Mrs Guinness

by Lyndsy Spence

  Maude mentioned her nieces to various neighbours, one of whom wrote to Diana. ‘Dear Miss Mitford,’ the long letter began, its sender was a lady with the macabre name of Mrs Pine Coffin, ‘Pray use my valley,’ she implored, and Diana graciously accepted her offer. During solitary walks in Mrs Pine Coffin’s valley, she sensed her daydreams would render fruitless; nobody would come along in a fast car and carry her off, the thought of which made her lose heart. The suffering and injustice she felt became a life lesson – never again, she vowed, would she be starved of intellect and admiration. An aimless existence was not for her. As the summer drew to a close, Diana was determined more than ever to live at the centre of things.

  Diana’s letters to James Lees-Milne had fizzled out. Tormented by her lack of communication, Jim turned his affections towards Diana Churchill, whom he had met that summer. The other Diana, ‘like a fairy’ with her puny frame, pale complexion and red hair, was a haphazard substitute for his original love interest. She was not confident like Diana Mitford; her introverted personality, consumed by spells of depression, worried her parents. Closer to her father, Winston Churchill, who was no stranger to ‘the black dog’ (as he called his depression), often said of his eldest daughter, ‘She is very dear to me.’ Regardless of Clementine’s silent concerns for Diana, she never exuded any warmth towards her and was constantly making unfair comparisons between her and her extrovert middle daughter, the future actress, Sarah Churchill. Years later, after a series of nervous breakdowns, Diana committed suicide.

  In September, Jim was invited to Chartwell and he readily accepted once he learned that Diana would also be staying with her brother Tom. Unlike at Asthall and Swinbrook, where Jim could escape with Diana and Tom, the ‘brats’ congregated in the drawing room and round the dining table. They listened to Churchill’s monologue on the Battle of Jutland as he shifted decanters and wine glasses, in place of the ships, around the table, furiously puffing on his cigar to represent the gun smoke. With Churchill’s attention fixed on the children, Randolph seized an opportunity to flatter his beloved cousin. ‘Papa,’ he mischievously asked his father, ‘guess who is older, our Diana or Diana M?’

  ‘Our Diana,’ came the reply from Churchill, spoiling Randolph’s plan.

  ‘Oh, Papa, nobody else thinks so but you!’

  During the stay, Diana was surrounded by her two most ardent admirers and Jim noticed that she outwardly relished being in Randolph’s company, despite her frequent protests of his immature behaviour. Jim looked on, feeling deflated.

  Diana’s attentions were further absorbed by the sheer brilliance and variety of Churchill’s guests. The impressionist painter, Walter Sickert, a great friend of the family, was visiting Chartwell. Clementine, in her youth, had asked him who the greatest living painter was. ‘My dear child, I am,’ he bluntly replied. In his late sixties, Sickert was still a flamboyant character, appearing one day in eccentric clothes and the next in a formal suit with gloves and a cane. Diana was alarmed to see him wearing red socks with his evening clothes and in the daytime an opera hat to take a stroll in the garden. He had already begun work on his portrait of Churchill that would hang in the National Portrait Gallery the following year.

  Sickert was preoccupied by artificial light, even on the sunniest of days, and he often painted his subjects in closed off rooms underneath the glare of an industrial strength light bulb. The suffocating heat overwhelmed many of his subjects, notably Sarah Churchill, who fainted from the strain. In an acid moment, Diana reminded Sickert that Helleu did not rely on such props.

  Diana was lost to Jim during his visit to Chartwell, for the main guest to really capture her affection was Professor Frederick Lindemann, who taught experimental philosophy at Oxford. Spending hours with Professor Lindemann, he taught Diana to play patience and she thought him a ‘real magician, a human ready reckoner of lightning speed’. He was as equally taken with Diana and her radiant smile. They shared many acquaintances in common and she approached him about the various undergraduates they both knew. At the mention of her brother’s friend, Brian Howard, he snapped: ‘Oh, you can’t like him, he’s a Jew.’ Professor Lindemann loved wealth, found poverty to be the fault of those who were caught in its merciless grip, and his fundamental views matched those of Hitler’s Aryan principles – he loathed the working classes and believed in sterilisation for the mentally disabled.

  Professor Lindemann gave Diana a beautiful watch made of three types of gold and she was touched by the gesture, for no one had ever given her an expensive present before. Despite his open anti-Semitism and racist views, she was fond of him. Flattery, it seemed, could turn her head and distract her from the ugly elements simmering in the depths of his personality. He dismissed Diana’s fondness for homosexual men and berated her further when he addressed homosexuality as ‘the very negation of all race survival’.

  Diana confessed to Professor Lindemann how bored she was at Swinbrook. ‘Why don’t you study German?’ he suggested. ‘Learn German and read Schopanhauer’s Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung.’ Before they parted, he told her, ‘Come and see me next term at Christ Church and tell me how you’re getting on with your German.’ Diana promised she would. The parting was interrupted by Randolph’s candour, ‘Oh, she won’t be allowed to. Didn’t you know? Cousin Sydney has read her diary.’

  ‘Shut up, Randolph,’ Diana said, not for the first time, nor the last.

  Before she left Chartwell, Diana tried to extinguish Randolph’s love for her. He was bruised by her rejection, but he did not obey what he called her ‘extraordinarily cruel and callous behaviour’. Randolph asked her, ‘Why were you so unkind? Was it because you wished to destroy my love for you?’11 The words did little to stir Diana’s conscience, but it hardly mattered when he informed her that she was unsuccessful, ‘for I love you as much as I ever have’. Diana had little time for his devotion and she similarly discouraged Jim. She saw neither Randolph nor Jim in her immediate future.

  When Diana returned to Swinbrook she was gratified to notice how pleased David was to see her. Remembering Professor Lindemann’s advice, she seized the opportunity and asked, ‘May I learn German?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ came her father’s dismissive reply.

  ‘Oh, Farve, why not? After all, Tom’s learning it,’ she pleaded. Tom had embarked on an extended trip to Vienna and Munich to study music and to learn German. Adding to her argument, Diana also noted that Nancy had recently completed a term of studying art at the Slade School of Fine Art in London, where she had established herself as a hopeless student and an even worse painter.

  ‘That’s different, Tom’s a boy,’ came the all too familiar, sexist response.

  Diana sulked off to the children’s drawing room, a place she did not care to be; ‘I wanted to go away and never come back.’ After the excitement of being feted by the grown-ups at Chartwell, she made up her mind to live for pleasure. There was a small glimmer of hope on the horizon; in the autumn she would be permitted to attend her first ball, the Radcliffe Infirmary Ball in Oxford. As she tried on the homemade ball gown, Diana stared at her reflection in the mirror and wailed: ‘I can’t go! Everything’s wrong!’ Her nanny brought her down to earth when she reminded the young beauty, ‘Never mind, darling. Nobody’s going to look at you.’

  NOTES

  10 ‘Know then that one alone can give me breath/ To mutter charms so delicate, so true/ That my poor soul torment unto the death/ The fragile heart that quivers at the view/ My feeble head is raised to hang the wreath/ Of poesy; thus much your sight can do/ Beauty’s last balm more hurtful is than that/ Which kills with ugly shaft the jaded cat.’ James Lees-Milne: The Life, Michael Bloch.

  11 Letter reproduced in Diana Mosley, Anne de Courcy.

  6

  COMING OUT

  The much anticipated Radcliffe Infirmary Ball did not live up to expectation. Dressed in an unsatisfactory ball gown run up by a parlour maid, Diana lingered on the edge of the dance floor resembl
ing someone in the throes of stage fright. This lack of exuberance from Diana was the result of an overwhelming feeling of disappointment. Surely this could not be the kind of grown-up world she had been aching to join. It was dismal – the men were boring and the entertainment strictly plebeian.

  Jaded from the night before, Diana accepted a telephone call from Professor Lindemann. His voice brimmed with eagerness, he (wrongly) predicted that she would be the centre of attention and he playfully asked how many proposals she had received. Diana killed his optimism when she announced, ‘None.’

  The disappointment was to last. Tom arrived home from Vienna to spend the Christmas holidays at Swinbrook and he dutifully escorted Diana on a round of cheerless hunt balls in the depths of the countryside, which proved as dull as the Radcliffe Infirmary Ball. There was never a chance to leave early, Diana glumly observed, for the ball continued on until the hostess decided that her guests had had enough fun. After the Christmas holidays, Tom left for his usual European adventure, leaving Diana alone to sulk at Swinbrook.

  Diana imagined she could live vicariously through Nancy’s friends. A procession of lively young men passed through Swinbrook, all possessing the very traits which David found infuriating. The fast pace of the twenties did not mellow his acceptance of the modern young man and Nancy’s friends were no exception, although he reluctantly put up with his eldest daughter’s ritual of having guests to stay from Saturday to Monday. The merry hordes of young people; artistic, exotic, vain, intelligent and well-travelled, were frivolously dubbed the ‘Bright Young Things’ by witty gossip columnists.

  With astute dedication, Nancy partook in the Bright Young Things’ outlandish behaviour but, contrary to popular belief, she did not lead the scene. There were lavish parties in country manors, most notably a circus party hosted by the fashion designer Norman Hartnell and a cowboy party given by William and Harold Acton. As the parties gained popularity, the themes became more bizarre. A second childhood party was thrown, in which ancient nannies were dragged out of retirement to push their overgrown charges in giant prams. Another was an impersonation party, where the guests were ordered to ‘come as somebody else, come as your dearest enemy, come as your secret self’. Their bad behaviour continuted when they arranged a lengthy conga line through Selfridges department store, snaking through the various floors and interrupting staff and bemused customers. When they were not causing havoc indoors, the Bright Young Things invaded the busy streets of London to take part in a treasure hunt, conducted by motorcars in and around the city centre.

  Diana could be scathing about anything that failed to impress her, and with her by-now-familiar critique, she dismissed the childishly themed parties as ‘phony’. With a gimlet eye she observed Nancy’s generation, all twenty-somethings caught up in the pathetic throes of ‘extreme youth’. For Diana it was an example of how not to behave.

  One bright spark appeared just as Diana began to lose hope. In the new year of 1928, James Lees-Milne returned to Swinbrook to stay for the weekend. She hoped to corner Jim for a congenial chat about literature, but the pleasant visit took a turn for the worse when, over dinner, Nancy dominated the conversation. Hoping to shock, Nancy praised an anti-German film she had watched at the cinema. Still harbouring a strong dislike for Germans, David made his usual offensive remark, ‘The only good German is a dead German.’

  Leaping to the defence of the film and of the German people, Jim stated, ‘Anyhow, talking of atrocities, the worst in the whole war were committed by the Australians.’

  ‘Be quiet and don’t talk about what you don’t understand. Young swine!’ David exploded.

  Mortified by her father’s outburst, Diana broke the heavy silence when she haughtily announced, ‘I wish people needn’t be so rude to their guests!’12

  Flexing his authority as master of the household, David trumped the ‘unhappy youth’ when he ordered Jim from Swinbrook. Frogmarched to the front door, Jim was thrown outside where it was teeming with rain. After several failed attempts to start up his motorcycle, he sneaked back into the house and crept up to bed.

  Awaking at six the next morning, Jim bumped into David, stalking the hallway, as he did every morning, wearing his paisley-print robe and drinking tea from a thermos. Anticipating another scene, Jim was pleasantly surprised when David appeared to have forgotten the offensive exchange and greeted him warmly.

  The turbulent visit settled into a bittersweet memory for Jim and, although he did not know it at the time, it would be his last visit with Diana at Swinbrook. He rightly sensed that Diana’s mind was focused on finding a suitable husband to rescue her from the great boredom of family life. With his ‘impecunious and melancholic’ nature, Jim knew he was not an ideal candidate, and long after he had departed from her life, Diana remained ‘the unattainable object of his desire’.

  Diana joined Nancy in the loathing of their parents and of her place in society as a young woman. Although brilliantly witty, well read and popular, Nancy served as a prime example to her younger sister of how not to conduct one’s life. With two failed seasons behind her, Nancy made no attempt to find a suitable husband. To the fury of David and Sydney, who could see past the pretence, she attached herself to Hamish St Clair Erskine, the homosexual second son of the Earl of Rosse. Hamish made it clear that he would not marry her, and yet she frolicked around London pretending they were engaged. Failing to form a successful relationship that would lead to marriage, Nancy paved the beginnings of a successful writing career. She wrote part-time, writing chatty articles for her grandfather’s magazine, The Lady. The payment was small and it barely stretched to cover her living expenses, but she peddled on. She longed to escape Swinbrook and the scrutiny of her parents, but she lacked the financial independence to do so.

  In an extreme juxtaposition, Pamela, although she was often briefly engaged, had no desire to dazzle society. She had proven herself useful in managing the family’s animals and in helping Sydney to run the house. At least if she failed to find a husband, Diana noted, Pamela could always earn a living. But unlike Diana, Pamela had no ambition to escape the countryside and she seemed content with her lot.

  Later, when Diana spoke of freedom, an inquiring journalist asked why she had chosen marriage over a career, and she candidly admitted, that owing to her nature – ‘I’m too lazy’ – marriage seemed the lesser of two evils. She also added, ‘We couldn’t imagine that anyone would wish to employ us. For one thing, we did everything badly.’ Diana rode every day – badly. She attended tennis parties given by local children, but her sportsmanship was unsatisfactory. Her music lessons were strenuous and dancing classes proved mediocre. Diana wondered if she could type, but that resulted in nothing, for she did not attempt to try. And so, marriage it would have to be.

  Hovering on the threshold of adulthood, Diana was all too aware of her father’s precarious financial situation. Throughout her childhood, David often told his children that he was ruined, and Diana anxiously wondered where their next loaf of bread would come from. David had lost the bulk of his inheritance trying to farm, and during their years at Asthall he made several ill-advised investments, ‘generally the result of talking to some brilliantly clever cove at the Marlborough Club’. The family’s fortunes were long spent and although they often joked of their genteel poverty, desperate times were upon them. Faced with no alternative, David began to hold estate sales, selling off the family heirlooms in an attempt to make ends meet. In hindsight, Sydney felt that the building of Swinbrook was the beginning of the end.

  One thing was certain, Diana knew either way she would need a firm plan to survive. Her rank in society, the only thing salvageable in the crumbling patrician family, was a firm foundation to start from. Her governess’s words reminded her that she was the least important person in the room, but even with that statement, Diana still attracted attention from the opposite sex. Nancy’s putdowns sprang from an uncontrollable envy at her younger sister’s effortless appeal and Diana was resour
ceful enough to realise that she could exploit admiration for her own gain. After all, Helleu, Randolph Churchill and James Lees-Milne were proof of that.

  On the afternoon of the 8 May 1928, Diana travelled with Sydney to Buckingham Palace for her formal presentation at Court. Photographs of the aristocrats at play were a zoo-like spectacle for the masses, and public events – society weddings and presentations at Court – brought them out in their droves. Curious members of the public lined the Mall, peering through the windows to catch a glimpse of the debutantes before the procession of chauffeur-driven cars passed through the gates of the palace. ‘Come and look at this one!’ was a familiar cry, especially if the girl was deemed to be very beautiful or extremely ugly – the plain girls were never singled out.

  Described as a feverish excitement comparable to that of a girl on her wedding day, the debutante season was ‘open sesame’ to doors which otherwise might remain eternally closed to the aspirant. But, for a mother in Sydney’s position with six daughters, the presentation at Court was predictable, and she braced Diana for the long wait ahead. Books, crossword puzzles and other light, recreational materials were brought along to occupy the drawn-out hours of waiting in the car. Liquids were sparingly consumed that morning, or avoided altogether, for obvious reasons too delicate to mention at the time.