The great thing was that you and Andrew spread such a feeling of enjoyment and warmth and fun, that it seemed to affect everything else. It was only later that it occurred to me that I had told my entire life story to Madame de Vogüé [2] last time, the only one, I’d sat next to her, but it didn’t seem to matter. Part of the previously golden Turneresque mist was that I lost touch with all nearest and dearest – couldn’t find you or Robert, sat and had long chats with Coote and Billa. [3] What was strange was that it seemed simultaneously to last for ever and to be over almost at once. Like Wellington’s battle comparison. It all looked fantastic, driving away, looking back on bridge and river, the big tent, the full moon high up, a few decorative alabaster clouds floating discreetly, some people strolling under oak trees, and dawn beginning to break. It was still total glory. I’ll never see anything like it again, nor will anyone, and many many thanks to you and Andrew,
And tons of love from
Paddy
[1] Henry Coleman (1947–). Butler to the Devonshire family since 1963.
[2] Maria Cristina Colonna (1941–). Married in 1966 Count Patrice de Vogüé, owner of Vaux-le-Vicomte, the seventeenth-century chateau outside Paris that inspired Versailles.
[3] Wilhelmine (Billa) Cresswell (1911–2005). Architectural conservationist. Married the economist Roy Harrod in 1938. ‘For many years she and Roy were an import -ant part of university life at Oxford. After she was widowed and returned to her native Norfolk, she made a big impact on the tide of interest in the preservation of the best buildings as founder of the Norfolk Churches Trust. Thanks to her, and her friend the Prince of Wales, this organisation flourishes.’ (DD)
30 July 1990
Mani
Darling Debo,
JJ Norwich’s daughter Artemis and her husband Antony Beevor have just left. He’s writing a book about wartime Crete, [1] so is doing a round of old hands. Both are extremely nice. He described his very reserved Wykehamist father and equally reserved mother trudging back from the polling station on election day:
He ‘By the way, what did you vote?’
She ‘Labour. What about you?’
He ‘Conservative.’ (Pause) ‘I say, we needn’t have gone!’ Tons of love,
Paddy
[1] Crete: The Battle and the Resistance (1991). Winner of the Runciman Prize.
14 September 1990
Chatsworth
Bakewell
Darling Paddy,
Wife has found a frightful mistake in The Estate. It wasn’t Mrs Pettitoes who was a Berkshire, but Pig-wig. [1] The result of pure laziness on my part in not checking. I am horror-struck. I expect it is full of such slips.
The next two weeks are going to bore everyone stiff, the hullabaloo arranged by Macmillan for pushing it under the noses of all. They’ll be sick of my ugly mug & worse voice by 27 Sept when it’s supposed to burst on an unsuspecting world which will have had enough already.
Someone has sent us a video of the fireworks at the ball, amateur, & taken from over the river. He & his friend did a lot of talking which comes over better than Beethoven, they said things like I bet this cost a bit WHAT? I BET THIS COST A BIT & such-like prime comments.
Andrew says (he is a news-on-telly addict) that some American soldiers in Arabia have applied for danger money. Do you think you & Xan & Andrew & everyone we know could ask for some back-dated ditto? My word you’d be rich.
Much love
Debo
[1] Two characters in Beatrix Potter’s The Tale of Pigling Bland.
23 October 1990
Mani
Darling Debo,
The bad news, of course, is about Xan, the dread disease running riot, everywhere, when thought to be only what’s called a spot. He went into hospital in Paris day before yesterday, for some preliminary treatment, and came out two hours ago ( just been on telephone). He sounds v cheery and high-spirited; Magouche, when alone on the blower much less so, naturally enough. It really is a bugger. They’ve got hold of a lovely flat, in the Place des Pyramides, where Joan of Arc, all gold, waves a flag on horseback ¾ of the way down the Rue de Rivoli. We’ve just been talking about it. It’s bang opposite the Hôtel Regina, where I spent the first night in my life abroad with mother & sister, aged nine, a marvellous palace it seemed to me, with lav paper with pictures on and a serial story, so one had to read on. Each sequence took about 10 sheets which must have entailed a huge turnover.
Please keep in touch, and tons of love from
Paddy
I’ve come across this, in an old notebook: –
Nurse (to Iris Tree, when v ill) Lady Diana [Cooper] is here. Do you want to see her?
Iris Not in the least. But I want her to see me.
31 October 1990
As from, but really c/o Wife at Bignor
Chatsworth
Bakewell
Darling Paddy,
Thanks so much for yours. OH XAN. It is foul beyond words. I never thought of him as a cancer person, somehow one can imagine some people getting it & others as non-qualifiers, but one forgets the indiscriminating way it strikes. YOU YOU & YOU, taking no note of age, sex, upbringing, mode of life, profession, where you live. It is like ‘Oranges & Lemons’, down it comes & there you are. I keep thinking about him & only hope ‘they’ don’t allow it to hurt. Ghoulish for you & Magouche & all who love him. Oh bother everything to do with bodies when they go wrong.
Home via Woman, lunch in the pub at Swinbrook to view my kingdom, & then next day DON’T LAUGH a Lit Lunch in Leamington Spa for my stupid book at which I have to speak to the unlucky audience for ¼ of an hour. So do a Chinese cook (written a book on his art), Lady Donaldson on P. G. Wodehouse & Michael Holroyd on Shaw. [1] Do admit the terror. I kick off I think (they always start with the worst & end with the star) & I’m going to say BOOKS how I hate them – as an avid non-reader it is awful to have added to their number etc etc. The trouble is a bookseller is giving the lunch so I do hope he/she/it won’t mind. Wouldn’t be asked again so it doesn’t matter much.
Then I dig in at home for a bit to struggle with a children’s book about farm animals [2] which a publisher wants very soon, wouldn’t suit you.
Much love
Debo
[1] Frances Donaldson’s life of P. G. Wodehouse was published in 1982, and the second volume of Michael Holroyd’s life of George Bernard Shaw, The Pursuit of Power, 1898–1918, in 1989.
[2] Farm Animals (1991).
22 December 1990
Mani
Darling Debo,
The Xan news isn’t cheering. They both sound very chipper on the telephone, but that’s as expected. Janetta says Xan is a bit better, as they’ve knocked off the wretched chemical treatment temporarily, but it can only be temporary. We are going to Paris in January, I do hope it’s the right thing to do; if one’s feeling rotten, visitors can be a fearful burden. A very minor worry at the moment is that the Daily Telegraph rang the other day and said, would I do a pre-emptive piece about Xan, and I’m finding it unexpectedly hard – he’s very difficult to pin down, a strange and rare specimen. I remember about 15 years ago, Xan telling me The Times had asked him to do one about me and he let me have a look; ‘Any criticisms or suggestions?’ I don’t think there were any, as it was a corker – ‘Can’t wait!’ I remember saying – lots of bad taste hilarity.
I know you never read, but did you see the bit about The Estate in the Spectator? I’m afraid the pen rather ran away with me about tupping and drenching, couldn’t resist it. [1]
Tons of love from
Paddy
I’ve just come across this in an old notebook: –
The operas of Benjamin Britten
Should never be actually written In ink, or sung loud
But inscribed on a cloud
With the tail of a Siamese kitten.
[1] In PLF’s ‘Books of the Year’ choice, he wrote, ‘The Duchess of Devonshire carries us helter-skelter through innumerable acres, fells
and woods, into byres, auction-tents and timber-yards, up into lofts and down drains. It is full of deep rustic addiction, comedy and barnyard lore, with no dearth of tupping and drenching. A week back I knew nothing of orf, scrapie, swayback, blackleg, rattle-belly, pine, scad or scald but I’m older and wiser now.’ Spectator, 24 November 1990.
6 January 1991
Mani
Debo –
Happy New Year to one and all, and tons of love from
Paddy
A song against dropping in, obviously inspired by a Victorian muse.
VOIX D’OUTRETOMBE
I dropped in at my neighbour’s house
At six o’clock one morning;
I thought no shame to knock him up
Just as the day was dawning.
I found him reading by the fire
After a light refection.
‘Come into my den,’ he said,
‘I’ll show you my collection.
‘This little gun is fired by steam
And shoots a silver button.
I call on sheep when day is done
And turn them into mutton.
‘This chopper’s handy on a stroll
At the turning of the leaf;
I track young bullocks to their byre
And change them all to beef.
‘This garotte’s for domestic fowls
When days are long and sultry;
In record time the noisiest coop’s
A heap of silent poultry.
‘That Sheffield poleaxe on the wall
Is sprung with tensile steel;
I waylay calves in summertime
And, suddenly, they’re veal.
‘Now this electric crossbow here
Is proving a real benison;
Its bolts convert the antlered ones
Like lightning, into venison.
‘This “Circe” razor’s just the thing
Upon a country walk
– Nothing to touch it, in a sty,
For turning swine to pork!’
‘And what’s that cleaver in your hand,
So sharp and bright and bare?’
I asked him, as, with nonchalance,
He strolled towards my chair.
‘Don’t rise,’ he said, ‘this one’s my joy!
Just the right length and weight!
It’s kept for early birds like you.
It makes them all “The late”!
‘One application does the trick –
Just watch!’ – the chamber shook;
He put the cleaver in the sink
And went back to his book.
P.S. I append some sketches which attempt to catch the feeling of the period.
18 June 1991
Mani
Darling Debo,
I’m guilt-stricken: did I ever thank you for the second Napier vol? [1] I’ve dipped into it, and it looks just as fascinating as the other; but things have been going too fast for doing more than dip.
The rush was caused by the fiftieth anniversary in Crete, which was tremendous, and a great success, the highlight of which was Xan’s return there, greeted like a long lost hero in village after village – he hadn’t been back for donkey’s years. He seemed tremendously fit and well – apart from all hair having vanished – and it was a glorious success. We – Geo. Jellicoe, [2] Xan, David Sutherland [3] (ex-commander of SBS), Nick Hammond [4] and I were given a special parade of Marines for the presentation of medals – not to be worn, alas; only stroked from time to time; and sort of blue velvet hollow marshals’ batons containing scrolls saying we were marvellous. I had to address hundreds of splendid N.Z., Aus, and British Veterans about the Cretan share in the Battle. They were dry-eyed at the end of it, but only just.
I’ve got to return to Blighty for a bit from the 24th onwards for 2–3 weeks (being allowed to doss down at Janetta’s), and will be in touch, so we must have a lovely feast. Why I’m coming back is to be made a D Litt by the University of Kent. I’m v excited as the Hood – what colour, I wonder? – is slipped over one’s head in the chancel of Canterbury Cathedral, only a stone’s throw from the place I got the sack from 1000 years ago. [5] We stop for 4 days in Paris on the way back, to see Xan and his mate.
Tons of love
Paddy
[1] Priscilla Napier, Raven Castle: Charles Napier in India, 1844–1851 (1991). PLF wrote of the first volume, I Have Sind, Charles Napier in India, 1841–1844 (1990), ‘I love the dashing style of the author, and the no nonsense absence of humbug, and the humour.’ PLF to DD, 2 September 1990.
[2] George Jellicoe, 2nd Earl Jellicoe (1918–2007). PLF had been friends with the diplomat, politician and businessman ever since they had invisibly passed each other in pitch darkness, soon after midnight, in a cove off southern Crete in 1942. Jellicoe, who had been on a raid that blew up some twenty German aircraft, was boarding; PLF, who spent the next fifteen months dwelling in caves, was landing.
[3] Colonel David Sutherland (1920–2006). Wartime commander of the Special Boat Service and deputy commander of the SAS 1967–72.
[4] Nicholas Hammond (1907–2001). Distinguished classical scholar recruited to SOE who helped to organise Cretan wartime resistance. Published a memoir of his war service, Venture into Greece: With the Guerillas, 1943–1944 (1983).
[5] PLF spent three years at The King’s School, Canterbury, the oldest school in England, and sometime haunt of Christopher Marlowe and Somerset Maugham, where he was thought, probably rightly, ‘a dangerous mixture of sophistication and recklessness’. He was expelled, aged sixteen, after being caught holding hands with the local greengrocer’s beautiful daughter.
27 July 1991
Mani
Darling Debo,
I must have been cracked to make a putative date for lunch on the very day I was going through those extraordinary doings in Canterbury. I’m so sorry – thank heavens you couldn’t come. I ought to be locked up.
The whole thing was marvellous. I went down with Jock & Diana [Murray], and all guests and graduands were given luncheon in the main Dining Hall of my old school, and it made me feel like the Prodigal Son. We put on marvellous scarlet robes in the Treasury of the Cathedral and floppy Holbein hats, and did a slow march up the nave behind a man with a mace – the sort of thing Andrew has had to do dozens of times. Then, at the top of the nave-chancel steps the Chancellor (rather a dasher, head of BP, called Robert Horton) [1] and the other bigwigs in green and gold robes designed by the first Chancellor (viz. Marina, Dss of Kent) sat in a formidable array. The only other Dr to be made that afternoon was a nice American, Barbara Burn (DCL) [2] then three hundred BAs. Marvellous dewdrops about us followed. I would have liked it to have gone on forever, and must get a copy to read when feeling depressed. Then I had to answer – less than five minutes. A lovely Barchester-like day, tea under a shady copper-beech in the Archdeacon’s garden, ending with a great banquet at the University. A heavenly day and everyone going out full-tilt to be kind and welcoming.
Lots of love
Paddy
[1] Robert Horton (1939–). The British businessman was Chancellor of the University of Kent 1990–5.
[2] Barbara Burn (d. 2002). Doctor of Civil Law and prominent leader in international education.
22 August 1991
Chatsworth
Bakewell
Darling Paddy,
Xan. Oh what a paragon he was. How you will miss him, your best Wife and everything else. Reading the obits brought back the amazing career, & ‘je déteste les robes du soir’ [1] came through strong.
I expect he was quieter by the time I knew him, all savagery gone, like my Dad told my Wife when she said ‘I imagined you’d be so frightening, Lord Redesdale.’
I’m reviewing (don’t laugh) The National Trust Manual of Housekeeping for a mag with the smallest circulation in the world. [2]
It is good sport. You can’t imagine the horrors that go on in houses – moth, rust, carpet bee
tle, Byne’s disease which attacks mother-of-pearl, humidity, mould . . . I bet you’ve never heard of the infamous Bacon Beetle. Denied his favourite food (bacon, fool) because there’s no breakfast in Nat Trust houses, he goes for a blob of fat from the belly of your best stuffed-fish. Surprised?
Another cheery thing. I was in the garden talking to a friend, too loud I expect as per, when a man came up & said Excuse me I’ve read about a 1930s voice but I’ve never heard one, do keep on talking, please. So I did, lorst and gorn forever & he was doubled up and so was I & in the end he said well I’ll give you one thing, you haven’t got a stiff upper lip.
Much love
Debo
[1] Xan Fielding, who died on 19 August, aged seventy-two, was fiercely bohemian. Invited once to a ‘little reception’ in evening dress, he replied angrily, ‘I hate evening dress.’ ‘The phrase stuck to him. He got reconciled to them later on . . .’ (PLF)
[2] DD reviewed the manual for Historic House, the magazine of the Historic Houses Association, Winter 1991. Reprinted in Counting My Chickens, pp. 146–9.
9 September 1991
Mani
Darling Debo,
It was marvellous the spread newspapers gave to poor old Xan, tho’ some of them made it look as though he’d won the war singlehanded, with me as his loader. But I was pleased, for his sake and all his pals, not to vanish un-sung. I don’t know what one will do without him, though we only met a few times a year, owing to remote abodes. I wrote my bit about him two years ago, but when Magouche rang up with the awful news, got on to the head of that department in the D Telegraph, to add the bit about the final visit to Crete, and what a miracle it was. The head of obits. is a chap called Hugh M-Massingberd, [1] whom I’ve only met once but he was tremendously helpful, and said they had added a lot of stuff, to precede my bit, would I like to hear it? So he read it all out. There was quite a lot about Daph’s and Henry’s (first secret) wedding: [2] were they some freak kind of bigamists. Was D’s and X’s marriage valid etc? Terrible gossip column stuff, all of which he had taken out when I blew up; also, at the end of ‘writer, soldier, traveller, etc’, they had stuck ‘adventurer’, which means a sort of crook, which is just what Xan wasn’t – a paragon of correctness! – so that came out too, and several other dark jams, some of them due to people no longer knowing what words mean.
In Tearing Haste Page 31