Autobiography

by Diana Cooper

  Duff is working on him now.

  Later again

  We hear we are to stay till the 14th, when the ménage breaks up, that all is set for a reconciliatory lunch today and a super picnic tomorrow. Great fun. The streets are full of soldiers, black and white ones, spitting and polishing; tricolors and double crosses and V’s for Victory are splashed everywhere. Our boy is not in a happy mood, having just heard of the shooting of Ciano and Bono. He is not to wear his romper suit, but Clemmie says we’ll have a struggle to get it off. It’s to be uniform, and luncheon is not to be in the dining-room on account of its gloom, but in the brighter hall. Out of doors is not considered formal enough. A lot of rehearsing is gone through of the way the General shall be brought in, who will stand where, and who will interpret. The morning’s last resolution is that pleasantries shall be talked at lunch and that no “conference” should take place, but Clemmie has given him a Caudle curtain-lecture on the importance of not quarrelling with Wormwood. She thinks it will bear fruit. As Wormwood is sure to take offence it’s hardly worth all the planning. Anyway Flags bungled the arrival completely, but it didn’t matter; hands were shaken cordially and down we sat to lunch.

  I had my host and a new charmer, name of Rosetrees. It all went like a dinner, which it was, and afterwards the hostess, the charming Consul’s wife and I went a-shopping, leaving the boys to it. When we returned some two hours later, they were still in a huddle. By five it was over and was declared first to have done no harm, and later to have been really quite a success. Duff and his master both did a quick change of coat, Duff praising the other’s patience and deploring Wormwood’s vile temperament, manners etc., and the other talking most indulgently about him. He has agreed to appear at the review tomorrow and take the salute together with the General. It will be cold as charity, and he’ll have to stand up for one and a half hours, and I’ll feel I’m catching a new pneumonia for him.

  13 January

  The last exciting day. It began at nine with the review, beautifully staged in a little grandstand, the Caliph, El Glaouï, the King of the Atlas, officials, wives, Duff and me. I cried from start to finish because of the yells and shouts of Vive, the French’s joy and pride in the token army that passed, their avions buzzing just over our heads, their own few guns, their own flags and courage. The sun blazed on this inspiring scene.

  Wormwood said a few words, exactly right, emphasising the honour and privilege of having so great a man beside him. Doesn’t it all sound lovely? Thank God the Vives were pretty evenly divided between them.

  The final picnic is tomorrow. Talking of the last picnic, an American paper published a picture of the Big Three at Teheran with the caption “Most Important Meal since the Last Supper.” God bless you, my darling Conrad. I think it will not be so hard to get back for school holidays. We seem in fine favour.

  Later, after the review, which seemed gruelling enough on Winston in one day, we had our eighth and last picnic. The picnic consists of eight cars with white stars and U.S. drivers (the whole town is run by the U.S. exclusively) with two or three guests in each, some ’tecs distributed around, and a van laden with viands, drinks, cushions, tables, chairs and pouffes. The advance party leads off an hour before the main body, reconnoitres and selects a valley miles away, windless, comparatively fertile and green, with water if possible.

  We, pioneers that day, chose Demnat. We drove some eighty miles through the country of the Dissidents, very beautiful, olive-green and fertile, with towns walled and fortressed by their kasbahs. We came climbing to a famous gorge, or rather to the lip of it, and there we decided to pitch our pleasure. There we laid out our delicatessen, the cocktail was shaken up, rugs and cushions distributed, tables and buffets appeared as by a genie’s order, and as we finished our preparations the main party arrived.

  The Colonel is immediately sat on a comfortable chair, rugs are swathed round his legs and a pillow put on his lap to act as table, book-rest etc. A rather alarming succession of whiskies and brandies go down, with every time a facetious preliminary joke with Edward, an American ex-barman, or with Lord Moran in the shape of professional adviser. I have not heard the lord doctor answer; perhaps he knows it would make no difference.

  I had just time to run down the dangerous steep mule-track to the cyclopean boulders, sprayed by gushing cascades that divided them. The pull up was a feat, and the sun turned the cold weather into a June day. All spirits rose to the beauty and the occasion—all, that is, except old Max Calvin, whose creased livid face is buried between a stuffy black hat and a book. A lot of whisky and brandy, good meat and salad, and “little white-faced tarts” (to use Winston’s expression) are consumed and then, of course, as I feared, nothing will quiet the Colonel (no assurance of the difficulties and the steepness) but he must himself venture down the gorge. Old Moran once mumbled a bit about it being unwise. It carried as much weight as if it had been said by an Arab child in vulgar, rustic tongue. So down he goes and, once down, he next must get on top of the biggest boulder. There were a lot of tough ’tecs along, including the faithful Inspector Thompson, but even with people to drag you and heave you up, it is a terrific strain and effort in a boiling sun when you have just had a heart-attack. Clemmie said nothing, but watched him with me like a lenient mother who does not wish to spoil her child’s fun nor yet his daring—watched him levered up on to the biggest boulder, watched him spatchcocked out on top of it. Shots were snapped, a little Arab boy was bribed to jump into the pool, and then this steep, heart-straining ascent began. I tore up for the second time, puffing like a grampus. It seemed to me that if a rope or strap could be found to pass behind his back, while two men walked in front pulling the ends, it would be better than dragging him by his arms. I could find nothing but a long tablecloth, but I wound that into a coil and stumbled down with it. Big success! He had no thought of being ridiculous (one of his qualities) so he leaned back upon the linen rope and the boys heaved our saviour up, while old man Moran tried his pulse at intervals. This was only permitted so as to prove that his heart was unaffected by the climb.

  The picnic was over. While hampers were repacked, the party walked around and watched the natives tilling, or thrashing olives out of their trees with long wands, or ploughing with a camel and donkey as team. The valley rings with voices—either song or rhythm that helps labour. A man beating raw wool will shout loudly at each whack to keep the fluff from his lungs.

  The drives are very long and a strain on conversation. Once I got Winston going and the Calvinist coming back, and was shy of both. This time, thank God, Clemmie acquiesced in driving with Winston.

  Dinner and jaw-jaw until 2 a.m., very amusing, the loom making enchanting designs, political reminiscences and prophecies. Clemmie went to bed at 9.30. I had a curious calm and sad conversation with her before dinner that I have thought of ever since. I was talking about post-war days and proposed that instead of a grateful country building Winston another Blenheim, they should give him an endowed manor house with acres for a farm and gardens to build and paint in. Clemmie very calmly said: “I never think of after the war. You see, I think Winston will die when it’s over.” She said this so objectively that I could not bring myself to say the usual “What nonsense!” but tried something about it was no use relying on death; people lived to ninety or might easily, in our lives, die that day. (Winston had said that morning, when questioned about the advisability of attending the review: “If they pot at me they’ll hit de Gaulle. That will simplify things.”) But she seemed quite certain and quite resigned to his not surviving long into peace. “You see, he’s seventy and I’m sixty and we’re putting all we have into this war, and it will take all we have.” It was touching and noble.

  It’s been a wonderful bit for me, seeing so much of this Phenomenon in the middle of the war, when he has nothing to do but talk and weave and enjoy his jokes at the events. The setting, the fairy scene, the sun-bathing, the high mountains, are stimulating, He’s been very affectionate to
me. “Sit next me,” “Don’t leave me,” “Give me your paw,” “Kiss me, darling,” so like a child. The next day, 14th, he left. We had a long egg-nogged farewell on the terrace, and then saw the party off in their plane.

  Things were better on our return to Algiers. Winston’s telegrams, starting as always “Pray let me know …” or “Pray arrange …” had done their dictator-best to clear our way to a more possible standard of living. A lot of electric heaters had been installed, so my room was warm enough for me to discard my fur coat in bed. Two fine English soldiers had been provided, Sergeant-Major Bright, cast for major-domo and Rifleman Sweeney, still a friend and now major-domo to Victor Rothschild. The R.E.’s had dragged a tank on to the roof, and jettisoned the antiquated geysers, so an occasional muddy bath could be taken. The cars were said to be on their way. I’d have been pleased with a new jeep, which could be bought at Philippeville for one bottle of whisky, but a more awe-inspiring equipage was needed for British build-up.

  Duff never groaned except at sharing the house. This was an unlined and most dark cloud. He had no proper staff. He had been told that he would inherit Harold Macmillan’s, but Harold kept for himself the plum, Roger Makins, and other lights, while Duff had Kingsley Rooker (not an F.O. man) and the young and very shy Patrick Reilly. That was all. Tom Dupree was a help, but again not F.O. Unknotting de Gaullean knots was an exhausting whole-time labour. Sometimes Duff felt that he had an Orphean touch with the creature. Winston would have been deaf to Orpheus himself.

  By February the spring was already whispering loudly. The mimosa burst open and most of the ills were retreating in rout. Freddie Fane’s days were given over to chastising the Italian prisoners with whips, the Arab hangers-on with scorpions, and unpacking hundreds of cases from the Ministry of Works. In the twinkling of an eye we were sporting the Royal Arms of England on every utensil we touched.

  Now a scream went up from English throats in sympathy for their personnel. In this military set-up the unfortunate civilians were starving and wilting. They slept in cramped bedrooms, generally shared. Were they lucky enough to get a chair in a restaurant or canteen, they might not occupy it for more than twenty minutes. They had no retreats, amenities, sports or welcomes. Their cold, waterless diggings were their recreation grounds.

  Our Jamshid’s palace should solve this problem. Our many shaded glades and hills should make their other Eden. The Y.M.C.A. must provide long chairs and tables, and with rest-rooms, garden-loggias, tea and service, a demi-paradise would be made. The gay company of prisoners with time and goodwill on their unmanacled hands would sweep, garnish, garden and soothe the weary. To this end I put my shoulder and heart. We lived on the fashionable hill at El Kalai, Rue Beaurepaire. The typhus-ridden buses would bring the weary element almost to our gates. Our house-mates hated the whole idea, fought it and, in consequence, found another villa to their liking. It was an ill wind.

  O Conrad, isn’t it glorious? Now we can stay on in this once-despised villa and have the Civil Servants swarming all over the garden in true Grandpapa (Lord John Manners) Belvoir style. The place is warm now. Hideosity can be laughed off. The two English soldier-servants have made a revolution in services. Every day the house gets gayer. Anticipation blooms.

  Yesterday I lunched with Harold to meet our Russian opposite numbers, Mr Vishinsky of the trials, Mr Bogomolov and his plump, pretty little wife. I sat next Vishinsky, who had an interpreter, as he has no Basic. He seemed mellow enough and Napoleonically grand. He has his own plane. He had to wait in Cairo for an R.A.F. one, so telephoned to Moscow to send one immediately for his permanent use. I said: “I suppose it’s four-engined like the Prime Minister’s?” “No, two,” his fingers admitted. Bogomolov was meanwhile being coped with by Lady Maud Baillie, née Cavendish, dressed in A.T.S. uniform with her tartan skirt almost ankle-length. She looked of another epoch, like a photograph of a cricketer in a top hat, but oh, she was nice. Bogo has a bit of French and a bit of Basic; Madame had a lot of both, plus pretty charm.

  A splendid lecture was given in the afternoon. It lasted an hour and a half. I feared Duff must sleep, but snuff kept him going. We’d had rather a nice lunch with Pleven, but a stupefying one. I cried a lot at the courage of the Resisters, but the house clapped itself into thunder at the story of the young boy who, being visited by Pétain shortly after his arm had been blown off, was asked by the Maréchal “Votre bras vous fait mal?” and was answered “Ce n’est pas mon bras qui me fait mal, c’est vous qui aidez mes ennemis.”

  All the good French I meet, the Resisters, the serious fighters, would much rather be in London than here. They say they feel much nearer France, and also the order and organisation of England impress them tremendously. They feel that the best is being done for winning, and that this country is a mess from the French point of view. We English never saw ourselves at the top of the organisation-mobilisation-production trees, did we?

  This day (24th) was wonderfully happy. Duff and I motored thirty miles out to Tipaza for lunch alone. The road followed the sea and was of incomparable beauty, a dreamer’s vision of the Mediterranean, Greece, France, Nature, cultivation, colour, air to restore the dead to life. We had lunch at a bistro, not very good, but alone and unaccountably happy.

  General Giraud came to pay his respects at six. His unlined, most innocent countenance is rather disarming. He had quite a stiff whisky and gave us a few beautifully enunciated anecdotes of his past. He says the terrain in Italy is worse than anything known before, worse than the worst Atlas.

  Talking of Giraud, perhaps you would like to hear what the wise men think of him? Never in the history of politics has a man frittered away capital so quickly. He held everything in North Africa—Commander-in-Chief, martial law to back him, us and (even more) the U.S. to support him. Splendid appearance, romantic record, all this made him appear to be in “an inexpugnable position,” and yet “he has been driven, or rather has voluntarily retreated from, every bastion of his fortress.” He has been exploded by mines of his own making, he has himself dug and opened the trenches that besieged his citadel. He’s just been slowly eased out and outsmarted. He’s always waited to be fired, and never resigned. He’s a dear donkey—I don’t know how really “dear” to his supporters.

  The evening of the 22nd was the great visit to de Gaulle. It passed off without a hitch. The Spahis at the doors drew themselves into rigidity for their presentation of arms. We had furbished up a little Union Jack for the (pool) car. It was not as royal as I had hoped. I’d looked forward to the last phase of the First Consul, but it was only “official.” I was between Wormwood and Massigli; my heart sank to think of the amount of dinners, perhaps for years, I shall be sitting in just such a place, struggling against the beasts of Babel, ageing and wearying. I suppose we knew that our Bognor Eden couldn’t last. My pick of the bunch is General de Lattre. Spirit and wit, strength and fun. Mrs Wormwood I’d called on before—a sad, colourless, gentle little creature, hating it all and longing for her pre-war sequestered ways. She must have told her husband all I had said to her, because it gave her nostalgia. Anyway his opening remark was “Qu’avez-vous fait de votre vache?” He’s soon to dine with us and I shall sit next him. Well, I mustn’t think about it now. It makes me feel too nervous—terribly, terribly nervous.

  The house is getting delightfully topsy-turvy with the spirit of an inn—more beds being unearthed, blankets aired, changes and alarms. “Where can we find a lamp?” etc. Old Freddie I’m getting to adore. My first impressions, I ought to learn, are always wrong. The result of everything being done for me, the food, the flowers, the cards, the telephone, has paralysed me. I shall be good for lolling only, if I return.

  Martha Gellhorn, wife to Ernest Hemingway, a lovely-looking American character in her early thirties, is staying. I met her—just—in London as a well-known journalist and a great friend of our Virginia Cowles. A packet of fun, yellow hair en brosse, cool slim lines and the most amusing patter imaginable. She thinks I�
��m as lovable and odd and rum as I think Ethel Smyth, and I like that. She’s off to Caserta shortly and Virginia takes her place; both of them in khaki, they are always in the firing line though they grouse and groan at the way the G.H.Q.’s ignore them. Virginia is another friend, but she doesn’t think me as funny as Martha does.

  The daylight fades, the ghastly red, blue and green fairy harem-lights are put up, whisky is lapped up greedily, roasted sardines are handed round, Virginia arrives cold from the clouds in battle-dress and is cheered and kissed lustily. I don’t think it looks like any Embassy I’ve ever seen anywhere.

  The usual six-to-eight crowd of thirsty Allies, followed by a banquet here. All the King’s china and all the King’s glass—all the King’s silver, but alas! the linen declares itself in flowing red chain-stitch to belong to the Empire Hotel, Bath. We entertained Messieurs Massigli, Romrée (the Belgian), General de Lattre, Mr Chapin (U.S.), Virginia, Eve Curie and Joyce Grenfell. Filthy food, except for the ice. No one but us serves ice. I think our Sergeant-Major steals it from the hospital.

  Last evening was dinner with the Russians. Great anticipations of splendour. Asked for eight, we drove up to the largest villa here, tremendous rooms, semi-furnished, blazing unshaded electric-light bulbs, and found to our horror that the party was just the four—two Bogos, two Coos. My heart sank. We’d not ordered the car until 10.30. A petit verre of warm port instead of the anticipated vodka was all we were offered in the assembling room. Madame was bursting prettily out of a smart pailletted dress. Monsieur has not much style, and what little French he commands is made less intelligible by it having to come through his hand as well as his mouth. Vodka appeared with dinner, served in another gigantic room, caviar too and smoked things. Bogo drank nothing (so rude), Madame sipped, Duff and I quaffed. Conversation somehow covered the bones (a threadbare coat) but it passed. Bolshies have such a dreadful duty of denying any relations with the Russia of centuries. I got quite a snub when I said that I liked General Pechkoff so much. When asked why, up a gum-tree I stammered that Russians were interested in problems of the soul and that I was too. “Russians have no time now for the soul. All that is altered. Now they must know reality.” We talked of what was read in Russia. They asked me what I thought were the popular English translations. I was ready for that one; Dickens, Byron, Milton, Galsworthy. Ah yes, but I had forgotten the real favourite. Think again! I gave it up. Why, Jerome K. Jerome, of course, and as they remembered Three Men in a Boat they lapsed into Russian and laughed till they cried. 10.30 came at last, and the nightmare ended. I dressed in blood-red and rubies, and they took it as a compliment.