The Mitfords
Page 59
Pamela settled into a contented old age at Woodfield with her black Labrador for company. She introduced a rare breed of hen, the Apenzeller Spitzhauben, into Britain from Switzerland and became an expert on the rearing and breeding of poultry. During the late 1980s, until the lameness that was a consequence of her childhood polio made it impossible, she accompanied Diana to South Africa to escape the cold European winters.
As Mosley reached old age and began to suffer from Parkinson’s disease, he cut back on the restless travelling that had characterized his life since the war and this gave Diana the time to finish her memoirs. A Life of Contrasts was published in 1977 and was fiercely attacked for its unrepentant portrait of Hitler. Three years later, Diana wrote a biography of her friend the Duchess of Windsor, an attempt to rehabilitate an unpopular figure whom she felt had been unfairly treated. Loved Ones, which appeared in 1985, was a collection of pen portraits of family and friends. In all her books and in reviews for Books & Bookmen, the Evening Standard and other publications for which she wrote regularly, Diana seized every opportunity to defend Mosley and to advance her own unpopular point of view. Her hostility towards those she held responsible for destroying his career did not lessen with age.
Jessica was now a famous, respected author and personality in America. Her second volume of autobiography, A Fine Old Conflict, was published in 1977, at the same time as Diana’s memoirs. Over this period, she also produced The Making of a Muckraker, a collection of her journalism, The American Way of Birth, and two books about English subjects: Faces of Philip, a memoir of her old friend Philip Toynbee, and Grace Had an English Heart, the story of the Victorian heroine Grace Darling. They sold less well than her previous books but she was still much in demand for her tough investigative articles and as a guest speaker on the lecture circuit, where her funny and subversive talks were greatly admired.
Deborah’s book The House: A Portrait of Chatsworth, published in 1982 when she was sixty-two, was the first of eight books about the house and the estate that she was to write over the next decades. They were a success and showed that she had the same gift of direct, lively and witty prose as her sisters. Writing gave her and Jessica a shared interest other than family matters for the first time since they were children. They seized on this opportunity to correspond about a non-contentious subject, and this helped to heal the rift caused by their disagreements.
The survival of Chatsworth continued to be the Devonshires’ main preoccupation, at a time when rising costs and taxation made the maintenance of large houses in England increasingly difficult. In 1981, Andrew set up a charitable trust, endowed with proceeds of the sale of the Holy Family by Nicolas Poussin (which fetched £1.65 million) and seventy Old Master drawings, which helped to meet the huge cost of running the house. Deborah opened a shop in the Chatsworth orangery, selling gifts that reflected the Devonshire art collection, and a farm shop in a nearby village which sold the best of local and British produce. She also opened a restaurant in the converted carriage house in the stables to feed the 500,000 annual visitors to Chatsworth, and this proved as important as the shops in providing funds to support the house and garden.
Dearest Hen,
We are practically on our way, it does seem so unbelievable & exciting-that is, we actually get to London on 2nd March.
You may/may not know about D. Pryce-Jones’ plan to do a biography of the Boud.1 Anyway, a publisher just rang up to say David told him he’s doing it ‘with your cooperation’ (meaning my coop). As it’s not quite like that, I’ll put you in the picture re my position.
David got after me re this some time ago, last time we were in England for a longish while. He said someone is bound to do such a book eventually, so why not him? In my view, if anyone does do it D. would be the best person as a) I think he’s a very good writer (I’ve read some of his books, & like the interview with Nancy-did you? I can’t remember), b) he seems to have a strange sort of sympathy, or affinity with the actual Boud, c) I don’t think he’d do the sort of sensational horror-tale that others might.
So I told him that while I am not averse to his having a go at it, the other sisters might be; and that I thought it would be hopeless to try to do it in the face of family opposition. After that I forgot about it until now, when it seems to be hotting up again.
So that’s it, Hen. I like David v. much, & think he could write a good & fascinating book. (For one thing he is evidently stuck on the idea, having been on about it for all this time, which is a prerequisite for writing anything worthwhile as any practitioner of that dread trade will affirm).
Dearest Hen
How marvellous that the Year of the Hen is at hand, it’s such a good prospect because of no hurry attached, you’re usually going instead of coming and staying.
I had a letter from D Pryce-Jones about doing a book on Birdie-I thought and thought & I thought about your letter, & I thought again & then I honestly believe it’s too soon-not only do I think that but I also think anyone who didn’t know her intimately simply couldn’t possibly get the hang of the amazing contradictions of her character, nor her great funniness, nor all her oddness, therefore it could only miss the point & it would just be Nazis all the way.
It’s so much easier to say yes than no to anything like that, but I feel it would lead to many an agony. So I wrote what I hope was a sort of fairly nice letter, saying exactly what I’ve said to you.
Oh bother it all, I do wish people would stop writing books.
Much love, see you in three weeks, Yr Hen
Dearest Hen,
I did adore staying with you & thanks so very much for everything.
Oh those letters were overwhelming-I still feel o’erwhelmed a day later. Also, in a way, by our conversation; I never quite knew all you said, before this time, I mean the way you took all that. Oh Hen.1
Re Diana:2 it’s not exactly politics now (except for the feeling one must draw the line somewhere & you know all that part), it’s more that having really adored her all through childhood, it makes it 10 times more difficult to have just casual meetings. That’s why even our meetings over N’s illness (in which Diana was marvellous) were rather agony. Do you dimly note the form of that?
Again, Hen, Millions of thanks, much love to
Sophy and all, Yr Hen
Darling Debo:
Oh Debo I’m so sorry for all your worries, there’s nothing so awful as being responsible for people’s livelihood. Who is to go & who to stay.
Thinking about it I’ve been tormented with wondering about one’s heedless behaviour in youth. For example, what happened to Annsk?1 She was at Biddesden. Did anyone give her a pension? Perhaps Wooms might know. I got a Xmas card from dear Mrs Healey (Crowood) & it said, ‘this is written by my niebour (sic) because I have lost the use of my hands’. Of course I rushed to answer & hope to hear more. The nice old Ramsbury Dr (who dug the pellets out of Mogens’s leg when Desmond Forbes-Adam peppered him) has retired I think. Really it was the war which cut me off from masses of those old people because one wasn’t able to write from prison & one was so taken up with various worries to do with the boys etc. But how could I have lost touch with Annsk, it is wicked of me.
All love, Honks
Darling Honks
I am so sorry & worried re your headaches, it seems too queer for words the way they come & go & usually come. I’m all for telling that osteopath man, it’s just possible he might fiddle about with whatever works them.
This dump is quite amazing.1 I imagine not a thing has been changed for 50 years, it is pitch dark of course & heaped & piled with THINGS, real man traps, I mean if you pick something up off a table at least two covers come as well, ancient lace & under that brocade & under that velvet which looks like a dog with mange. The objects are all shapes & sizes & from all quarters of the globe, lots of wooden looking virgins on gold backgrounds. My bedroom is the size of the diner at home with enormous bits of positively papal furniture covered in the said brocade & velvet.
The lamps (what there are of them) wd make you die because of the shades, they are like little fitted caps of tiny beads sewn together & sitting on the bulbs & shaded in colours of green & brown so no glimmer comes through, plus the killingness of the object themselves.
Harold says he can’t get them any more, well what a surprise. They wd fetch fortunes in the King’s Rd. He is kindness itself & the manners are such that one doesn’t know when one ought to appear. We have sitting up talks from 5 till after dinner (bedtime really) with ne’er a break but he doesn’t seem to mind. I must say it has been a major rest cure, he obviously doesn’t want to go to the town & I was dead when I arrived so I’ve just sat & read, in a way it is a treat because it’s what I never do.
Yesterday we went for what H called a country walk, it was about 100 yards of paths up to his fascinating little farm, everything in miniature. He takes off his hat to farm man & gardeners & generally spreads his marvellous manners all around. The dump is an oasis, & almost in the town. It has got lots of other houses which belong to it but are let to Olivetti typewriters & students of new techniques belonging to them, all with ancient gardens of shapes of green. The driver is so bad & truly terrifying that I dreaded going to Pisa (1½ hours) but spoke about going PIANO although he didn’t seem to take the slightest notice. I suppose it wd have been even more frightening if I hadn’t. It’s a marvellous thing about being old, one doesn’t mind SPEAKING.
As for the BOOK,2 I could enlarge for hours but won’t bother you with what you know far better than I. I simply couldn’t help saying something about Jerry.3 He had added a weeny sentence. No one knows your part in the 4 years of illness except me & Woman. Oh well. It has fired me to get all the letters put in order at home. It will be a long & terrific work but I think it must be done, perhaps I’ll get a stoodent in the summer hols because if people are going to be interested in this book (and I think they will) they had better know the real story one day. H has put ‘Colonel’ for the Colonel instead of the GP rubbish.4 Much better, eh. He’s written to the old soul enlarging on this. N’s last journey back to France is so typically described ‘I went on the night ferry etc etc’ without a single word re stretcher, me, nurse, injections in the night, you at station in Paris etc etc. A sort of FANTASY. And if you remember the airy plane was out because they were frightened she’d die on it & upset the passengers. OH HONKS, what a travesty. I got him to put in how the old Hen had come all the way from Calif to do a stint, because she DID. But of course the brunt was borne by you & no-one else. I do so wonder what the publishers will make of it all, & I relish the thought of Duckie [Dr Blaikie] etc reading it, Duckie & his egg cup of choice flowers. What a hash they made of her.
H is planning a trip to Norway (well to anywhere really) in August to escape another possible visit from Princess Margaret. He really is too old to be subjected to that. In the heat of last summer he pined for fjords. Pathos.
He has told wonderful descriptions of Eton, & of China & of life here before the flood. He showed me a freezing ballroom where there were thés dansants [tea dances], & he described people gliding over the floor, tangos, foxtrots & all.
I have been entrusted with the top copy of this book, what a responsibility. He knows that N’s life was all in fantasy world, but I don’t know that it comes through, quite. He told me he was really upset when he saw rue d’Artois, thought it so terribly sad & all. You told me that at the time but I don’t think I took it in. He was expecting something so different.
Well Honks thanks again for my rich night. So dying to see you when you come to London, so please enlarge on date & time.
Much love, Debo
Thinking of dear old Harold arriving back at his house after hair-raising drive-my word he must be pleased I’ve gone.
Darling Debo:
This is to tell you the boring tale of my headaches because I know you are kind enough to be interested (not inter-ested) & because I can’t bear to do it on the telephone.
The first two visits to Dr Sherwood he gave my head a pull. I had a good deal of ‘discomfort’ specially at for example the theatre (having to sit still) & two headaches. I then asked him not to pull, & he didn’t. I improved quite a lot, went back to five-day intervals between headaches, heard a bit better & felt better. Then the Wednesday before the last treatment he wanted to pull my head & I let him (because he seemed to be doing good & he thinks it v. important). I got a headache that night. The Friday was the last treatment before we left & he did it again & again. I got the headache that night. Ever since I have had a bad feeling in my neck (the seat of all the trouble one thinks) & a headache every 48 hours. I have had seven in fourteen days no, in eleven. Even Kit is a weeny bit discouraged & I am totally so. I’ve got an appointment with Dr S & shall quietly tell him what’s happened. I’m sure the good body will get it right-or fairly right, I mean ‘normal’-after a while. I am not at all ill, often very cheerful, I have great fun at the Temple doing odd jobs in the garden & I’m not in the least worried. I tell you all that because there’s, I promise, no need to feel sad about me.
All love darling Honks
P.S. I don’t suppose you saw Kit on telly the other day (Thames) anyway Robert Ski[delsky] wrote him a letter saying that it gave an impression of someone with megalomania. The letter made me SCREAM & Kit said ‘Did you think I seemed like a megalomaniac?’ and I said ‘Well I’m so used to you being one that I simply don’t notice it any more’. But I do hope he won’t seem quite crazy on telly this week. You see he really & truly believes he could have done this & that & prevented England running down hill in the way it has done & is doing. His solutions are all down on the printed page year after year & they do seem now to have been very wise. (An example: in 1950 he said ‘hold Europe, leave Asia’. Which wd have prevented the Vietnam horrors & the terrible consequent loss of self-confidence in America.)
He says: ‘Is the pointing out of such things a sign of megalomania? Or should one modestly pretend one never did suggest the right road?’
I am so curious to see what the reception of Robert’s book will be. It contains plenty of abuse of Kit which can be picked out by reviewers.
P.P.S. Do look at top right-hand corner of today’s (31st) Times (it makes the blood run cold) page 3.1
Darling Debo:
Your classic about Woman & Rudi being Professors of Past Menus made me SCREAM, of course they should get some public recognition. Shall we get a steaming pie carved on Woo’s tomb (what a horrid idea – forget it. She will out-live us all luckily).
We’ve had the Skidelskys here. I won’t bore you with his worries, suffice it to say that his vehement condemnation of Kit for anti-Semitism in the thirties, which I think very unfair, isn’t nearly enough for the Jews who are stopping him from getting a university appointment. One eminent person, Lord Kahn,1 says he has put himself beyond the pale simply by writing objectively (or fairly so) about Kit & that no decent person wd wish to have anything to do with him. As Robert himself has got a good bit of Jewish blood isn’t all this incredible? He says historians now are intimidated & one must not mention certain things. His great crime is that having ferreted out police reports of the thirties he found that most of the violence was Jews attacking Kit’s people in dark lanes etc. Sorry darling I won’t go on I promise. I feel really upset over Robert because one can’t live by writing & he must get some sort of job. He has got a wife & child to support.
We are sad to be missing telly these last days of the campaign. Do you not think Benn2 looks like Uncle Geoff? Some of the lunacy too.
I suppose you are at the Derby, you are lucky.
Love darling, must rush, Honks
Darling Debo:
Harold’s book came, have you got one? Al thinks the cover rather awful, she looks like a pert sort of governess on it. He says ’twould have been so much better to have Mogens’s picture.1 True, & once again shows that the camera is the biggest liar out. As to the text, I noted that Al couldn’t stop reading it. The bits I re
ad made me think once again how ghastly all Mitfords sound, though of course in real life ha-ha they are ideal.
I still think the best bit is where she describes (to Muv needless to say) the marvellous delicious feasts & warm luxury of Paris after bitter starving London, & then her hostess Alvilde gives the game away by her descrip of hunting for carrots & potatoes, & savage electricity cuts.
Alphy [Clary] sounds much better & his friends in Switz are sending a motor to Venice to bring him & Lidi to their mountain top. It reminds me of when Andrew offered Mrs Ham to send a car for her, ‘where to?’ & she answered, ‘Isle of Wight’.2
Debo, have you ever read The Way We Live Now, Trollope, if not I charge you to. How Naunce would have revelled in it. I can’t bear to think this gem existed & one didn’t give it to her when her need was great, poorling Naunce.
All love darling HOW I wish you were here, Honks
Darling Honks
YES, come on Mon 24th CAN’T WAIT. Woman is coming, for her birthday. We’ll pretend it’s the W.I. dinner.
Your Memoirs.1 Yes Honks, let’s have them. Let’s US have them, no excuse, sit down NOW & begin with Once upon a Time an Old Lady was a Young Lady. I thought you had a sort of diary?2 I believe you have, you’re hiding it under a bushel. Come on Honks, get a move on. Needn’t be published, just gloated over by me & the Wife.