But the main and immediate thing is, write at once please. Lots and lots of love from
Paddy
Late Night Final
You’ve probably heard all about Stavros N’s island from Anne Tree. [5] Last week he came over on the wonder yacht Créole to Hydra to pick us up for dinner and a rather luxurious night on board, so off we skimmed to Spetsopoula, his island off Spetsai, through the sunset. This wild island is now a network of roads, and up one of these we rambled in a couple of brightly coloured waiting dodgems, to a large new and pretty ugly villa, but v. luxurious, and found some French friends playing tric-trac, a M. Bonnet and his bride (née Dubo Dubon Dubonnet) and Porfirio Rubirosa, his beautiful but inane wife, [6] and Tina Onassis & Eugenie Niarchos [7] (v. nice indeed). After a deluge of drinks there, we en-dodgemed again, tooled down to the shore and into Criss Crafts and swished round to a gorge-like cove a mile away, the beach glittering with specially imported sand and about 100 blazing pine torches stuck into the rocks, looking very wild and magnificent. A jukebox in the rocks jived away non-stop, and we settled down to caviar round a circular table out of doors. At the end of the meal, Stavros, who had been drinking non-stop all day, suddenly leapt on to the table, sending candles and gold plate flying, and danced like a wild thing, seizing Tina O, Mrs P.R. and Mrs B, all four whirling then stamping and leaping by torchlight, till Stavros, all the day’s drinks now churning up to an inner whirlpool, staggered down to the imported sand again and rocketed off to repose.
There was drinking, eating, bathing and jiving all next day, then a tour of the island by dodgem, thousands of imported pheasants whirring through the branches (mown down daily by S), and imported stags trotting under the trees. One of these tried to rape a lady last year, but she strangled it (its head now glowers down from the drawing room wall – a stuffer stuffed). Then a visit to a grass factory, which turns out seventy trays of forced grass a day, to be left about for the pheasants, and a review of a vast cage full of Prussian Elkhounds (the Baskerville department) all barking fit to bust and used as gun dogs. Then farewell to red-eyed Stavros and a quiet yacht-borne return to Hydra and sanity by moonlight.
[1] Natalie Perrone lived at the Hôtel de Pompadour, an exquisite folly designed by the architect Gabriel for the Marquise de Pompadour in 1749.
[2] Annes Grove Gardens in Co. Cork; created in the early twentieth century by Richard Grove Annesley.
[3] In fact PLF’s fellow guest was François Valéry himself, son of the writer Paul Valéry.
[4] While on a Hellenic Cruise earlier in the year, Andrew Devonshire, his daughter Emma, Mark Ogilvie-Grant and other friends had got lost walking above Delphi. DD, who had not gone on the walk, spent many anxious hours waiting for them while the cruise ship left without them. ‘Passengers are warned to this day not to stray like the Duke of Devonshire.’ (DD)
[5] Lady Anne (Tig) Cavendish (1927–). Married Michael Tree in 1949. DD’s sister-in-law and husband had a house on the Aegean island of Spetsai, adjoining the small island of Spetsopoula which was owned by Stavros Niarchos.
[6] Porfirio Rubirosa (1909–65). The well-endowed Dominican playboy was married to his fifth wife, twenty-three-year-old French actress Odile Rodin.
[7] Athina (1926–74) and Eugenia Livanos (1927–70). In 1947, Eugenia married Stavros Niarchos as his third wife. After her death, Niarchos married her sister, Athina, who had previously been married to Aristotle Onassis.
17 November 1960
Train to London – Pity
Chatsworth
Bakewell
Darling Pad,
Well I was pleased to get that fat letter.
Several bits were v praiseworthy viz. letting one know when to skip (always grateful for that sort of inf ). All most educational.
Things here are exactly the same. It is November, thank God, but not the 28th day of yet. Andrew has got a job [1] & a pay packet, an office, a phone and a BOSS. Did you ever know five more unexpected things. The result is Happiness, Fury at having speeches mucked about by the aforesaid boss, & the High Commissioner for Ghana looming for lunch at Chatsworth on Sunday. Very odd, & very good really as he loves the regularity of offices and the civil servants who make tea for him.
I think it was just in the nick myself, as he was killing himself with rushing about England ridding himself of guilt by pace.
I’m dying to meet his top boss, feller called Duncan Sandys, [2] because everyone who knows him loathes him. He is a tiger for work (0 else to do I guess; you know, lives in Surrey & doesn’t hunt). [3] He is Interested in Women but probably for only one horrid thing. We’ll soon see because I’m going to have lunch with him in a minute or so. I’ll report.
We went to a recap for diplomats & officials at B Palace. It beat cockfighting for (a) a long wait (b) the unpleasant shock of a whole passage of Topolski horrors [4] commissioned by the Duke of Edinburgh & (c) the following conversation with a lady called Mrs Alport, wife of Minister of State, [5] a job between Sandys’ & Andrew’s.
She I’ve been longing to meet you as I came out with your sister Jessica.
Me Oh lor.
She You know, you’ll find you’ll like all the people you’ll have to meet, they are very kind really and you’ll have no reason to be shy.
Me Oh. (Thinks Haven’t been shy for 20 years.)
She Of course you’ll join the CROWS.
Me What?
She Crows – Commonwealth Relations Office Wives.
Me Oh. Well I live in the country & I don’t go about much any more.
She Oh, don’t worry, you’ll enjoy it.
Well, really, you see what it’s like. RUBBISH. Making women have anything to do with politics, it makes me very angry. I shall speak to Uncle Harold about it & let Sandys have the rough side of my tongue when at last we meet. But as long as Andrew enjoys it I’m all for it, but CROWS, oh dear.
The well-known French lady writer is in England. It’s so nice having her & I hope the book [6] is making her rich, & that the Portfolio will benefit.
Lady Mosley is also about & with those two, Lady Redesdale & Woman [7] we had a very fine unveiling of a memorial thing to my Dad in Swinbrook Church. We cried a good deal & laughed even more of course. It’s rare for four of us to meet.
I had a very jolly time in Scotland with Col Stirling, [8] a visit after my own heart. No books were mentioned, no one asked if one was happy & the other guests were two sweet generals, one called de Guingand [9] & famous for the war. On a very wet day it was a fine sight to see those generals in their mackintosh knickers on hands & knees down a road stalking grouse on stubble.
I’d never seen or heard wild geese before. Have you ever? A fantastic noise, like a lot of women at a cocktail party in the sky, tumbling over each other for the best place in the air. The oddest & most impressive nature note for years.
I’m going back there in Jan – can’t wait. Col Stirling has gambled away all his Spanish pictures, I believe there used to be El Grecos, Goyas and Velasquez by the doz, but there is only a dolly’s sized Velasquez left, v enviable all the same.
Love to all, masses to you
Debo
Important P.S. Saw Diana Cooper’s point for more or less the first time at a pretty ghastly dinner at the Hamish Hamiltons’ for Nancy’s book.
[1] Andrew Devonshire had been appointed Parliamentary Under-Secretary for Commonwealth Relations. ‘He always used to say that no one who had not held that office knew quite how dim an under-secretary’s job was. He enjoyed it all the same.’ (DD)
[2] Duncan Sandys (1908–87). Minister in several Conservative governments, Secretary of State for Commonwealth Relations 1960–4. Married to Winston Churchill’s daughter Diana 1935–60.
[3] DD was quoting the 10th Duke of Beaufort, Master of the Beaufort Hounds, who could not imagine what James Lees-Milne, one of his tenants, did all day. ‘Pointless man, the feller doesn’t even hunt.’
[4] The Polish painter Feliks Topolski, official arti
st for the coronation of 1953, was commissioned to produce a record of the event to hang at Buckingham Palace.
[5] Cuthbert Alport (1912–98). Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State, Commonwealth Relations Office 1957–9, Minister of State 1959–61. Married Rachel Bingham in 1945.
[6] Nancy Mitford’s last novel, Don’t Tell Alfred, published by Hamish Hamilton in 1960.
[7] Pamela Mitford (1907–94). DD’s second eldest sister, nicknamed ‘Woman’ by her family, was best-known for being the unknown Mitford. Married to Derek Jackson 1936–51.
[8] William (Bill) Stirling (1911–83). Scotch landowner, farmer, soldier and entrepreneur. Led the 2nd Special Air Service regiment while his brother, David Stirling, founded and led the 1st (the SAS was dubbed Stirling and Stirling at the time). ‘He was a brilliant game shot and the best host of the best shoot at Keir. I was lucky enough to be invited for the last week of January for many years. This unmatched entertainment became known as The Festival.’ (DD)
[9] Francis (Freddie) de Guingand (1900–79). Distinguished soldier who had been Chief of Staff to Field Marshal Montgomery.
8 December 1960
Chatsworth
Bakewell
Darling Pad,
I can’t remember when I wrote, or whether Andrew had got a job by then.
Anyhow, we’ve had the first small dose of official entertaining & I can tell you I shall put my foot in it soon as I can’t understand (a) protocol (b) sucking up and (c) not saying very loud what one thinks about (a) the government & (b) Uncle Harold & his troupe.
Anyway what’s happened so far is an official dinner at the High Commissioner of Ceylon’s & lunch, in his own dump, with the Boss.
It’s a new world, and a rum one.
The Ceylons live in a plain house in Addison Road, never an ornament to be seen, but many chairs placed about the room like those lounges where television interviews take place. No fire, not even electric, but bright lights & central heating.
Very well then. I thought it wd be Andrew & me & some Ceylonese people. Not at all. It was for grandees like Ld Home, [1] Ld Mountbatten, [2] Mrs Pandit, [3] Ld Soulbury [4] laced with a few gloomy faces like Mr & Mrs Creech Jones [5] & various anonymous but high up civil servants.
I was lucky & sat by Ld Home. He is sweet & looks like an amiable goat but does not smell or anything. Lady Home is one of those large English county ladies with a loud voice, but comforting because of their unchangingness, usually to be seen & heard on saints’ days at Eton. She wore an electric blue dress of strange shape & nameless stuff & huge dirty diamonds on a huge clean bosom.
Ld Mountbatten shouted about the bag at Six-Mile Bottom to me across the table & scarcely addressed a word to the lady in a sari whose dinner it was. When the pudding loomed – jelly – he said very crossly to the hired waiter ‘What on earth’s all this.’ It makes one despair of the behaviour of some hopeless English people.
When we’d all stuck it till 11, Ld Home was very polite & said to the hostess ‘I’m afraid we must very reluctantly tear ourselves away.’ I thought that was better.
Lunch with the boss was most educational. He gives one pretty straightforward looks & he’s got everything red, except for his teeth which were vaguely yellow. He paints, in his pyjamas, before getting up, or so he says.
I will ask him to stay & report further. I don’t think it’s any good pretending that one can like or understand ambitious politicians.
I’m so awfully sorry about Ralph Partridge [6] – what it means to all our friends. I wonder what his poor wife will do, if she can stay on at that house – all that. It is sad.
OH how I wish you were coming for Christmas. Poor old Andrew is faced with Lady Redesdale, Mrs Hammersley, [7] my m in law and Woman – no man to leaven them.
Much love
Debo
[1] Alexander (Alec) Douglas-Home, 14th Earl of Home (1903–95). The Conservative politician and future Prime Minister was Foreign Secretary at the time. Married Elizabeth Alington, daughter of his headmaster at Eton, in 1936.
[2] Earl Mountbatten of Burma (1900–79). The former Viceroy and Governor-General of India was Chief of the Defence Staff 1959–65.
[3] Vijaya Lakshmi Pandit (1900–90). Politician and diplomat. Indian High Commissioner to Great Britain 1955–61.
[4] Herwald Ramsbotham, 1st Viscount Soulbury (1887–1971). Conservative politician. Governor-General of Ceylon 1949–54.
[5] Arthur Creech Jones (1891–1964). Labour politician who, as Secretary of State for the Colonies, presided over Ceylon’s independence in 1948. Married Violet Tidman in 1920.
[6] Ralph Partridge (1894–1960). One of the Bloomsbury quartet that consisted of Lytton Strachey, who was in love with Partridge; Dora Carrington, whom Partridge married; and Frances Marshall, who became Partridge’s wife after Carrington’s suicide. They lived at Ham Spray House, on the borders of Berkshire and Wiltshire. Frances Partridge moved to London after her husband’s death and died in 2004, aged 103.
[7] Violet Williams-Freeman (1877–1964). A childhood friend of Lady Redesdale and a favourite of DD and her sisters.
28 or 29 December
1960 Chatsworth
Bakewell
Darling Pad,
Our Sunset Home have departed. Woman brought four dogs (one of which was incontinent) and her days are spent cooking for them, feeding them what she has cooked, then going out to make messes. I know this is a natural cycle but it’s repeated in such quick succession that there was no time to do anything else. It must be a strange life.
Going out with the oldsters was a job. They never learn where the front door is and so many shawls, scarves, sticks, rugs and deaf aids have to be collected that it’s pretty difficult and there are specs down every chair. The housemaid had a heart attack on Christmas Day & was rushed to Bakewell Cottage Hosp, where I must say I wouldn’t mind a week or two as there are only three beds in a room. Think if the Wife & Lady Mosley were in the other two. It would be the fittest thing going.
I sent the Wife a book (empty) with COMPLAINTS heavily engraved in gold, companion to the visitors’ book. She sent me a Landseer drawing and a basket. I gave Stoker a cashmere jersey. He gave me some Beecham’s powders and a loofah. That’s the best of the Christmas news, except that we had some fine cards from people like MR AND MRS SCRIPP KELLOGG printed inside.
No signs of (a) R Kee (b) Daphne and Xan (c) Ann Fleming who has been taken by her ridiculous husband to Switzerland for a whole month.
Much love
Debo
5 January 1961
12 Kallirhoë Street
Makriyannis
Athens
Darling Debo,
I got stuck in the mountains the other night, miles up in clouds and snow, with the huge white starlit peaks of Mt Helmos and Mt Kyllene outside the shepherd’s hut that sheltered me. My hosts were two old boys, Uncle George and Uncle Dimitri. I asked them about ghosts, centaurs, Nereids and other familiar spirits of the Greek countryside. U. Dimitri said that was all rot, but Uncle George came across with reams of absorbing lore. When he had finished, Uncle Dimitri said, gazing thoughtfully into the brushwood fire: ‘I don’t believe a word of it. But demons are another thing. Plenty of them about.’
U. George Rubbish.
U. Dimitri Rubbish my foot. My own niece Maria, my sister’s daughter, was bothered by one for years.
U. George What was it like?
U. Dimitri A small black dog with one eye in the middle of its forehead. It followed her about everywhere, talking to her in a low voice, and she would answer it – a continuous mumbling, it was. Then my sister bought a miniature New Testament on a loop of blue string, and went to find Maria in the forest, where she had been cutting wood. She was just starting home, with a load of logs and faggots tied behind her, on the back of her mule, and on top of them this wretched dog was sitting, mumbling away without a break. My sister slipped the Testament round her neck, and the dog suddenly stopped talking an
d shot like a sky rocket to the top of Mt Kyllene where it burst like a bomb with a report you could hear all over the Peloponnese. She was alright after that, and now she’s married with eleven children.
This completely floored U. George, who sat in silence, clicking his tongue in appreciation.
No more for now, except heaps of fond love from
Paddy
18 January 1961
4 Chesterfield Street
London W1
Darling Pad,
A slightly ghoulish prospect looms today. Andrew & I bugger off to America for Jack Kennedy’s coronation [1] – back Sunday I’m happy to say. I can’t tell you how queer it is getting a visa – they send you a jolly invitation from The President to his crowning & then proceed to ask you all sorts of cheeky questions & insist on seeing you to make sure you’re not a Communist. Well how can they know just by looking at one’s ugly mug. On one of the many forms was printed ORIGIN & the clerk wrote CAUCASIAN. I asked Look here what’s that & he said without a flicker of anything Means you’re white. I didn’t know I was a jolly Georgian in floppy trousers & a cuirasse wildly dancing & tweaking people left & right. The Consul in Manchester said Take all your pretties – you’ll see some fabulous gowns and toilets. Bet I will.
We’re staying at the English embassy – I’ll report.
Life with the Creature of the Mist [2] was v strange indeed, smashing shoot, we got 1050 objects in four days but I have lost the art & have made up my mind (vaguely) not to go away & shoot any more, only do it at home.
My train arrived at 5.15 a.m. & who came lumbering up the platform in the meeting dept but the Great & Good man himself. I worship his body but he doesn’t notice.
I sat next to him for thirteen meals out of fourteen & the talk was the same each time, most restful & a refreshing change from the intis, [3] viz. Will you all come back in the summer & we can look for the flowers which only grow on Ben something or other (the local Parnassus). This said in a leaning towards one confidential way & it was so exciting knowing what was coming.
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