The Mitfords

by Charlotte Mosley

  The F.T. has asked me to do 800 words on tourists.1 I will, with a will. I’ve asked all & sundry for quotes & await the harvest from the wardens who stand about. The best so far is from the (v. nice) girl in the Information place. Someone asked if I had been an air hostess? Another said ‘I saw the duchess in the garden. She looked quite normal.’ I’ll send when it’s done.

  Much love, Debo

  Darling Honks

  Reading the obits. of Decca, the Mitford Girls are described, variously, as Famous Notorious Talented Glamorous Turbulent Unpredictable Celebrated Infamous Rebellious Colourful & Idiosyncratic. So, take your choice. The D Express has a long article about us called ‘Sex & Power’. I suppose anyone who is married, & most who aren’t, have what is now called Had Sex* at some point in their lives. As for Power I don’t quite see how that comes in to it. So why are we different from anyone else?

  Much love, Debo

  Oh Debo it’s simply TOO sad.1 Please get a wreath with enclosed & please do not tear up the cheque. Will the funeral be at Edensor or is there a Catholic church?

  Love darling, Honks

  I was in such floods but even with Jerry’s help failed to get Bolton but will speak to you tonight I hope.

  Darling Honks

  As you know I went to Bolton yesterday, encouraged by Andrew not to sit about & mope. I got back to find this place stunned, numbed, everyone quiet, so strange & so unlike usual.

  It was all because of you that Jean-Pierre appeared. Jerry played a huge part. I’ll write to him. It was 17 years ago. The ripples caused by his death don’t surprise me but they have gone far & wide. Andrew has chucked New York of course. He is wonderful beyond words at such times. Went up to the restaurant yesterday morning to encourage them all on, something I just could not have done.

  He said the response was touching in the extreme, they are determined to go on ‘as he would have wanted’ but oh the loss is deep. He was one of the best friends I have ever had. When he was younger he had a temper & an impatience which could be awful, I suppose it was the genius in him, he could hardly bear to be thwarted or to put a brake on & even at 40 that streak was still there & it was that which killed him.

  One of the children said he was like a sparkler here, so true.

  I can’t imagine the place without him but I shall have to. So many little things keep cropping up, all to do with him. He was on the crest of the wave, his wonderful birthday party, then Diane’s1 when he took her to London last week & they had 2 dinners in the best restaurants in London & he brought back the menus & we went through what they’d eaten mouthful by mouthful. He had loved that. The day before he died he got a letter confirming a television programme for him, cooking everything produced here, thereby different from the usual cooking programmes. This had been on the go for 18 months & he began to think it wouldn’t come off & OH he was pleased about it.

  What an extraordinary man.

  They are closing the restaurant on the funeral day & we’ll put notices on the gates …

  Oh Honks what a tragedy. We had such plans for this winter, the new bar, new cooking class place, a room for lectures, meetings etc.

  Last night they did a dinner for 200 I can’t imagine how.

  Much love, Debo

  Darling Honks

  We are in limbo waiting for the funeral. Poor Christine & husband1 came back from their hols, knowing nothing, to the sombre atmosphere, they can’t believe it.

  People have written as though he was my son, it is really quite strange.

  Friend2 has sent Diane [Béraud] most of Moyses Stevens3and he’s written to her – that is why I love him.

  Much love, Debo

  I’ve suddenly thought are Jean-Pierre & Woman cooking for each other in heaven? And is she telling him he’s doing it all wrong?

  Darling Honks

  Oh Graceland.1 2¼ hr flight in an incredibly grand private airy, delicious lunch given by v. nice crew. The excitement was intense, please picture. The party was Jayne [Wrightsman], Annette de la Renta, Ashton Hawkins (the v nice lawyer of the Met), Mrs Blackwell,2 & Warren Davis3 of the Nat. Trust.

  Met by one of those clever vans which holds 7 people. The first sight of the Mansion was a thrill & the gates with the music notes on. Drive round to back door. Very few ‘public’, a dead time of year I suppose. Went in through the kitchen where we picked up the audio things for the tour. A sweet but hopeless black girl in a woolly hat was our guide but the audios made her not necessary. They were perfect, Priscilla Presley talking, & sometimes Elvis plus music, allowed one the right amount of time in each room. The furniture was too lovely, white ‘custom made’ sofas all along a wall, down 3 steps & a white piano on a shag carpet so deep it went ½ way up its legs.

  The Jungle Room had outsize chairs whose arms were carved crocodiles’ heads, enormous, & a vast round one which no one could sit in because of its depth. Green carpet 2 inches long, (thick) & the same on the ceiling. Do admit. Alas no upstairs (like Blenheim),4 stairs carpeted & ceilinged. The dining room was very gracious & we were told on the audio that they all made jokes there & Elvis used to eat with one eye on the television. Another games room or 2 then out via the kitchen.

  One portrait, not very like, quite a nice lot of photos.

  Out of doors, bitter cold bright sun, to see some horses in a paddock which, a notice said, wore plastic eye shades to protect from injury, what could that mean? Then a fives court, a shooting range, out again into the Meditation Garden, weeny & made when he was interested in various eastern cults. Alas it is now the family graveyard, the mother, father & HIM, huge granite slabs with a lot of writing on & hung about with teddy bears & flower offerings of every shape & colour, so many that they continued along the fence past the garden & a permanent flame like the Unknown Warrior. Our guide, who unbelievably was called Morticia, told us that they arrive every day & when the anniversary of his death comes round there are so many they go all along the street.

  I forgot: the museum, long dark passages with show cases of his clothes, including the army uniform & sequins galore. Sadly, the Sincerely Elvis museum of intimate things was shut for refurbishment.

  The gold discs were arranged along long walls in patterns just like swords in a Scotch castle.

  Then across the (very main) road to see his aeroplane – enormous, with a huge bed in it. By then we were about whacked & only got to one shop & the idiotic Morticia never told us there were 2 more so we missed the sequin tee shirts & such like, maddening.

  Much love, Debo

  Darling Honks

  I looked at Birthdays in the paper. Saw Lord Moyne. Thought surely Bryan must be a bit older than that? And it’s JONATHAN.1 Impossible to believe, he is a private school boy to me.

  Sophy is 40 on Tues! Al[astair]’s dog, Jack, bit Nancy2 on the face (not badly) so he’s been put down. ‘JACK’S DEAD’ Declan said, oh aren’t children of three funny. I remember Sto coming into my room after I had a baby which died in 1947, so he was three, saying gleefully ‘our baby’s buried’.

  Did I tell you re Swinbrook or did that day fade into the busy-ness of last week? I made a dash for the day to Highgrove for a Royal Collection’s meeting.3 So I came back by Swinbrook to see the new people at The Swan. It was 70°, everything shimmering & green starting, I can’t tell you how lovely. I walked from there to the churchyard & was in sort of floods all the way. Woman’s grave has got some crocuses & two sawn off lavenders put by Madeau [Stewart] I think. Birdie & Nancy have vases of daffs – who could have done that? The church as magic as ever, the Fettiplaces4 are just it, aren’t they. So, floods. I’m so glad you will land there, resurrection of the ashes.

  Much love, Debo

  Darling Honks

  Jim’s diaries1 have taken me back 25 years, which they are meant to do. He is in despair over various mistakes in notes etc. I must say I have spotted a few which you will too, & omissions in the index which always seems to happen now. There is a marvellous descrip. of Dow Ly Lytton w
riting to her twin Ly Loch every day of her life & when she went mad … well you’ll read it, p. 132. Us, to the life.

  Andrew went to the Royal Academy dinner & wore the Garter & white tie for the first time. He walked there from Ches. St & no one took any notice or threw what Americans call rocks. I know people are very oddly dressed now but he must have looked a bit of an apparition.

  We’ve put a notice by the fountains (because when there was nearly no water they could only be on for a couple of hours) & now it says The Fountains Will Play 11.30–5.30. A woman standing by it, when going like Billy O, looked at her watch, which said midday, ‘Oh, we’ve missed 11.30 & we can’t stay till 5.30. What a pity. Now we won’t know what they play.’

  The ash trees are still like winter. What does it mean.

  Much love, Debo

  Darling Honks

  The Irish elections are very Irish, how can they take two days to count about ten votes. Andrew is glued to every news, the European money glues him. You are lucky to be invested in it.

  Last week was what is called action packed. I had dinner with Jean [Lloyd] on the way to London and we had a marvellous talk NOT about Europe you’ll be surprised to hear but people, her family mostly. The next evening was a dinner given by people with Garters for the Queen & Prince P’s golden wedding. It was at Spencer House. All the royal family there. Cake had to ask for a cushion, she has become so TINY her chin was on the table.

  Mrs Thatcher looked 18, I wonder if she’s had her face lifted, really incredible. I said ‘oh you do look wonderful’ & she said ‘it’s America, I like them & they like me & that is never the case in Europe’. Denis kissed everyone’s hand. I said ‘how did you do it all those years?’ & he said ‘love and loyalty my dear’.

  Tomorrow I’m going to the school in a weeny village who said I was the nearest famous person. I’m afraid they’ll be bitterly disappointed. They expect a tiara & a train & long white gloves.

  Much love, Debo

  Darling Debo

  You ask what it’s like to be 87. It is awful. I am so well, better than for ages, very few aches & pains, a bit wobbly but walk normally, easily for example to the coiffeur & back, do a very little gardening but get tired quickly, do the flowers for the house & have to lie down after.

  BUT I am almost stone deaf, so that people tire me terribly, I am so blind that I dread winter as then it’s all I have to do (reading). I dread inviting people or accepting invitations. Of course no question of plays, concerts or opera for many years past, telly irritates & exhausts me (eyes & ears). I see things outside that need doing but can’t do them, there’s a constant feeling of frustration.

  The beauty of my surroundings is a perpetual joy & when I go to Paris I love its beauty more than ever. But it’s not enough to make a life. I could live to be 100 like Aunt Daphne, but imagine 13 more years getting more hopeless all the time. I love being alone but of course only if I can read, which I still just can but not quite easily. Sometimes when I’m alone I worry about all of you worrying and really long for the end, but see faint hope as there’s nothing wrong. I dread an accident, hospital, wild expense just for the fun of being tortured. I love warmth but the sun hurts my eyes & I have to stay indoors. I had a swim when it was hot but probably shouldn’t do it. My blessings are you, Al, Cha, all my sons, almost all my grandchildren, my joy are your & their letters (which I can read much more easily than print). I must not grumble. I am so lucky but wish I could see the end. It might be such a wild bore for you all.

  Love darling, Honks

  Darling Honks

  Your letter re being old is sad. Of course it is, when the time comes for eyes & ears to wear out, what’s left?

  Blessing counting gets ever more difficult and aching voids of boredom which haven’t happened since very young must come back.

  The mere idea of not being able to read doesn’t bear thinking of. When I think of the vols you consume for pleasure and then to be denied the one thing which makes being alone almost better than having loved companions it is just a bit too ghoul. People don’t realize the effort of trying to hear, either.

  Frustration at not being able to garden etc added. I can’t get over you walking to the hairdresser etc that is something you have not lost at all.

  Thank goodness for the beauty of your house & garden though I know it is the other things which really matter, eyes & ears.

  Wishing to die is not at all surprising and wondering about alternatives.

  The trouble is the uncertainty and of course you think about it, so does Jim [Lees-Milne], I know, and no doubt everyone of your age and mine who has any imagination, it could not be otherwise. Thank goodness for your children, grandchildren & greats – something Woman never had, and the thing which made Nancy so waspish.

  Dear me, I keep looking at your letter and wondering. I won’t forget, that’s one thing.

  Oh Honks how odd life (and death) are.

  Much love, Debo

  Darling Debo

  We all felt terribly sad about the princess, what a fearful tragedy.1

  I can’t tell you how kind & sweet Live & Die2 & Jean [Lloyd] were, they have been the best visitors ever, we only longed for you to make it perfect.

  Now I am alone again I can’t help feeling sad, she was so brave and beautiful wasn’t she. I never saw her or knew her at all so I suppose what I feel is just the same as what the whole world, the crowds, feel.

  Louis [Mosley] goes back to school tomorrow, imagine the poor little prince, I wonder when he will. So terribly pathetic.

  Love darling, Honks

  Darling Honks

  How strange it is, this adoration & beatification of the princess. If only they knew. It just shows how humans must have an icon and there she was, beautiful, elegant and charming & quite extraordinary with ill or old people – I’ve seen her at work & it was a case of touching the hem, almost unbelievable. BUT ‘they’ have no idea of the other side. She was mad of course.

  As for our papers they have gone far too far. When you think of her lover1 & who & what he was, & all the things which aren’t allowed by the papers who have never been able to bear the idea of anyone, let alone a public figure, enjoying themselves – dinner at the Ritz after the 3rd ‘holiday’ in a month with the son of a man who has been refused citizenship & whose mother was a sister of Koshogi (spelling) who should have been a kind of devil according to the papers but was excused everything because she is now a saint. It is so ODD that I give up.

  Much love, Debo

  Darling Debo

  Thank you for the Berners reviews. My little effort was not in The Times yesterday so they’ve most likely lost it, anyway I don’t mind now because there’ve been raves which I wanted partly for Gerald & also partly for Mark who struggled so long & is amply rewarded.1

  About Proust, it had to be so short what I wrote that it was impossible really & I suppose I ought to have said no.2 I’m not nearly as clever as you are & I terribly regret your one blind spot, you would LOVE not just Proust, but Flaubert, Henry James, George Eliot, Goethe’s novels, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Turgenev, Chekhov, all these brilliant treasures & many more. I think possibly it comes from impatience, you want to be up & doing, well you are & think of the wonderful achievements! You have got the patience to plant trees, hedges, you know they take ages but once they’re in they grow & you can be doing again, something else. You don’t want to sit ruminating over a book, you want quick action. I do regret it, I can’t help it, thinking how you would laugh at Proust’s jokes or be terrified by Conrad’s descrip of the slow fire in a cargo of coal ready to turn & drown them all if the wind changes. It’s true my world is peopled by characters in books, & it’s a mystery how you, so interested in human nature, can do without it seen through eyes of genius. But perhaps it’s clever nature at work which gave you a task far more important than just loving to read. Your fund of wonderful human sympathy is much more unselfish, in fact reading is selfish & would probably waste your time which y
ou spend making life bearable for one & all. So in the end I applaud your choice. It is much cleverer to do than just to think.

  Love darling, Honks

  Darling Honks

  Thanks so much for your incredibly nice letter. I am only TOO AWARE that not having read the books by all the people you mention is MY LOSS. Like no operas, an immense hole which can’t be filled by anything else so remains a black emptiness.

  Impatience is indeed a reason and also what the papers call a short attendance span – that’s why I like lists, reference books & such like, just little bits of inf. which I quickly forget. It may come from having too much to do.

  Ages ago, when Andrew couldn’t do much (and certainly nothing detailed) to do with this old dump and its surroundings, because he was a minister and therefore in London or travelling, I took to trying to keep abreast of what was happening & trying to stop the then agent from pulling down (his favourite occupation) & various other sorrows which would undoubtedly have happened. It was not easy & every now & again I was accused of interfering, which, of course, was right. I was interfering. It was a bit of a tightrope. Then I started things like the Farm Shop & the children’s educational Farm Yard. Both were a battle, specially the shop. Derrick Penrose1 was dead against it saying we had no experience of such things; the estate was tenant farms with a mineral interest, woods (which lost £300,000 a year) & it would make a lot of work, we weren’t shopkeepers etc etc. I don’t know why I drag all this up, but added to the house & garden & Lismore & Bolton Abbey & the shoots, both here & at BA, it was more than most women do and entirely brought on by myself simply because I couldn’t bear to watch what was happening &, almost more difficult, what wasn’t happening, when I knew it could be a help to the old dump.