The Mitfords

by Charlotte Mosley

  Jessica devoted most of the 1950s to working for the CRC and the Communist Party, fighting for civil rights and championing victims of social injustice. In 1951, she travelled to Mississippi to help organize a campaign to save Willie McGee, a black truck driver who had been condemned to death for raping a white woman. As a result of their involvement in the case, the Treuhafts were subpoenaed by the House Committee on Un-American Activities and Robert was branded by Joseph McCarthy one of the most subversive lawyers in the country. In 1958, after fourteen years of membership, Jessica left the Communist Party. Unlike many comrades who resigned after the Soviet invasion of Hungary and the disclosure of Stalin’s crimes, Jessica’s decision to leave the party was based on her frustration with an organization that had failed to develop a form of communism adapted to the realities of American life and which had become ‘drab and useless’. As blind to the inhumanity of Soviet rule as Unity and Diana had been to the cruelty of the Nazi regime, Jessica considered herself a communist until the end of her life, convinced that it was the ‘decent and logical solution to political life’ and that its demise in Russia was a misfortune.

  In 1955, aged ten, the Treuhafts’ eldest son, Nicholas, was knocked off his bicycle while doing a paper round and was killed instantly. The cable that Jessica sent to her mother giving her the news has survived, but there are no family letters of condolence after the boy’s death – the fifth tragedy to scar Jessica’s life after the loss of her baby daughter, Julia, and the deaths of Esmond, Tom and Unity. Nicholas’s death is not mentioned in her memoirs and was never referred to in letters to her sisters.

  Later that year, after difficulties in obtaining passports that mirrored the Mosleys’ experiences in England, Jessica and her family made their first visit to Europe. Except for Deborah, who visited the Treuhafts in 1952, it was the first time that Jessica had seen any of her sisters for sixteen years and the reunion brought out all the ambivalence between them. She took her family to Inch Kenneth to see Lady Redesdale, stayed several days with Deborah at Edensor, saw Pamela in London and spent a week in Paris with Nancy. In her memoirs she wrote of these visits, ‘I had longed to see them yet found myself constrained in their company, awkwardly separated by the twin gulfs of time and outlook. They were wonderful hosts and I was not a good guest.’ When Diana heard that Jessica was coming to Europe, she wrote to her mother, ‘I’m afraid she won’t see me though; of course I should adore to see her’. The two sisters did not meet. Jessica wrote in her memoirs that she ‘could not have borne to see Diana again’. Nor did she visit her father. She told her mother that she would be prepared to see him if he undertook not to roar at her family; Lady Redesdale replied that since she had imposed conditions it would be better for them not to meet.

  Lord Redesdale died in 1958, without being reconciled with Jessica. His death is hardly mentioned in the sisters’ letters, perhaps because ‘the odd, violent, attractive man’ who had played such a central part in their childhood had disappeared long ago leaving, in his own words, ‘someone putrefying and going quite grey, very violent but quite harmless’. Deborah and Diana had been with him on his eightieth birthday, a few days before he died, and all his daughters except Jessica attended his funeral at Swinbrook. Lord Redesdale cut Jessica out of his will because of her attempt to leave her share of Inch Kenneth to the Communist Party. His gesture did not surprise Jessica but Nancy felt that she had been unfairly treated and made over her share of the island to her younger sister. In the 1950s, at a time when the Treuhafts’ finances were shaky, Lady Redesdale and all the sisters – including Diana – contributed to a small annual allowance to help Jessica and her family. In 1959, Jessica came into a Romilly inheritance, and with it she offered to buy out her sisters’ share of Inch Kenneth and let Lady Redesdale, who could no longer afford to keep the island, stay on rent-free for her lifetime.

  In 1950, Andrew’s father, the 10th Duke of Devonshire, died of a heart attack aged fifty-five, leaving the family with death duties amounting to eighty per cent of his estate. Negotiations with the Inland Revenue dragged on for seventeen years and the final payment was not made until 1974, twenty-four years after the duke’s death. In order to raise money to pay off the debt, Andrew sold thousands of acres in Scotland and Derbyshire, as well as important works of art, including paintings by Rembrandt, Holbein, Memling, Claude and Rubens. Hardwick Hall, which had been in the family for fifteen generations, went to the National Trust in lieu of duty. In 1955, it became clear that the best way of preserving Chatsworth for future generations would be for the family to move back into the house and develop it as a business. Inspired by her mother’s example, Deborah decided to do the decoration herself, a massive undertaking in a house with some 175 rooms, 24 bathrooms, 21 kitchens, 3,426 feet of passages, 400 windows and 17 staircases. Nancy, who was one of Deborah’s first guests, for once praised her youngest sister unreservedly, writing to Diana, ‘I think she has been géniale with the house & nobody else could have done it as well’.

  Darling

  Alexander has been so extraordinary lately, this was the conversation between him & Max.

  A. You know Mohammedans don’t have to be baptized, you just say the creed and then you are a Mohammedan.

  M. Oh do say it.

  A. I believe in Allah & Mahomet his prophet.

  M. Well then, now you’re a Mohammedan!

  A. Oh no. You have to hold the index finger to the brow as you say it.

  Then as we climbed the dentist’s stairs where there were several astonished patients he went on in his loud voice, ‘You can have no idea of the sensations of ease, refreshment and elation as you leave the hammam. That is the Turkish bath you know Max’.

  And yesterday Kit had a sex talk with him because his songs and rhymes are so awful, beyond a joke, & K thought he would try to show him how beautiful love could be and then told him if later on he terribly wanted to it cd probably be arranged whereupon he said ‘I can’t stand harlots’ and later on I saw him in his bath and he said in dramatic tones ‘I have been having a talk with Daddy, it is not suitable for your ears though Mummy, I never guessed the dark reality before, and I must say I am shocked, because I am a bit of a prude you know.’ Considering he has nearly driven Nanny & co out of the house with his disgusting rhymes not bad?

  I won’t bother you with the page proofs,1 Muv and I will read them as you say. I am so longing for the book to be ready, of course they are being dreadfully slow.

  The Duchesse [de Langeais] is now held up for binding, we didn’t bind many to begin with.

  All love darling, D

  Darling,

  Oh dear I’ve just had a morning with my dressmaker – an evening dress now can’t be made even by her under a tout dernier prix de £50.1 Isn’t it dreadful, it seems such a lot of money. And that includes using an old one as foundation. She says 30–40 yards is the minimum if it’s not to look skimpy & I know she’s right. The dresses have never been so vast & elaborate. So I don’t know what to do & meanwhile have to refuse all dinners as I’ve 0 to wear – I do think it’s the limit! Still, better concentrate on the day [dresses] which is really far more important.

  Evelyn [Waugh]’s visit was terrible & wonderful & wore me out. I took him to see Marie Laure2 & he said afterwards ‘while I was looking at that lady’s pictures I found a Picasso, so I hid it – it will be months before they find it I hope’. Just a leetle beet mad.

  All love, NR

  Loving Nothing3

  Dearest Hen,

  Thank you so much for your letter, sorry I didn’t answer before but you can’t imagine how frightfully busy I am. Our wonderful built-in sitter has left for one thing. The first week she left, little mounds of honey & sugar began accumulating on the furniture & floor (left by the children) & the second week, bits of hair & fluff began to adhere to the bits of sugar & honey, nothing ever seems to get cleaned up any more.

  We are longing for our tour to start. Dinky is terribly excited specially about seeing
Emma & Boy.1

  We hope to go to Paris & possibly Prague if one can get there, as well as England. The only thing still needed is passports, we’re seeing about them next week.

  Sorry not to have written for several years but as a matter of fact I didn’t know your address – or your name, so am addressing this to Hon. Henderson, hoping it will get there.

  I am sure Dinky & Emma will be amazed at each other, I can’t wait to see them together. In some ways I wish we were bringing Nicholas & Benjamin, they are so extraorder, but it will be more peaceful without them.

  Yr loving Hen

  Darling Sooze

  It is a bitter blow to hear you’re not coming.1 I was so dying & dying to note the graph with you.

  I am on a tor. Well it is a tor of all the most disgusting towns in the Br Isles, with a play I’ve adapted into English called La Petite Hutte.2 Not very good, but funny I think. So I’m here with the poor old boy for the weekend before we go to Newcastle.

  This play will probably go to New York in the autumn & they want me to go but I don’t think so. I’ve had about enough, & you don’t go to N.Y. do you? If I thought I’d see you I might think again.

  So odd, Farve thinks of literally nothing now but cocktail parties. ‘We’ve sold the cows because milking time is cocktail time’ & there is one literally every day. ‘Cocktail party at the camp this afternoon’, he says looking at his engagement book. So it’s rather terrible for me who hates them more than anything in the world.

  Yesterday we went to one given by 2 Lesbians to see a large oil painting of Margaret [Wright] in black velvet. It was a yell Susan.

  Oh dear, I would like to see you.

  All love, Nancy

  (In case you’ve forgotten my writing)

  Darling

  We flew round to say goodbye but you had gone out.1

  We all dined with the Mogens’s2 also Daisy [Fellowes], and the talk turned on noses (just as you say it always does when Dolly is about) and after lyrical descriptions of what can be done by operations, Dolly said in a sad way, ‘Peut-être je devrais faire opérer le mien?’ Daisy: ‘Mais non, ça ne vaut pas la peine’3 (very sweetly). It was so awfully sad.

  Yesterday I spent the morning with Muv & Debo, Debo is preparing for poverty,4 it upset me & I said we would all subscribe to keep her in the luxury to which she is accustomed.

  Well darling thank you so much for all. I am so terribly excited for the little Temple. By the way Kit has given his word he will do no politics while he is in France, they will be his treat here.

  All love darling, D

  Darling,

  The panicking here has reached such a pitch that even I have got a bit windy.1 It’s just like I remember London in 1940, everybody showing you their pills. (As you know I’m never as frightened as most, but feel in a bad position here being a foreigner.) I dined with Mogens, Dolly & Geoff2 & really the talk – you know how I love old Geoff, but my gorge does slightly rise when I hear him say ‘well my life is arranged so that in between the wars I can be very comfortable & during them only rather bored’. The Col however keeps my pecker up, he is quite unmoved by it all. What do THEY (such as Bob [Boothby]) say in London?

  I must hear every word about the Connollys please. I’ve got him in my book3 – he runs a highbrow theatre called the Royal George, all those terrible girls are the crew & he’s called the Captain. The heroine of the book goes to a performance of Phêdre brought up to date by an Indian, with Aricie a dancing boy called Hari-See (psychologically sounder, I must say).

  Have you read The Novel in France?4. It’s very lowering for a writer of my class to read – in fact what between that & the general feeling of hopelessness in the air I’ve done pretty badly the last week or so. It’s awfully riveting.

  So glad Woman is to roll.5 Derek asks everybody ‘what does Nancy think?’ Geoff says she’s never mentioned it & Hamish [Erskine] ‘she doesn’t mind one way or the other’, both of which make him furious!

  All love, NR

  Darling Honks

  I got yr middle of Aug letter when I got back here, idiots hadn’t forwarded it.

  It was sad you had gone from Venice, I did mind, as I half hoped you’d still be there instead of all those impossible people.

  I must say it was fascinating in its way, & the ball1 itself a real amazer. The richness of everything, from every dress to each small detail of the dance like food and the jewelled things to pull the gondolas in, was a positive revelation. The women were more beautiful than anything I ever saw & the men more revolting. The foreign women are so clever at making up and all the rest of the things that make people look nice, & the clothes seemed to be made of such wonderful stuff. Anyhow the whole effect was really beautiful, so much to look at. The Entrées were frightfully comical in a way, though they must have taken such a lot of thinking out, they walked once round a room & finished. Someone standing next to me said they were a series of one-act plays, I did shriek as that reminds one of the W.I.2 Daisy Fellowes looked very good (though a bit like Beatrice Lillie)3 and as for the Empress of Russia’s lovers, well the only three I knew were Chips Channon, Count de Chambrun and Peter Coats, so poor her.4 Honks Cooper looked a bloody fool sitting up on a dais with F. Fred de Cabrol bowing away at each lot, though one must admit she looked beautiful.5 The standard of English looks was v. high as there was her & Liz Hofmannsthal6 & Clarissa Churchill7 & Rose Paget & Tig8 looked her utter best. The Deacon9 was an 18th-century housemaid, poor look out for the dusting.

  It was a gloat. The prettiest part was arriving in a thick mess of gondolas shouting & jockeying for position to land the people on a platform covered with a wonderful Savonnerie carpet.

  The rest of Venice was quite jolly. Elizabeth Winn10 said she’d seen you which she had loved.

  We got back three days ago. I must see you soon, what will you be doing, staying in France or going to Ireland again? Do write & tell & then one can act according.

  All the mags will be full of the ball as there were lots of press photographers.

  Goodness the foreigners are jokes. Your sweet little friend, the Spaniard Domingo,11 always says Goodbye when he means Hello. It muddled me properly and about the 10th time he did it I said ‘Oh dear are you going’ and of course he wasn’t. He took Nancy Lancaster12 on a sight-seeing tour & when they were gazing at a picture of the Virgin in a church he said ‘Chic, huh?’ which surprised her a bit.

  Terribly wet here, no harvest in. Blor & Mabel are coming to stay on the 17th. I must ask Nanny Higgs to stay, do you think she would come.

  Muv is loving having Max. Em will love the shell, how clever of him to get it. Oh Honks I do long to see you, please tell where you’ll be.

  Much love to all, Debo

  I found Mrs Fellowes on the Piazza & gave her your letter, I think she thought I was a tramp, begging.

  Dearest Hen,

  Thanks very much for your letter. I think it’s a wonderful idea about you coming out here, I long to show you the children, I’m sure they are quite unlike yours. However, before you take the plunge, I must warn you of a few things.

  1. We lead an extremely un-Duchessy life here. For instance, if you stay with us you would have to sleep on a couch in the dining room, we don’t have a spare room here. Of course you could stay in a hotel, only how to pay for it? Which leads me to:

  2. You can’t bring more than $25 out of the country, so you would be completely at our mercy once here. We’d love to have you, but wouldn’t be able to afford to pay for a hotel. However people often do come to stay on one’s couch, so maybe you would do that.

  3. Our life becomes daily more uncertain. A lot of our friends have been thrown in prison & one never knows who’s next. (Not that we expect to be, at least not before February, but I’m just warning you.)1

  Now you’ve heard the worst, I DO hope you’ll still come. There is one more thing: I work quite hard, in fact night & day. If you come I would plan to take off for a week or two, but then if some
emergency should arise I might have to scram back to work.

  I’m sorry not to have written lately but we ARE so busy all the time. How about Andrew, couldn’t you possibly bring him? I’ve never even met him, you know. He’d probably loathe the couch, that’s the only trouble.

  By the way please don’t do what TPOF did: she sent me a telegram saying ‘Am considering smuggling some things into US to sell, please suggest best things to bring’. Of course I wired back saying ‘all wires & phones tapped by FBI, don’t smuggle things, won’t be responsible’2 but I was terrified all through her visit that the Customs people would be raiding the house. However I’m sure Andrew being the type to stand for Parliament is also very law-abiding & will advise you on such things.

  So do come. Let me know in plenty of time so I can try to arrange about taking off from work. I’m sending some pictures of the children, looking like Angels, they are not at all like this in real life but are quite dirty most of the time as well as noisy & spoiled. This is not their fault, we never seem to have time to really bring them up, poor things. However they are all beautiful & clever, which makes up for their faults.