intrigue. Spain is much less bad, but still rather bad; in Barcelona I was shown the police station where prisoners are beaten to make them talk. I hear that the Spanish Blue Legion, who were sent to the Russian front to fight with the German army,17 came home much disgusted with the Nazis; the Russian soldiers they got on with all right, as they were plain men like themselves, who went with women; the Nazis, they complained, were sexual perverts, many of them, and they were much shocked at this....
I am so sorry Nancy felt Mrs Whitton’s death so badly; it must have been a bad shock.18 Though a great relief to find it wasn’t you. Perhaps always one should be made to expect something worse than the fact, to cause relief. Instead of which, people say ‘someone is ill; is very ill; may die; is, in fact, dead’—which is the worst way, perhaps….
Very much love, and love to Nancy.
Your loving E.R.M.
Hotel Inglés, Valencia 27 August, [1947]
Dearest Jeanie,
I reached Valencia again to-day, a month exactly after being here before.19 I had a much too eventful journey to-day—a tyre went, and I had a terrible job changing the wheel, as when I had it jacked up the car moved back, and upset the jack, and crashed down on its side, and I couldn’t raise it without help, of course, but a kind Spaniard from a passing camion stopped and helped me; it took ages, as my jack-handle broke, and he had to get his own jack, which was too tall, but at last, after an hour’s hard labour in a broiling sun, we jacked it up again and changed the wheel. I said, when he lifted the car up by hand, that he was very strong. ‘Not very’, he answered, ‘We don’t get enough to eat’; which was very sad and touching. Of course I gave him a large reward. I feel thankful that we all get the same amount
in England, unlike here, where the rich get lots and the poor far too little, owing to all food being sold at black-market prices and no one stopping it: there is, so far as I know, no honest and good Senhor Barbosa in Spain,20 and Franco doesn’t raise a finger against it because of the army. Then, just after I had started, my front bumper jerked off, a bolt having broken when the car fell on its side, and I had to tie it up with a strap till I reached Valencia.
My inner tube was hopelessly cut by the wheel-rim, as the tyre suddenly sprang off the wheel, instead of subsiding slowly as when punctured, so I had to abandon it; the garage luckily had another, at a ruinous price (170 pesetas) but I had to take it, of course, as I can’t be without a spare wheel. So I didn’t get here till late afternoon. It is rather a charming town, full of old houses and lovely things. I am trying to get leave to go inside the Palace of Dos Aguas but it seems no one can. It is quite worth while returning this way, filling up my experiences and seeing the things I missed before. Last night I had a charming night, in a little town in the country 70 or 80 miles from Valencia—a very clean old fonda,21 and a nice Senora, and a huge kind of kitchen with earth floor, into which I brought Elk for the night, and sat and actually heard the B.B.C. while the Senora cooked my supper in an iron pot over a twig fire. I don’t know why one can sometimes get the B.B.C. & sometimes not; perhaps, now it is darker in the evenings, I shall be able to oftener. I have just read a Spanish paper’s complaints of the B.B.C.’s attacks on Spain, and its saying that the Cadiz explosion was caused by German mines22—did they say that?…
Letters to a Sister Page 10