by Mary Wesley
Journey was good, only 90 minutes to Newhaven …
Dieppe, a shattered shell around the harbour at dusk, was moving … I got a car immediately and reached a most comfortable hotel – the Bedford, in the rue des Arcades, behind the Madeleine (all-British, thank God); and to my delight hot baths, although no heating …
Finances not so catastrophic as I thought. I’ll repay you the further £80 on April 1st, calling it £100 altogether unless you find that you spent more. After that I should have about £100 a month, and I ought to be able to live on fifty and save the other fifty – allotting all or part of it to you. (And the divorce might pay for itself, if the solicitors agree to my stopping allowance now?)fn31
… Good luncheon at the Bristol … among the ‘diplomatic corps’ for which it is reserved … I somehow never felt that I should become an ‘official’. Nevertheless, one must admit that it carries great advantages. British war-time organisation, in particular, is remarkable …
Your photographs are on the wall, and I love you deeply.
Eric
Paris – 11.2.45
I spent an hour with Aragon. He lives in a demi-proletarian flat in a fashionable quarter.fn32 He spoke on the telephone in a rather high voice, and he is the normal ‘type intellectual’ in tweed coat and grey trousers. He is handsome and a trifle washed out. Who isn’t in France? Answer – a lot of cads.
I lay on Elsa’s bed … She had beads in her hair and much rouge but a strong face.fn33 The flat is like a Trade Union secretary’s with posters on the wall, but they drove me off in quite a smart car. He talked all politics and no literature … He said nasty things about the BBC broadcasts in summer 1943, driving people to death, which I propose to check.fn34 They ‘hated us’ when the landings were delayed. I haven’t heard a literary man in France say a good word about another. Nor have I heard one word of enthusiasm … poor France!
Today I fly to Bordeaux (where I shall write again). And probably to Toulouse tomorrow.
I love you,
Eric
PS I’ve slightly improved the poem, but it is still Beta minus …
Based in Toulouse, Eric’s official task, this time labelled as a press officer, was to guide public opinion away from Marshall Pétain’s collaboration and towards a pro-Allied support for the provisional Free French government in Paris, led by General de Gaulle. His unofficial task was to weaken support for the USSR and diminish French Communist influence in the South-Western region. In his letters to Mary he painted a vivid picture of the complications of life in post-liberation France.
Toulouse – 19.2.45
I flew back on Tuesday … There was a blue sky, and it was a fine flight in an old Anson. Toulouse was hot! … Work is accumulating and I look forward to my car and a stenographer.
I shall enjoy my first job, which is the reportage on Toulouse which I had commissioned by Picture Post …
Bideford – 20.2.45
In search of solitude I escaped this afternoon into Bideford, an enchanting little town. The bookshop my first call … then the junk shop. A dream of a junk shop. I had seen it in the morning and been headed off by my mother. But true to myself I got back to it. We now have some new possessions. Firstly a pair of absurd Bristol glass bugles of enchanting useless-ness and fantasyfn35 (they really blow) and considerable rarity. Secondly a candlestick, also glass … either Flemish or Italian late seventeenth century I think. This is for you. Thirdly a very beautiful white Bristol glass box which I could not resist. The glass is milk coloured with green-blue lights at the base, and last a very proud beautiful capodimonte bird in white porcelain. For you too. In fact they are all for you if you like them but sometimes I shall blow the bugles … I did enjoy myself. The owner of the shop knew a lot about china and jewed me over the bird but nothing about glass. I stayed two hours … and we parted with mutual expressions of esteem. I look forward greatly to the agonies of jealousy Betty will suffer (also a junk shop fiend) which I believe to be one of the chief pleasures of antique discoveries …
Goodnight my dear love,
M.
London – 24.2.45
My Darling,
I have had a sober and practical three days here and shall go back to Cornwall tomorrow. First, what I have done about the British Council …
Alec who I met in the Ritz for a drink very nearly got himself murdered by being unbearably pompous and in his worst Monsieur le député mode, saying he knew Sir M.R.fn36 very well and would of course have to tell him about my divorce. I was so angered that I later rang him up and told him to go to hell …
I have shopped for the children and my mother trying to replace Rocket [V2] losses and dealt as far as I am able with her flat which is a shambles of filth and broken glass, sodden and half-burnt furniture. So hard on the old …
I have sent you the Polyphotos … Looking at them I decided there was nothing for it I must obviously wear a yashmak …
Simon Harcourt-Smithfn37 made a speech in the Ritz in his best Author-F.O. manner about the distressing spectacle of my hair, he hadn’t finished when I left but over my shoulder I saw Donegallfn38 take him soothingly by the arm and lead him to the bar.
L’anneau d’or tiens ferme,
Mary
Toulouse – 26.2.45
My very dear love,
The porter, who has a delightfully old-fashioned bow, told me on my return from Bordeaux that he thought I should find ‘full satisfaction’ on my desk. So I did, indeed – three letters covering the whole period from my departure to yours for London … Who is the ‘gangster friend’? I look forward to the hourly diary. (Tell Mrs Grantfn39 to keep up her admonitions.)
Where is Paddy? This must be scribbled and sent as I am rushing off to Carcassonne …
E.
Boskenna – 28.2.45
… Your first letter from Toulouse this morning gave me much joy but I am sad you had a bout of depression. You must not. I will try not to, since I love you increasingly in spite of loathe-some separation. Your letters help immeasurably and bridge the geographical gap. Detestable as is this separation I see a certain danger in hating it overmuch as this… breads fear [which is] absurd since we are travelling down a path which neither of us have ever travelled before.
… Every year I am surprised afresh by the spring here, impossible to get used to the flowers. Narcissus and daffodils being packed off by the ton to market. And everywhere flowers, mimosa, violets, primroses, anemones and many more. Toby picks all day long and between us we have filled the house. Every available man and girl is picking, bundling, carting and packing … today the sun was hot and the sea and sky violently blue and the children tumbled into a cart full of daffodils, looked absurd and vital … Nor did it matter that Colonel P. pitched head first over a stile and nearly broke his neck but not quite, and the pump engine broke and the water failed and the boiler nearly burst. As I write I am being interrupted all the time by Colonel P. shooting questions at me so forgive me if I write inanities. Soon I shall forget he is eighty and say shut up … (Thank God he’s dozed off.)
Boskenna – 3.3.45
Darling,
… These two days have been particularly beautiful – blue and gold. Frost in the morning followed by hot sun. I worked in the flower fields most of yesterday as we were short of labour and picked and carted flowers all day. The horse is called Albert and gets very bored. Even the children worked, at least mine did, the others were rather frivolous.
For an hour Toby and I struck and sat under a flaming gorse bush which looked exactly like scrambled egg on toast in the brown bracken, but smelt hot and delicious. I read him the Georgics which he affected to like … On days like this everyone sings as they work and there is a strong similarity to a pagan festival and I feel very near the earth.
Today Geoffrey Bennison, one of my dancing pansy friends, came over from Mousehole where he is staying with Betty John. I am lured over there tomorrow to see Gwen John’s pictures except for those in the Tate. They have never been exhi
bited. (She was Augustus’s sister.) They are lovely I believe. She left them all to Edwin Johnfn40 when she died and he keeps them hidden. Betty, his wife, is away so I’m going to sneak in and see them. (Geoffrey B. is or expects to be a painter.) …
My dog has a favourite fox and combines the roles of her parents … streaking across the cliff in full cry, down the earth, only to emerge hours later stinking of fox. It’s awful for me at night. I can do nothing about it, any more than I can stop Roger falling into the water trough with all his clothes on which he has done two days running …
Alec rang up. Most affable and knowing he had angered me had made great efforts on my behalf with Sir Malcolm Robertson. He [Alec] is a good little man but tries to hide his timorousness in pomposity … I love you,
M.
Paris – 4.3.45: 9am
Mary darling – I came up by train on Friday night to fetch my car and driving it back early this morning. I feel tantalisingly near, and I seize the chance of a scribble which will reach you quickly. Your letter of last Wednesday [i.e. dated 28.2.45] reached me here, and is actually before me.
It is full of sense and reassurance. Indeed, we must not make of separation a strain and we must try to be natural – that is to say, not afraid of fear. I shall not cease to need you; and I trust you to let me know any changes of fancy! Meanwhile, the best thing is to work and prepare our future.
Darcie Gillie of the Manchester Guardian came to dinner, and was full of de Gaulle’s speech in the Assembly (which alarmed his friends by his lack of contact with the popular outcry; i.e. for some gestures of urgency). Then I went alone to a play – Une Grande Fille Tout Simple by a new young author [André Roussin] and company. Not very good, but eminently theatrical. I find myself absorbed in technique which (I hope) bodes well for the coming play.
Paris in the sun yesterday was beautiful, but still odious with troops …
The what from Bideford? It looked like ‘funk …
Darling, dear love, the polyphotos are awful. Please send two more enlargements of the beautiful shut-eyed one urgently, as I’ve succeeded in spoiling both, trying to mount and frame them.
Eric
Boskenna – 5.3.45
The rooks keep flying past the window carrying long surrealist twigs for the nest building which their wives instantly discard. They have no manners and nasty natures I observe.
Darling, your leave on the 15th. I am already in a passion of anticipation. It might be possible to have Sylvester’s cottage again … I would like you to meet R. and T. [Roger and Toby] but staying here has marked drawbacks …Perhaps it would be more sense to stay put in London …
I must answer your questions. The ‘gangster’ friendfn41 has only nuisance value and never, thank God, materialised. I will tell you his story when I see you. He is a low friend of Boris Melikoff’s [sic] who got into trouble with security and was an infernal bore.fn42 2. Paddy. I don’t know where he is. In fact I can’t work up a glimmer of interest there. 3. My gland ailment … is better … I am conscientious in swallowing a nauseous mixture … which I firmly believe to be chiefly strychnine …
I bussed to Mousehole yesterday and spent the afternoon in Edwin John’s lumber room seeing all Gwen John’s pictures and drawings. They are in a shameful state and nothing is being done about them until after the war. Edwin and his wife keep them hidden and not a soul has seen them yet. We roostled them out and they are very beautiful. Some extremely like Toulouse Lautrec, and she has a remarkable sensitivity. Some of her portraits of nuns made me wish to steal, it would have been easy.
I am bored at the prospect of Geordie and Claire Sutherlandfn43 invading next week. They insist on coming, she to stay here and he nearby in Penzance. I don’t mind him really, he is stupid and quite nice, but she drives me scatty, Miss [Mrs] Emanuel’s sister. Having them about is as unrestful as a badly furnished room.
It’s unbelievable, a rook has flown by with a spray of camellias. I hope it will be received in a proper spirit.
Boskenna – 7.3.45
My Darling,
… This life by letter is to me rather like conversations under an anaesthetic – such gaps in thought and time …
I received physical support from America yesterday in the guise of two most elegant bust bodices, in answer to a cri de coeur to a friend in New York. Enchanted, I rang up Mrs Grant to tell her, and she said, unkindly I thought, ‘What are you going to put in them Darling?’
It seems the Germans have the toupé [‘nerve’ – correctly spelt ‘toupet’] to use buzz-bombs again, there is considerable indignation felt in London. I had hoped for fewer shocks to favourite buildings …fn44
I miss you more daily and have little patience. I might occupy myself usefully in learning to spell, but you told me I am in good company since your brother Harry cannot either … JUNK, darling, not FUNK. And please admit I showed courage in sending the Polyhorrors …
The post brought a letter from the B.C. to say try as he would Mr Simpson doesn’t think he can place me. Nor did I think he would be able to as my academic qualifications are nil and that’s what they like irrespective of anything else. But it was worth trying …
Romie Brinkman brought her mother-in-law for the afternoon. A splendid specimen of the dying aristocracy. Very like Queen Mary even to the toque and the Daimler.fn45 A great gardener, she toured the garden rolling out the Latin names of all the shrubs so glibly that I began to suspect she knew she was safe, that Romie and I knew none of them. I only caught her out on one. She is recovering from a heart attack brought on by being heavily fined for getting too much or too little meal for her hens. This happens to all of us however hard we try to be honest. I adore old ladies. This one collects swans (china and glass ones). She tells me she had eight hundred – but that the Blitz had taken its toll. Romie kept hissing in my ear ‘Don’t make her walk too fast or she’ll die before she’s changed her will’.fn46 She is vastly rich and Romie the new daughter-in-law …
Geordie Sutherland gave me a good laugh last night. He never has recovered from being a Duke. He rang up in a petulant tone in answer to a telegram I’d sent him to say it is impossible to get him suites of rooms in local hotels at short notice. ‘But did you use my name?’ I bellowed ‘Of course I did and it had no more effect than mine’. He rang off. I wish him stuffed for the nation …
I have to go and shout at the horseman who is deaf. He is shaping up to go mad like his wife or so he says, and I am inclined to believe him. Insanity is becoming quite the mode in this place. But who is to look after the horses? So I must trot off and soothe. Practically impossible to be soothing at the top of one’s voice but I am willing to try …
Toulouse – 8.3.45
Darling –
To my delight, your London letter on arrival here. Thank you, too, for Spanish Verse: which reminds one that I have forgotten my Spanish, and I shall read Lorca with Spanish friends …
Coffee has begun to arrive. The first packet came last week, and I had stored up the rest as – for some peculiar reason – they served coffee here for a few weeks. Now ‘café national’ reigns again, and I am triumphant. Cigarettes have not begun to arrive. I’m told that they are sent, whoever your dealer is, via Imperial or American Tobacco Co. and that there is always a delay of 8 weeks, after which they trickle in regularly. Speriamo. No – alas – cigars! Possibly stolen, so you’d better check …
Polyphotos hopeless (white jersey was a mistake, photographically; lovely in life). Do send more snapshots.
Later
Hero’s Hemlockfn47 struck me as too melodramatic; but for a sour-comic play, it might not be bad. And that is how it is developing. I got a stimulus, last night, by referring to my notes written last October – (before the 26th). I found savage remarks like ‘blast the English – attack them!’ and angry records of people who told me that ‘We’ve been under strain – people in London are tired – the war is over.’ I find I was impressed by the clean, friendly cats (after Naples’ spitt
ing skeletons) and fat horses; by people’s callousness, at movies or about casualties (‘no feeling’); and by Sir Anthony Lindsay-Hogg,fn48 the first acquaintance to whom I talked after 4 years’ abroad, who spoke to me about the limitations of bombed London (i.e. the night-clubs were all dull).
This, and the memory of Nancy Mitford’sfn49 voice – always a big stimulus to me at any time; I use it like benzedrine (I haven’t seen her for 6 years) – gave my first Act quite a fillip. I am still at scenario stage, but I aim to bring a complete scenario and one Act, – which I may show to Curtis-Brown [sic],fn50 – in April; with a view to production in autumn.
I feel more and more constant, alas (a most alienating attribute) and you have affected my daily life. Tell me the truth, and remember that I love you deeply.
Eric
Toulouse – 11.3.45
… PROGRAM
May 1, 1945: Return to England with play
September 1: Leave MOI; production of play
May 1, 1946: Marry Mary
February 1, 1947: Have a child.
Boskenna – 11.3.45
… Yesterday I took Mrs G. to the advance show of all the pictures of local artists going up to the Academy. Mostly trash but two or three excellent. We maliciously barracked Alec who was there doing his Member of P. act. He purpled with annoyance, poor little man …
How is … the play? … Wouldn’t Gielgud be better than Olivier? He’s got more body to him … I love you,
M.
Boskenna – 12.3.45
Darling,
My head is buzzing … Betty has come back from London with the discovery of what sounds the perfect little house for us. It belongs to a friend of hers who is rich and told to leave London because he has a bad heart …
The rent is £185 a yearfn51 including rates. It is a modern non-basement cottage in Don Place SW7fn52 not far from Harrods. The cooking, fires and hot water system are all electric so there is no shovelling or stoking. It’s on two floors. It has on the ground floor a large sitting-room, dining-room, kitchen and larder and lavatory. On the next floor two bedrooms, bathroom and dressing room and a little roof garden for sunbathing. Apparently every room is full of fitted cupboards and book shelves and it sounds the most easy comfortable thing and the cheapest I’ve ever heard of … There is no likelihood of the landlord turning us out or increasing the rent. It’s the sort of house which I could very easily run myself with Biddy (or there is a maid who goes with it) daily. He turns out in June.