Nancy’s amiability with the French differed from her cavalier treatment of the American soldiers who ambled in from their hostel next door. To them the shop was known as ‘The Ministry of Fear’.
Whatever the weather or state of emergency Nancy’s punctuality was exemplary. Nearly always she walked to and from the shop, many miles from her dwelling in Blomfield Road, regardless of blackouts, air raids and encounters with drunken soldiers. She walked briskly, for the sake of the exercise faute de mieux, even after a tiring day’s work or a night’s rest broken by air raids. Taxis were sporadic luxuries, and Lady Anne Hill remembers waiting with her for hours in pouring rain while at least sixteen packed buses rumbled tantalizingly down Park Lane. During week-days they would lunch at a neighbouring canteen or at a British Restaurant where a vile three-course meal cost one shilling and ninepence. Perhaps Nancy was reminded of the seal flesh and pemmican which were the staple diet of her heroes in the Antarctic.
Fortunately she could often spend her Saturdays to Mondays at Faringdon with Lord Berners, a composer, painter and writer of whimsical originality who was also an epicure. In spite of the prevalent austerities he managed to conjure succulent meals for his guests. His sense of humour was akin to Nancy’s and they shared many an extravagant joke. He had a special talent for parody and pastiche: one recalls his ‘Red Roses and Red Noses’. Nancy was to introduce him as ‘Lord Merlin’ into The Pursuit of Love and I suspect she regarded him as her mentor, consulting him about her writings. His influence counterbalanced that of Evelyn Waugh. He made startling remarks in a quiet matter-of-fact tone, and this tone pervades his fanciful novels. His witty Valses Bourgeoises should be revived in piano concerts; it would be more difficult to revive the Berners-Diaghilev ballet of 1926, The Triumph of Neptune. The epitaph he composed for himself ran:
Here lies Lord Berners,
One of the learners.
His great love of learning
May earn him a burning
But, praise to the Lord,
He seldom was bored.
Likewise Nancy seldom was bored—except when she had to add up accounts in the shop. Lady Anne Hill remembers that ‘she used to look quite ill and peaked from the boredom of this’. When she felt overwhelmed she would delegate the chore to her mother who, she maintained, enjoyed the meticulous process of addition.
Fire-watching was another duty she failed to relish for it entailed spending part of the night in a camp-bed at Crewe House. On these occasions she would don old trousers and a tin hat, and sally forth into the blackout armed with a stirrup pump. Once she and Mollie extinguished some fire bombs in Hill Street off Berkeley Square, Nancy carrying the pump and Mollie two buckets of water, laughing all the way. ‘She made my war,’ said Mrs. Buchanan. When the flying bombs descended Nancy would plead in her cooing voice: ‘Come and look at the V.s. They are so pretty. Do admit.’ Survivors staggering out of the rubble they left behind them were less prone to admire their prettiness. But when her grocer was bombed out of his house she invited him to hers with his wife and children and they stayed for several days. ‘He was not an attractive or interesting grocer,’ added a friend who was one of his customers.
To her mother she wrote (26th February, 1944): ‘You never saw anything like the burning. I pack a suitcase every night and always dress which I never did before, but the raids are very short, exactly one hour, so that’s no great hardship only chilly. Also we have a very good fire party here so I have great hopes that we could get anything under control.’ And later in July: ‘Nobody minds the bombs any more (I never did) but they are doing a fearful amount of damage to houses. One going over here knocked panes of glass out of my neighbours’ top window simply from the vibration of the engine, which is unbelievable unless you have heard the thing… But how can the Germans be so stupid as to get everybody into a temper now, just as they must see they have lost, it is really too idiotic of them and seriously I think minimizes the chance of a decent peace… I do dread losing the house because oh where would one live?’
When so many mooched about with long faces Nancy’s resolute cheerfulness was a tonic. Hers was a peculiarly English type of beauty and it did not belong entirely to this age. Her clear smooth skin and clear quizzical eyes under a high forehead with chestnut hair like a wavy turban above it would have been portrayed to perfection by Sir Joshua Reynolds. She appeared much younger than her age and her humour had the gaiety of girlhood. In spite of her intellectual bent she could not be described as an intellectual, nor could she be described as sensual or worldly. She had natural good taste, not only in the clothes she wore. In those days she could not afford to indulge her love of elegance yet in the neat black velvet jacket and black wool skirt she usually wore in the shop she looked better dressed than many a more prosperous friend: her husband contributed nothing to her few amenities, if he ever wasted a thought on them.
In March 1944 Peter was ‘living near the ruin of our villa (the Rennell villa near Naples) and using our servants and burning my ma-in-law’s frightful furniture for firewood, isn’t it strange. He goes to the beach head every day—says it is hell on earth.’ He was back in London before Easter. ‘Peter is to and fro and one never knows which until he appears and he doesn’t know from one minute to the next. I think he is getting a very important job and he goes on being a colonel, which people generally don’t when they come home and which makes a huge difference in money.’ No huge difference to Nancy, however. Usually he was to be found at the Savile Club, and he would ask me not to tell Nancy that he was in London. Soon after finishing The Pursuit of Love in May 1945, Nancy informed her mother: ‘Peter has rushed off to Transport House to see about a constituency, egged on by me, as candidates get 90 coupons. I fear it will be no good though, married to a Mitford!’
Although she felt ‘a pudding of tiredness’ she hoped to go to Paris in August. As a result of this fatigue she wrote from Heywood Hill’s: ‘What do you think I did? I decided not to come here Saturday morning as I was really tired, and forgot to lock the door on Friday so the shop was full of wandering people trying to buy books from each other. Wasn’t it a nightmare? By the mercy of Providence Heywood was passing through London and happened to look in. He wasn’t best pleased and I don’t blame him. The fact is I’m too tired but it’s no excuse for such dottiness.’ In the meantime Peter was skipping about canvassing for Mason Macfarlane. ‘Isn’t it typical, the Christian names of our candidates are Mason, Brendan, Clifford and Wegg. Why aren’t politicians ever called Tom, Dick or Harry?’
Despite her feminine volubility, Nancy was too proud to speak of her troubles, yet they were only too real. It was far from pleasant to think of her sister Diana (Lady Mosley) in prison, and of another sister Unity still suffering from the trauma of near suicide, her mind confused by divided loyalties. And when Diana was released from captivity Nancy had to cope with a siege of inquisitive journalists. The shop rang continually with their telephone calls which she and Mollie took turns to answer. Fortunately the beautiful Diana had an overflowing share of the Mitford esprit de corps. As her husband relates in his autobiography:1 ‘After telling me one day about the treatment of the women in the early days by one or two old harpies in a company of wardresses… she remarked that she yet felt she had an advantage over them: “It was still lovely to wake up in the morning and feel one was lovely one”—it went straight into one of Nancy Mitford’s books.’ The sisters were reunited with screams of delight. But the death of their brave and handsome brother Tom, who was killed in Burma, was a deep and lasting sorrow, though Nancy tried to console herself with the thought that he had thoroughly enjoyed his life. All his friends had basked in the radiance of his intensely musical personality.
Peter’s escapades had become painfully embarrassing. He spent whatever money they scraped together (or rather what Nancy scraped) and he was notoriously unfaithful. After one of his nocturnal rackets he would peal the bell of their little house in Blomfield Road at 5 a.m. in a state of mau
dlin intoxication and undress, without money to defray an exorbitant taxi fare. Nancy either kept such incidents to herself or laughed them off. She was far too reserved to admit her essential loneliness with Peter. She could forget it in Heywood Hill’s shop which had become a rallying point of her friends in uniform or mufti who happened to be in London. And in the meantime the Free French had fired her imagination with a growing love of France. I suspect she was already looking forward to pastures new when she embarked on her semi-autobiographical novel, The Pursuit of Love. This begins in the bosom of her family and ends with a glowing Parisian romance. Fabrice, duc de Sauveterre, is an embodiment of the gallant Free Frenchman who had captivated her mind and coloured her future outlook. Fabrice, the hero of the Resistance, was caught by the Gestapo and shot but Nancy revived him in her future novels and historical biographies. She remained on friendly terms with Peter Rodd, but her annoyance was noticeable on the rare occasions he invaded the bookshop.
That Peter could show a chivalrous side to other women has been confirmed by a lady who had a happy affair with him. According to her, he could be passionately romantic, even poetical, and he wrote the most beautiful love-letters. She still remembers him with tenderness. Unfortunately his attitude to Nancy was one of cynical and selfish exploitation, or so it seemed to her friends. In his case the jokes which Nancy so keenly enjoyed with others went too far. Probably he was a natural philanderer who could not endure the marriage tie. Though Nancy had longed for children she never com plained of ‘Prod’. But she had given up any pretence of enthusiasm for his eccentricities, which had left no warm after-glow.
On 22nd July, 1945 she wrote to Heywood Hill: ‘I have been given £5,000 to start a business with, would you like to have me as a partner. I can’t work full time any more… I want to concentrate on the import and export side which I shall know more about when I have been to Paris… I have a personal letter from Oliver Lyttelton imploring me to trade in books, and another from the F.O. recommending me for an exit permit…’
To me, still seconded to S.H.A.E.F. in Paris, she wrote breathlessly: ‘I am planning to put some money into the shop and be a partner and my dream is to be fixed up with some Paris shop and do delicious swops so that I can be the purveyor of high brow frog books here and vice versa. Anyhow I can find all that out when I arrive—meanwhile I am planning to enjoy myself and to become deliciously baked (it is snowing here, need I say)… There is a new man in the shop, a pro, taking my place as after this week I am only going part time. He thinks I am perfectly raving mad and keeps saying under his breath “This is a most extraordinary establishment”. His favourite writer (because a best seller, I don’t think he reads) is Mazo de la Roche and he wants to order hundreds of his (her?) forthcoming book and fill the window with it. I have gone quietly, so to speak, into the Maquis and am using underground methods of sabotage with complete success.’
‘Tomorrow the Rothermere party for the election. We are asked from 12.30-3.30, fork luncheon. Evelyn [Waugh] says, “I intend to arrive at 12.80 and stay to 3.30 using my fork all the time.” It is rumoured there are to be 150 people and only 6 lobsters so one must hope for a miracle.’
‘I’ll tell you as soon as I know when I arrive—don’t know where I shall stay… Oh! I am excited like a child.’
On 4th August she wrote again: ‘Advised upon all sides I have settled now to go in September, it seems more sensible, and P. writes that he may be in America if I go in August which would be a pity as I shall need all the support I can have. I do hope you won’t have gone for good by then it would be disappointing… Our new young man is a menace… I struggle away, you can imagine! but dread to think what the shop will be like in my absence. The thing is he is awfully NICE and one doesn’t want to wound him in any way.’
‘I’ve been correcting my proofs, always enjoyable I think it reads better than I had expected really.’
Those were the proofs of The Pursuit of Love, which was to enjoy a success surpassing Nancy’s wildest expectations.
The slim blue volume of 195 closely printed pages on poor paper ‘in conformity with the authorized economy standards’ was published later in the year at what might correctly be called the psychological moment. The general climate was one of war weariness and disillusion after the elation of victory. Churchill’s government had fallen to a Socialist majority under Mr. Attlee. The verdict of the General Election had forced our colossus to tender his resignation, and the verdict was shocking for its base ingratitude. Amid the ensuing gloom, with mediocrity vengeful and triumphant, The Pursuit of Love was like a gloom dispersing rocket. Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited had paved the way for it and Nancy submitted the manuscript to his scrutiny before sending it to Hamish Hamilton, her enterprising publisher.
A master of the craft of fiction as well as a staunch friend, Evelyn offered several suggestions including the title, for which Nancy always gave him credit. But the feline humour and lightness of touch were entirely Nancy’s, and the style is more finished than in her previous novels. There are hints of Evelyn in the ‘entrenching tool, with which, in 1915, Uncle Matthew had whacked to death eight Germans one by one as they crawled out of a dug-out’, but I cannot detect ‘the inspired silliness of Ronald Firbank’ which L.P. Hartley noted. Though free from intellectual pretension it will be consulted by historians as an authentic record of a phase of English civilization and of country-house society when more consciously sociological novels will be mouldering in dusty shelves. The characters may be caricatures but they have the vitality of a Rowlandson at his best. The sheer fun of existence at Alconleigh sets the pace. Uncle Matthew and all the Radletts are drawn with the assurance of intimate knowledge. Unwittingly she started a hare that is still running, to judge by recent letters in The Spectator. Uncle Matthew’s pronouncements on correct English usage had the honour of being quoted by Professor Alan Ross of Birmingham University in an article on ‘Upper Class English Usage’ which was printed in a learned Finnish journal, the Bulletin of the Neo-philological Society of Helsinki (1954). This had a hilarious sequel which was solemnly swallowed by those who accused Nancy of snobbishness. In fact she was teasing the snobs but she kept a poker face while doing so. But I must not anticipate. The sequel, inspired by Professor Ross, appeared ten years after The Pursuit of Love, and some people still think twice before mentioning words classified as non-U.
In spite of, perhaps even because of, the accusations of snobbishness, The Pursuit of Love appealed to an enormous public, and Nancy found herself more secure from financial stress. Unfortunately, having been posted to Germany, I missed Nancy in Paris, and I was at home in Florence when she wrote to me on 28th December: ‘I’m not enjoying the party much at present, I so hate being back in London, was so completely blissful in Paris. Perhaps darling John [Sutro] will film my book and make millions for me and then I could live where I like. I am sending it to you by the way and hope you will be able to read it… The shop is doing brilliantly and I am a partner now.’
Nancy was so encouraged by the success of The Pursuit of Love that she retired from Heywood Hill’s shop in March 1946 to devote herself to writing. But she corresponded frequently with Heywood and his partner Handasyde Buchanan and, having bought shares in the shop, considered herself a ‘sleeping partner’.
1 Sir Oswald Mosley: My Life. London, 1968.
5
FOR THE NEXT twenty years, the happiest in her life, Nancy settled in Paris. Even before settling there she had put these words into the mouth of her hero Fabrice: ‘One’s emotions are intensified in Paris—one can be more happy and also more unhappy here than in any other place. But it is always a positive source of joy to live here, and there is nobody so miserable as a Parisian in exile from his town. The rest of the world seems unbearably cold and bleak to us, hardly worth living in…’
Paris, when she arrived there, in September 1945, was still suffering from the after-effects of German occupation. Many essential commodities were scarce and expens
ive; the black market was still flourishing. But the aesthetic and intellectual compensations were overwhelming. The recovery of the fine arts seemed to have been stimulated by the recent Liberation. The theatre, the ballet, film production, were being revived with Gallic energy and refinement of taste. And the beauty of the city remained inviolate. Always a strenuous walker, Nancy was able to familiarize herself with the intimate old Paris behind the boulevards and the Hôtel de Ville, the quays and narrower streets with high-roofed buildings, with the venerable Place des Vosges and the classical mansions on the left bank of the Seine so long inhabited by French nobility whose names had inspired Balzac and Proust. Balzac’s Madame de Sauve might even have suggested Nancy’s Sauveterre. The British Embassy was full of her friends. Our Ambassador Duff Cooper and the glamorous Lady Diana made it sparkle as never before with poets, painters and musicians. Nancy was avidly receiving and assimilating new impressions.
‘I must come and live here as soon as I can,’ she told her mother in September 1945. ‘I feel a totally different person as if I had come out of a coal mine into daylight… It seems silly when I struggled for a year to get here not to stay as long as possible.’ Her friend Betty Chetwynd lent her a flat in 20 rue Bonaparte. ‘The angelic concierge (how helpful the French are) got into the Métro at rush hour for me, went all the way to Montmartre, and returned with the prettiest femme de menage you ever saw, all like magic. Imagine a London porter, all grumbles and groans and puttings off and certainly no lovely girl at the end of it! Oh my passion for the French I see all through rose-coloured spectacles! There was a tremendous row in the street this afternoon, two men roaring at each other and ending up et vous—et vous—and this refrain was taken up by a hundred heads out of windows, chanting et vous—et vous. It was like a scene in a film… It is such a holiday-getting up when I like (shamefully late), sleeping all the afternoon or reading a book in the boiling sun by the river and above all having enough to eat…’
Nancy Mitford Page 8