The Penguin Complete Novels of Nancy Mitford

by Nancy Mitford

  I believe it would have been normal for me to have paid a visit to the outgoing ambassadress soon after our appointment was announced. However, the said ambassadress had set up such an uninhibited wail when she knew she was to leave, proclaiming her misery to all and sundry and refusing so furiously to look on the bright side (a happy and respected old age in a Kensington flat), that it was felt she might not be very nice to me. Her attitude seemed rather exaggerated until I saw what it was that we were usurping; then I understood. Lady Leone had reigned in this palace – the word reign is not too much, with her beauty, elegance and great funniness she had been like a queen here – for five whole years; no wonder she left it all with death in her heart.

  As for me, my fears fell away and so did my middle-aged gloom. The house seemed to be on my side; from the very first moment I set foot in it I was stimulated, interested, amused and ready for anything. When I woke up next morning to find myself in Pauline’s bed, the bed of both the Paulines, opening my eyes on the dark red walls and mahogany furniture, a curious contrast to the light gaiety of the rest of the house, I thought, ‘This is the first day, the beginning.’ Then I wondered how I should feel on the last day, the end. I was deeply sorry for Lady Leone.

  Alfred appeared, in high spirits. He was going to have breakfast in his library. ‘Philip will come and talk to you while you have yours. He says you must never get up too early. You’ll have a tiring life here; try and be quiet in the morning.’ He dumped a lot of papers on my bed and went off. There was nothing much about us in them – a small flashlight photograph in the Figaro – an announcement in The Times that we had arrived – until, at the bottom of the heap, I came to the Daily Post. The whole of the front page was covered with an enormous photograph of Alfred, mouth idiotically open, apparently giving the Hitler salute. My heart sank; horrified I read:

  The mission of the former Pastoral Theologian, Sir Alfred Wincham, to Paris has begun with an unfortunate incident. As M. Bouche-Bontemps, who had interrupted his holiday to meet Sir Alfred at the Gare du Nord, came forward with a gesture of welcome, our envoy rudely brushed him aside and confabulated, at length, in GERMAN, with a tall fair young man in the crowd …

  I looked up from the paper. Philip was standing by my bed, laughing.

  ‘Is this all right? One always used to see Pauline before she got up – it seemed a good moment.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said, ‘you’ll miss that lovely face under the baldaquin.’

  ‘This is different,’ he sat down on the end of the bed, ‘and in some ways nicer. So, I see you’ve got to the incident.’

  ‘Philip!’

  ‘Don’t say it has upset you. It’s nothing to what there will be – the Daily Post man here, Amyas Mockbar (you mustn’t forget that name), is preparing the full treatment for you; you’re on Old Grumpy’s black list.’

  ‘But why are we?’

  ‘The English Ambassador here always is; besides, Lord Grumpy personally dislikes Alfred, who seems unaware of his existence.’

  ‘He is unaware. There’s one blessing, Alfred only reads The Times and I shan’t mind what the Daily Post says.’

  ‘Don’t you be too sure. Mockbar has a wonderful knack of making people mind. I’ve had to give up seeing him and I mind that – he’s such a jolly old bird, there’s nothing more enjoyable than drinking whisky with old Amyas at the Pont Royal bar.’

  ‘But this incident,’ I said.

  ‘You see, you are minding already.’

  ‘Yes, because it’s entirely invented.’

  ‘Not entirely – he never entirely invents, that’s where he’s so devilish.’

  ‘Alfred talked to a German at the Gare du Nord?’

  ‘While you were being introduced to Madame Hué, Alfred spied poor old Dr Wolff of Trinity peering at him under the arc lights. Of course, being Alfred, he darted off – then he came straight back and explained the whole thing to Bouche-Bontemps. The incident was of no consequence, but it wasn’t entirely invented.’

  ‘But Dr Wolff isn’t a tall, fair, young German – he’s a tiny little old dark one.’

  ‘Mockbar never sees things quite like other people, his style is strictly subjective; you’ll have to get used to it.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’

  ‘There are a lot of things you’ll have to get used to here, but I think he is the worst. What have you done about a social secretary?’

  ‘I’ve got Jean Mackintosh coming next week. I wanted to settle myself in first and Alfred thought you’d lend me a hand until then, though I know you are far too important.’

  ‘Certainly I will. It amuses me and I can help you as I know the form. There’s no other work at present – total lull on the international front and all the ministers are away. Bouche-Bontemps is off again tomorrow. So let’s get down to it. First, here’s a list of the people who have sent flowers; you’ll want to thank them yourself. Then Alfred thought you had better see the arrangements for this week – rather hectic, I’m afraid. You have to polish off the colleagues – visit them, you know – and there are eighty embassies here so it takes a bit of doing.’

  ‘Are there so many countries in the world?’

  ‘Of course not – the whole thing is great nonsense – but we have to keep up the fiction to please the Americans. There’s nothing the millionaires like so much as being ambassadors; at present there are eighty of them, keenly subscribing to party funds. We have to tag along. In small countries like the Channel Islands practically all the male adults are ambassadors, nowadays.’

  I was looking at the list of names he had given me. ‘I only know one of the people who have sent flowers – Grace de Valhubert.’

  ‘She’s still away,’ said Philip. ‘How do you know her?’

  ‘Her boy and my two are friends at school. They’ve just been staying down in Provence with her. If they have kindly said they will come here for Christmas it’s chiefly on account of Sigismond.’

  ‘Sweet Sigi, fascinating child,’ said Philip with a good deal of feeling. ‘I may as well tell you, Fanny, since we are such old friends and anyhow you’re sure to find out, that I’m in love with Grace.’ I felt a small, stupid pang when he said this. No doubt I would selfishly have preferred him to concentrate on me, as he used to when he was at Oxford.

  ‘With what result?’

  He said bitterly, ‘Oh, she keeps me hanging about. She probably rather likes to show her husband, whom she is madly in love with, that somebody is madly in love with her.’

  ‘Silly old love,’ I said, ‘bother it. Let’s go on with the list. Who is Mrs Jungfleisch?’

  ‘Mildred Young fleesh. The Americans have begun to copy our tiresome habit of not pronouncing names as they are spelt. She says you know her.’

  ‘Really? But I never remember –’

  ‘Nor you do. She’s always going to Oxford so I expect you have met her.’

  ‘With the Dior dons probably, though I hardly ever see them – not their cup of tea at all.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘There, you see yourself how I’m not. So how shall I manage here where people are twice as frightening?’

  ‘Now – now!’

  ‘Mrs Jungfleisch is a femme du monde, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. I’ve known her for years – we went to the same charm school in New York when I was with U.N.O.’

  ‘You went to a charm school? I always thought you were charm personified!’

  ‘Thank you. Mildred and I went to see if we couldn’t pick up a little extra warmth of manner, but as you so kindly suggest we found we were too advanced for the course.’

  ‘The person who needs it is me.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be any good to you, because of not remembering who people are. A memory for names and faces is the A.B.C. of charm, it’s all built up on the pleased-to-see-you formula, but you must show that you know who it is you’re bein
g pleased to see.’

  ‘I know so few Americans,’ I said. ‘Do you like them, Philip?’

  ‘Yes, I’m paid to.’

  ‘In your heart of hearts?’

  ‘Oh, poor things, you can’t dislike them. I feel intensely sorry for them, especially the ones in America – they are so mad and ill and frightened.’

  ‘Shall we see a lot of them here? – I suppose so. Alfred has been told he must collaborate.’

  ‘You can’t avoid it, the place teems with them.’

  ‘Any friendly ones?’

  ‘Friendly? They make you long for an enemy. You’ll like some of them though. They fall into three categories, the ones here. There are the business men trying to make a better position for themselves at home as experts on Yurrup. They are afraid there may be a boom in Yurrup. Of course they don’t want to miss anything if there is. For instance, there’s the art market – all these old antique objects to marry up to the dollar. (Art is booming so they love it, they even call their children it.) There are dollars in music too – Schu and Schu can be quite as profitable as Tel and Tel. Art and music are only to be found in Yurrup; they come over prospecting for them – at the same time they don’t want to be left out of things at home, so they play an uneasy game of musical chairs between Yurrup and the States, hurtling to and fro in rockets, getting iller and madder and more frightened than ever.’

  ‘Frightened of what?’

  ‘Oh, somebody else being in on something first; falling down dead; a recession – I don’t know, dreadfully fidgety. Then there are literally thousands of officials who are paid to be here. One never sees them, except for a few diplomatic colleagues. They are dreadfully unhappy; they huddle together in a sort of ghetto – terrified of losing their American accent.’

  ‘What a funny thing to mind losing.’

  ‘It would be ghastly for them if they did. They’d be branded for ever as un-American. Finally we have the Henry James type of expatriates who live here because they can’t stick it at home – perfect dears. A bit on the serious side perhaps, but at least they don’t jabber on about art and dollars – it’s the future of mankind with them. Mildred is in that camp – camp commandant you might say.’

  ‘Shall I like her?’

  ‘You won’t get the chance. She adores Pauline and is preparing to be very cold and correct with you.’

  ‘Then why does she send me flowers?’

  ‘It’s an American tic. They can’t help doing it – they send them to friend and foe alike. Whenever they pass a flower shop their fingers itch for a pen to write down somebody’s name and address.’

  ‘I’m all for it,’ I said, looking at the Jungfleisch sweet-peas on my dressing-table. ‘Lovely, they are –’

  After a few days in the Embassy I began to suspect that something was afoot. Of course in a new house one cannot account for every sight and sound; even allowing for this I sensed a mystery. From my bedroom I distinctly heard a gathering of people making merry, some sort of party which went on every evening until the early hours; I would wake up in the night to shriek upon shriek of laughter. I thought the noise must come from the next house until I discovered that this is a block of offices belonging to the American government. Surely their employees did not laugh all night? By my bed there was a telephone with a line direct to the public exchange, not through the Embassy, and a discreet little buzzing bell. This sometimes rang and when I answered it I would hear confused phrases like ‘Oh Lord – I forgot’, ‘C’est toi, chérie? Oh pardon, Madame, il y a erreur’ – or merely ‘Aïe!’ before the line went dead. Twice Alfred’s Times arrived late with the crossword puzzle already done.

  The courtyard always seemed to be full of elegantly dressed people. I presumed they had come to write their names in our book (whose pages, according to Alfred, read like a dramatis personae of the whole history of France). Why, then, were they so often grouped on the little outside staircase in the south-west corner of the courtyard? I could have sworn that I saw the same ones over and over again, people with famous faces known even to me; a bejewelled dressmaker like a puppet in a film cartoon, face composed of brown golf balls; a Field-Marshal; a pianist with a guilty look; an ex-king. A pretty young woman, vaguely familiar to me, seemed to live in the courtyard, constantly up and down the little staircase with flowers, books, or gramophone records; sometimes she was carrying a huge picnic basket. Catching my eye one day she blushed and looked away. Mockbar, whom I had now met, was often in the Faubourg peering through our gateway. No mistaking him; he had the bucolic appearance of some little old groom, weather-beaten face, curved back, stiff bandy legs, wildly flailing elbows and an aureole of fuzzy grey hair.

  ‘I wonder if you would like to make a statement?’ he said, rolling towards me as I was walking home from the dressmaker one afternoon.

  ‘Statement?’

  ‘On the situation in your house.’

  ‘Oh you are kind, but no, thank you very much, you must ask my husband.’ I went indoors and sent for Philip.

  ‘Philip,’ I said, ‘I’m a paper. Would you like to make a statement?’

  ‘Statement?’

  ‘On the situation in my house.’

  He gave me a whimsical look, half-amused, half-worried.

  ‘Who has the rooms on the right-hand side of the courtyard – did I see them when you showed me round?’

  ‘Yes, it’s time you knew,’ he said. ‘The fact is, Pauline has dug herself in there and we can’t get her to leave.’

  ‘Lady Leone? But she did leave. I saw her on a newsreel, in floods. How can she still be here?’

  ‘She left the Gare du Nord all right, but she had the train stopped at Orry-la-Ville and came straight back, still holding Bouche-Bontemps’ roses. She said she was very ill, possibly dying, and forced Mrs Trott to make the bed in the entresol for her. There’s a sort of little flat where the social secretary used to live. Naturally she’s not ill in the least. She has the whole of Paris in there day and night – I wonder you haven’t heard them.’

  ‘I have. I thought it was the Americans next door.’

  ‘Americans never shriek like that.’

  ‘Now I understand everything. But Philip, this is very bad for Alfred. Such an absurd situation, at the beginning of his mission.’

  ‘That’s what the F.O. thinks. They tell us to get her out – yes, but how? I’ve just been on to Ashley again. You see, at the beginning one thought it was a lark – that in a day or two she’d get tired of it. So the idea was not to bother you. But now the Parisians have joined in the joke and it’s the fashion to go and see her there. People are pouring back from their holidays so as not to be left out. The smart resorts are in despair – nobody left to be photographed on the beaches. So, of course, she’s having the time of her life and quite honestly I don’t see how we shall ever induce her to go. We’re all at our wits’ end.’

  ‘Can’t we tell the servants not to feed her?’

  ‘They don’t. Mildred brings her food, like a raven.’

  ‘The one with picnic basket? We could stop her coming – tell the concierge not to let her in?’

  ‘Very difficult – it would be awfully embarrassing for him to have to bar the way. He’s known her for years.’

  ‘Yes, I see, and of course we can’t very well kidnap her. Then could we bribe her? What does she like best in the world?’

  ‘English top policy makers.’

  ‘What, M.P.s and things?’

  ‘Ministers, bankers, the Archbishop, Master of the Belvoir, editor of The Times and so on. She likes to think she is seeing history on the boil.’

  ‘Well, that’s rather splendid. Surely these policy makers must be on our side? Why don’t they lure her to England – luncheon at Downing Street or a place for the big debate on Thursday?’

  ‘I see you don’t understand the point of Mildred. They worship her in the House – they
can hardly bear to have a debate at all until she’s in her place there. She’s the best audience they’ve ever had. As for luncheon at Downing Street, why, she stays there when she’s in London.’

  ‘Oh, bother – !’

  ‘And now I come to think of it, she isn’t really the clue to our problem.’

  ‘You said she brought the food.’

  ‘I know. Food means nothing to Pauline.’

  ‘Still, she can’t live without it.’

  ‘The point is, she can. She’s forever going off to Tring for the starvation cure. It’s a mystery to me, this starving. People on rafts begin eating each other after a week; Pauline and Mildred are sometimes at Tring for a whole month – not a nibble out of each other’s shoulders.’

  ‘Oh dear, we don’t want her here for another month. Surely the policy makers must stand by their employees, Philip, and lend a hand? Have you spoken to any of them?’

  ‘They are doing what they can. The P.M. had a word with Sir Louis at Brooks’ last night. No good at all. Sir Louis just sat with his hand over his nose heaving with giggles in that endearing way he has,’ said Philip affectionately. ‘But after all, what can he do? Apart from the fact that it amuses him to death –’

  ‘Some important person ought to come over and see her – tell her she’s being unpatriotic and so on. She is, too.’

  ‘We’ve tried that. Moley came between two aeroplanes. He arrived very strict, but he didn’t keep it up. He said she lay there like a beautiful stag dying in the forest, and he hadn’t the heart to be cross.’