by Diana Cooper
Sunday I took a motor canteen to an aerodrome. It was a heavenly day. The country was as brightly coloured by the autumn as a parrot and I felt almost happy – no planes but our own, and the R.A.F. so gay and encouraging. The news never gets any better. France joins the Axis. Italy attacks the innocent Greeks. They won’t bomb the Parthenon, I suppose, for fear of the Greeks bombing the Colosseum. Why should every capital but ours be respected? The French were so terrified of Paris being destroyed that it helped their collapse. The other countries think most of their capital and forfeit the future to present the past.
Liz’s house having had all the windows blown out has now had an incendiary upon it. I went there yesterday. Never have I seen anything so dejected. Luckily there was practically no furniture in it, but what there was and the carpets are soused in a porridge of soot and water – quite irreparable. Poor Liz. Still, lucky she wasn’t in it.
Soon it will be Christmas. I hope you will have a lovely one with the Paleys. Too many presents – last year I thought there was a glut.19 They were too tired of opening them to go on. I wish O God I wish I was going to be with you. I want you to have a typewriter. I did write it before to you or Kaetchen, because you write me longer and funnier letters with a machine than you do with your poor fist.
The van takes the books to Belvoir tomorrow, thank God, and then I shall start the diary method again. A bomb fell at the feet of the Abraham Lincoln statue and only twenty yards from me in the canteen. I didn’t half jump.
November the 5th, 1940
(please to remember it)
They are electing the President at this moment. I pray to God Roosevelt wins. I’ve come to think of Willkie20 as Hitler’s candidate, more especially as we hear he is backed by Lindbergh and Ford and Father Coughlin.21 I wonder how excited Canada gets and if the U.S. frenzy spreads over the border or across the Great Lakes. You never tell me of these things. Do please try to. I can’t get back to my nice diary ways. I never seem to have a spare minute. It’s that fatal early rise, and no leisured morning in bed with telephones and pencils and newspapers and the cold cold legs of John Julius. Instead the cold cold street, gashed with mutilations and this morning a cold cold rain to walk through and the darkness of midnight.
After I got what proved to be nearly four tons of books off to Belvoir on Friday, I had an ecstasy of achievement and relief. Friday is such a good day anyway, as with any luck we shall leave this dreadful city by five, and last Friday we left and went to Barbara Rothschild’s in a little woodman’s cottage she has fixed up in the park of Tring, once the family seat of the Rothschilds. She had made it very attractive and there were no bombs, so I felt very happy. Quite soon she is to have another baby, so she sits there quietly and Victor works in London on something exceedingly hush-hush and sleeps at Tring. On Saturday we had a duck shoot, but there were practically no duck and it rained and blew a hurricane, and after lunch we proceeded to Ditchley, my earthly Paradise. The house was packed with nice people with nice manners22 including Brendan and Bertram. Both nights I slept fourteen hours running, so I felt fine and dandy and put Monday out of my mind as long as I could. Still it had to come, even as night does, so here I am. Talking of Bertram, he is going back to N.Y. for Christmas and you’ll doubtless see him and he’ll tell you all about us and how we live and how the poor town looks. He is America’s best ambassador in this country.
Lord Lothian23 is here at present. I wish to heavens he could be translated to something even higher and that Papa could have his place at Washington.
We are full of praise for the Greeks and perhaps wrongly sneering at the Wops. They say their tanks have six gears, five in reverse and one forward in case they are attacked from behind.
Write often. I get so sick for you sometimes, and when Winston talks of the preparations for 1943 and 1944 my heart sinks. The other night the All Clear went at 9 p.m. and that beast Papa made me go upstairs to sleep; of course the raid started again at 3 a.m. and the bombardment shook me to pieces, so I never slept another wink. I love you more than I can tell you. It would be selfish and worse to say I wish I’d never sent you away, but now that we think less of invasion, it sometimes overcomes me but I’m glad really because after all it’s an adventure and I like to think you know the Old and New Worlds equally.
November 7th, 1940
I passed Egerton House24 today. It hasn’t got a pane of glass and looked quite blasted. The front of Chips’s house25 I hear is blown in. It’s very cold. Has the ice come to you, I wonder? It’s lucky that you have always skated a bit and so will not start too handicapped. Perhaps you’ll become an international ice hockey champion.
November 8th. I got into Dodgems with Venetia after my canteen and buzzed down to Chequers to have lunch with Clemmie Churchill, Mary her daughter and Judy.26 Chequers was given twenty years ago by a rich peer to the Prime Minister of England. Money was settled upon it and so all Prime Ministers can go there at any time with all their family and friends and advisers and find a smoothly running house with food and staff and heating and flowers and soap and linen. Of course the Germans are always having a shot at it. It is a large pink brick Elizabethan house on a spur of the Chiltern Hills.
Our excitement after lunch was when the Chief Constable walked heavily into the white panelled drawing room and asked us all to vacate the house and to open all doors and windows as the Bomb Disposal Squad was going to explode the mine lying about a hundred yards away. We ran out. The bomb lay in a hole about twenty feet deep. (How people ever discover them when they don’t explode I can’t make out.) We were made to go a long way away, about 300 yards, then we heard the posse of men grouped round the hole blow whistles. We saw them jump into a car and a few seconds later a bang that split the heavens, a flash and a gigantic cloud of green and yellow and black smoke and flame as high as one could wish. We ran then to the huge crater it had made but there was nothing interesting about that. I suppose the bomb disposal men don’t think it more frightening than anything else, and have quite accustomed themselves to the danger, just as we have (or nearly in my case have) living in London.
Nov. 9th. I’m at a house called Waddesdon near Aylesbury, the huge seat of James Rothschild. It is filled now with children under five, but they have kept a little freezing-cold wing to live in. We knit. Venetia and Judy are here and an old sister of the owner who has had to flee from the Paris she lived in and feels, poor creature, a burden to her brother – which indeed she is.
Nov. 11th. I motored up alone this morning and could not resist turning off the main road at Tring Park (a house Victor’s family owned) where I had seen a tiny broken little house on the side of the wooded park, well situated to face a lovely prospect of a wide vale below it. All the park gates were locked but I found one to admit me though not Dodgems. The ground was atrociously soggy and I was wearing smart London shoes as high as stilts, but I ran hard through the pathless wood catching in brambles and bogs and came suddenly upon a disused avenue with a Cleopatra’s Needle at the end and the most charming little temple façade of the broken house, the back of which faced the vale. All windows were broken, all doors open to the touch, a tiny tall sitting room with bay window and a room each side of it, one could be a bedroom with a bathroom built on and the other a dining room-kitchen, with a pantry-scullery built out. It belongs to Victor and if he will only mend it up and put the water in, I should so adore to have it for the war to sleep in. I confided my hopes to Hutchie who said ‘But you wouldn’t ask Duff to do that?’ ‘Why?’ I said. ‘Well you can’t expect him to spend every evening alone with you. He likes bridge and fun.’ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but he likes the country and reading and quiet from bombs also.’ ‘Well I think that’s really asking too much of him.’ I have never felt more humiliated.
A dreadful afternoon at Liz’s house with a charming little cousin of Raimund’s.27 O it does get me down. There is no roof, the rain cascades in to join the slush the fire-pumps have inundated the soot and debris with, nothing is wor
th salvaging, everything sodden and weighted with black saturation. No light of course and we groped about, candles in hand, when we left the daylight the open roof affords, to try to find things worth saving. A few bombs dropped some way away and made the ruins shudder. I hope poor Liz won’t mind too much. I can’t imagine anybody wanting to live in London again and now she will have to pay no rent or rates. I don’t remember if I told you how lawless and rebellious Egerton House looks, as though the boys had mutinied, nothing but broken glass and things fluttering in the wind. It had no hit, only blast.
Nov. 12th. There was practically no raid last night. The All Clear went so early, and when Papa and I went down to the gym it was empty quite, so we talked for half an hour in ordinary voices and discussed a multitude of things and people, and joked in our own domestic way with phrases and nonsense language, and time-worn but loved ridiculousness. When nobody appeared to be coming down I got up and went round turning out the lights by the other beds. To my horror by a bed that had no light and which is rarely if ever occupied, I saw the bright beady eyes of Miss Cazalet darting out of the face with interest and horror at our conversation.
Monday, November 14th, 1940
Tremendous excitement about the battering of the Italian fleet at Taranto.28 Really good news at last – everyone’s spirits good. Conrad came to London and we went to the only play in London – only matinée. It is called Diversions and is a series of songs and sketches, in fact a revue of sorts – Edith Evans, Dorothy Dickson and five or six old favourites from the Players Club.29 I was excited as a child by the smell of the theatre after so long. Edith Evans does a sketch of a London hop-picker who has had her home bombed on her way to her job in the train – excellent.
15th. Very bad news today about Coventry. The first news is that the factories are scarcely damaged but that the town itself is cruelly smashed and many killed. London of course had a quieter night, and I was beginning to get quite brave again. Poor Coventry. People are dashing off there with their mobile canteens to feed the homeless and hungry. I don’t suppose there’s gas or water or light.
This is a funny little house Helen30 has bought on the golf course near Ascot. It’s like a musical comedy cottage with thatch and a seat and a pump and pigeons and creepers. Rather common and absolutely delightful. Helen is as cheerful as ever, rather fat and exceedingly happy. They have a lot of bombs scattered about and Esmond Harmsworth, who lives next door in a smaller gimcrack little cottage he has rented for safety, is so terrified that one can’t help teasing him about it. He goes green and shudders. Two fell in his garden and a big bit of shrapnel came through the wall of his bedroom just above his head and hit the opposite wall – not funny.
16th. Papa went to London for the day. It appears they had an appalling night in London last night – one of the worst. I’m thankful I missed it. It’s like Long Island in this house and neighbours are in and out. The housemaid treats me as if I were a china invalid baby. She sits me up in bed and gets me someone else’s fur jacket, she brings me little nips and snacks and hot water bottles at odd times. When I comment upon the attention she says anyone coming from London deserves it, so I feel heroic without reason.
Black Monday 18th. I’m afraid I shall end by getting on Papa’s nerves. He so hates to dine in the restaurant and to sleep downstairs. I really must sleep down, otherwise it’s no sleep. How could a bear hibernate if it had an immense naval gun within a few yards pounding away incessantly? I don’t like eating in our sitting room for the same reason and also because bombs come in broadside. The consequence is he’s always pulling against me and sometimes I regret to say winning, poor Papa. He has more strains and worries than he tells of, but I feel exaggeratedly that my fears and troubles are worse than his and therefore should be given in to.
I had Albert and Bertram and the farmer and Papa and Jean31 to dinner. Even Papa enjoyed it though we were downstairs. Lord Ashfield says that so much less real damage is done by bombs than appears to the eye. He gave as an example his own workshops which are all over London, his power station, etc. Since ten weeks (or is it eleven?), although repeatedly hit, not one of these premises isn’t working 100 per cent.
London, Friday, December 13th, 1940
An ugly date my darling, but a day of great calm on our front and one laden with good news.32 The Wops flee: ‘Let God arise and let his enemies be scattered.’ We are ringing the bells of our hearts, as our church bells are dumb till the invaders come.
In the midst of our uplift came the news of Lord Lothian’s death. I’m ashamed to say my second thought was – might Duffy be given the job? What a vista of hope and light I floated down. I should – just to begin with – see you again as a bachelor and not as a man with a beard and family, out of the darkness, out of the fear, the shame of leaving others to face what I was missing mitigated by being ordered away, plus the Clipper terrors. I must not write of the hope nor think of it, as the odds are much against it. No use planning whether to take Wadey, or if I’d be well advised to take the old brown boots, or whether to have my hair permanently waved this side or that. Enough, enough.
December 20th, 1940
Papa read my last letter to you and tried to stop me sending it. He said it was quite unintelligible to a boy of eleven, or to an adult for that matter. I can’t believe he is right. It seemed to me as clear as a nursery rhyme, not that a nursery rhyme makes much sense, but one knows them since childhood and you’ve known me since childhood and before, so we must hope you like to get a bit of news from this dear city. The proud city has had another rather easy week. The joy I should have taken in the relative calm was utterly marred by your dear Papa waking up on Wednesday after a healthy dinner and good sleep with 103 temperature. You can imagine my fuss and to-do! I of course feared for his life and also was greatly upset to think he would miss the Christmas week at Ditchley we had so greatly looked forward to, as a restorative and a delight. I thought of the weeks at the Admiralty where he had tossed with influenza-bronchitis from dolphin to dolphin33 till my courage fainted. However, with intensive cosseting, two nurses, physicking, heating, sweating, cooling, plus a lot of praying and purging we have thrown the germ off, I trust, in four days and we shall go to our Christmas on Sunday.
So Lord Halifax is to go to Washington instead of me. I was never too hopeful, and I suppose there will be a prejudice against him because he was a Munich man, but America will like him very much when they know him. He has infinite charm and his predecessor had a worse name for appeasement when he was made Ambassador and yet he made a very good name for himself and was much praised. His only fault was to let the Huns have all the propaganda in the U.S.A. to themselves.
Ditchley, Dec. 22nd. We’ve got here, thank God. You should have seen the party leaving the Dorch. Wadey staggering under sordid paper parcels, last-minute sponges and slippers poking out, two tin hats, two gas masks, guns, ammunition, a Christmas tree in a red box, another Ministry red box, big boxes, little boxes, fur gloves, a terribly intimate hot water bottle of a poisonous green, and Papa himself twice the size of Mr. Michelin in two coats under his fur coat and a muffler round his throat, another over his head and ears, and a hat on top of that, only one bright little blue eye goggling out. I’ve got lovely Christmas presents for the house party – picture of me by Noona for Brendan, another of Chicago for Ronnie Tree. Our old white Christmas tree I am going to candle up (one can’t get any baubles here) with books for the boys etc. I’m quite excited about it. Velvet flowers in glass boxes for the smart ladies. The Hutchies and Barbara are a few miles away and Pam Berry not far either.
I’m glad to be able to picture you so well at the Paleys. I have a lovely present for them but needless to say it’s not ready. We know our Rex. Papa has given him his ultra-smart Guardsman’s evening great-coat – a relic of the last war – horizon-grey, waisted, gilt-buttoned, lapelled in flamboyant style, lined vermilion. It fitted him like fruit peel and he looked a fair treat.
Johnny Manners is here.
They say he’s a wild boy. I’ve only seen him, not spoken to him yet. A nice boy Ben Robertson leaving tomorrow will bring Noona’s drawings for Kaetchen and Bertram and a little later will bring you a poor present from me. I’ve marked it London 1940. That’s the point of it – no other except use, but it’s like sending a postcard from the top of the Eiffel Tower, or from heaven or hell if one got to either, to send something from London. Chapel Street still stands, so does the Dorch. We had a big bomb in Curzon Street.
I wish I had you to hug and I simply hate seeing funny things that you would like and not being able to buy them. Hutchie is nearby and Barbara, who may have a baby any minute.
I love you my darling, don’t forget me and try and love me in spite of the time and space.
Dorchester
January 1st, 1941
(the first time I write it)
I do so hope this year brings us together. It must if I have to take wings to you. Ditchley interlude came to an end like good things do. I nearly forgot the war for a week, because nothing much happened those days, and I didn’t hear the barbarians had methodically burnt the monuments of London till Monday morning when I got home. They run so true to form, those Huns, for centuries they have never been able to resist burning and sacking beauty when they saw it, and now they can do it without seeing or looting it, so there isn’t even hot-blood excuse.
I returned to my old canteen and had a gratifying reception, but I felt so ill (I couldn’t say how) that I had to come home and go to bed. I feared that I couldn’t manage New Year’s Eve. Ann O’Neill had asked us to a party in a private room and I was loath to miss the celebrations. So at 8 o’clock and no siren sounding, I flogged my weary limbs up and into a bath and into the old gypsy dress. I found myself quite well, thank you, and was prepared for a good time. Of course we found ourselves thirteen thanks to Edward Stanley’s muddles and bad manners, so I nobly said I’d dine downstairs with Oliver Stanley. Down we went and of course there wasn’t a chink of room, real carousing was in course. So up again we toiled and had a separate little table till the bearded Ed. Stanley turned up and put us all to rights. At 12 o’clock we did our stuff, and Papa and I talked of you and thought of you and wondered if at the moment you were seeing a movie – a newsreel perhaps of London.
