By contrast with such elaborate festivities Nancy wrote from Fontaines les Nonnes: ‘Yesterday we visited a convent full of old Marquises whose husbands had told them to take orders when widowed. I couldn’t help thinking how it wouldn’t suit English Marchionesses! Oh how different we are, it’s really extraordinary.’
‘An old man I know said to his girl the other day, “I’ve an offer of marriage for you.” “Mais Papa, you know I don’t want to marry.” “Well, in any case I wouldn’t have advised you to accept, as the young man is blind.” “But that makes a great difference. If he’s blind I can lead a life of sacrifice—I accept, and now they are married. She’d never even seen him!’
But for a dash of Ouida I do not think it too far-fetched to find a parallel, mutatis mutandis, between Nancy’s descriptions of the Parisian scene and Mary Russell Mitford’s of Our Village. She had the same constitutional buoyancy of spirits, the will to be happy, and ‘a tendency to body forth images of gladness’ which Anne Thackeray Ritchie noticed in the early Victorian Miss Mitford. And as Lady Ritchie observed in her introduction to Our Village, ‘There is one penalty people pay for being authors, which is that from cultivating vivid impressions and mental pictures they are apt to take fancies too seriously and to mistake them for reality.’
Among Nancy’s steady correspondents was an old gentleman whom she did not meet personally but who remained a faithful pen-pal until she could write no more. Sir Hugh Jackson had known Paris intimately in the serener days before the First World War; he had a specialist’s knowledge of French history and he shared Nancy’s sympathies and antipathies to an unusual degree. He had offered to look up historical sources for her out of the blue and from the many letters she wrote to him it is obvious that she valued his opinions and advice. She was an avid collector of early twentieth-century French postcards and she exchanged several of these with Sir Hugh Jackson who had a similar collection.
‘How I love the cards you send me of old Paris,’ she wrote him. ‘So amusing that the original colour of the stone has been restored so that the buildings look now as they did then. But the great difference is the emptiness of those days—now you can’t either drive or even walk up the Boulevard des Italiens for the milling mob. I do wonder why there are suddenly so many people?’ Again: ‘I love your cards much more because they are real. The Madeleine is that colour again instead of the black mass which I knew… Thanks awfully for the lovely coloured one… Can’t now remember which you have had. Splendid Restaurant (outside Gare St. Lazare)? And the lady catching the bus? They are getting less nice and one never sees the heavenly one départ pour la chasse any more…’
Among the cards was one of a strange machine entitled Distribution automatique. What was it distributing? she queried. The heavily clad ladies in front of it offered no clue. Horse drawn omnibuses, women in enormous hats, bemedalled and moustachio’d officers, ‘lovely and solid’, as she said, reminiscent of the Marquis de Soveral; the mairie of Marcilly like a painting by Utrillo (‘Isn’t this France all over? Built in 1904?’) Behind one of the Chambre des Députés she wrote: ‘Anyway it’s a nice card, of the sort we like, and shows how few people there used to be so short a time ago. This place now is an immovable jam and the pavements black with people. What a bad idea it was to reduce infant mortality.’ Of the Place de l’Opéra she wrote: ‘I bought this ages ago to show you the Opéra now it’s clean. The cab drivers all think it’s the most beautiful building in Paris!’ Apropos of which on 1st April, 1962: ‘The French wire less gave out that Malraux is to pull down the Opéra and put up a palace of modern music, designed by Le Corbusier. They gave an infinity of dreadful details. I boiled. It went on all day at the times of the news until finally they said Poisson d’Avril (April fool)! You can’t imagine how clever and funny it was. It seems they were besieged with furious telephone calls.’
The postcards exchanged with Sir Hugh Jackson evoked the world of Marcel Proust, whose biography by Mr. George Painter enthralled Nancy: ‘He has a way of writing about people we have all known as if they had been dead 1,000 years which is very whimsical! But on the whole he hits them off pretty well.’
Nancy told Patrick Leigh Fermor that she wrote to Mr. Painter saying ‘had he noticed that Proust is practically the same person as Voltaire and he replied “This is supernatural,” and that he’d thought of that the whole time he was writing it. It’s true. I wish he’d now do the same for Voltaire.’
Perhaps the fact that Nancy never met Sir Hugh Jackson personally enabled her to open her heart to him about her literary projects as she seldom, if ever, did to other friends, myself included. Their correspondence started in 1966 when Nancy had reviewed Dr. Gooch’s irritating Life of Louis XV. ‘Why are nearly all the books written about France so unspeakably bad?’ she had exclaimed then. ‘Do read Gooch if you want to spit red buttons. He even scolds the poor man for not punishing the people who went to Chanteloup. What, I wonder, would have been said if he had punished them! One Rohan Butler of All Souls is doing a huge life of Choiseul and Marcus Cheke one of Bernis. I wonder what we shall think of them?’
She had contemplated visiting Madagascar with Raymond Mortimer—a strange idea for one who enjoyed an occasional change but disliked distant journeys and was bored by travel literature. ‘Well, no I never went to Madagascar,’ she told Sir Hugh (18th April, 1963). ‘It seemed to cost about £1,000 and there are many things I would like better, at that price. So I stayed cosily by my wood stove and had the laugh of those who utterly despise this form of heating. Gas flickered, oil failed on account of frozen canals, coal likewise, and my good old stove continued with its nice glow, delicious smell and friendly ticking noise. Neither I nor my bonne had a cold the whole time. Luckily I’m never lulled into expecting mild winters to go on succeeding each other and always lay in a phenomenal quantity of logs… I don’t think I can manage Frederick [the Great]. My eyes are no worse but no better than when I wrote Voltaire and I can’t face the pain. So until I can think of a subject for a novel I must do easy pot-boilers. I’ve been commissioned to do a picture book of Versailles—refused at first because there are so many, then thought it could be amusing to describe the various happenings in the places, opposite the photographs? I’m off to Ireland now and will begin when I return. Oh the famine book, it was just TOO MUCH. [A book about the Irish famine.] I went yesterday to see a film called 1914–18 which is two hours of documentaries taken at the time and is fascinating beyond words—so brilliantly put together. That is too much too, and my brother-in-law who came (and who was in the war) has been sad ever since, thinking of all his dead friends. Goodness, what times we have lived in! I don’t like much what I read of England at present either and still less what I see when I go there in the building line. But all the young people I meet—friends of my nephews—are wonderful. They must be the hope of the future. (I mean the sixteen-year-olds not those dreary Angries).’
11
INSTEAD OF GOING to Madagascar Nancy attended a royal wedding—that of Princess Alexandra to her Ogilvy cousin, which she described to Mrs. Hammersley (28th April, 1963): ‘The wedding was splendid and I greatly enjoyed it but oh the get ups I never saw worse. I’m sure English women are dowdier than when I was young. The hats were nearly all as though made by somebody who had once heard about flowers but never seen one—huge muffs of horror. In front of me a green satin top hat with pink carnation dangling. The dresses and coats not only didn’t fit but had not been ironed. The colours of the year are pale green and pale brown, very often mixed. Joan Ali Ehan, next to me, had a paisley satin coat green and brown, a green net and bow on unbrushed hair and blue satin shoes and she was quite one of the best. Muv in black velvet, lace and diamonds, was marvellous she looked so pretty. The angelic police let her car stay outside so that she got away before anybody.’
‘The bride is a true beauty. Queen of Spain rather splendid, the Queen excellent, though in washy green which I do hate Princess Aline quite lovely—the Foreign Royals
very pop-eyed.’
Lady Redesdale, aged 83, did not long survive this happy event. On 14th May Nancy wrote from Inch Kenneth, Isle of Mull, to Mark Ogilvie-Grant: ‘Muv is failing—we are all here—it is very poignant… Two days ago she seemed to be going—she said perhaps, who knows… and said goodbye to every body and said if there are things in my will you don’t like do alter it. I said, but we should go to prison! and she laughed (she laughed as she always has). Then she rallied and here she still is—we long for her to go in her sleep quietly.’
‘Of course we are half the time in tears and the other half shrieking, as you may imagine… For two days we were storm-bound and in the middle, in a short moment of calm, wonderful Mr. Ogilvie Forbes (wish it were Grant) came over, settled into the bothy and will stay. Did you ever hear of such kindness!’
On 19th May, to Alvilde Lees-Milne; ‘It’s very sad here but of course cheerfulness breaks in. In fact my mother said to me, what are they all doing downstairs? I said shrieking. She said funny sort of funeral party—we haven’t laughed so much in our lives. Three times she has nearly gone and there have been touching almost unbearable farewells but then she rallies and seems much better. The doctor thinks it can’t be long but admits that one never knows. We never leave her alone with a nurse and take the nights in turns—two adorable Scotch nurses.’
‘We are fifteen here and were all women with one boatman until, when we had been storm-bound for two days, running out of loo-paper, an intrepid neighbour rolled over in a rubber ball—he has moved quietly into the bothy… It is terribly like the life of Scottie (her hero of the Antarctic)—the room we live in simply is the hut and our eyes are ever on the boats hoping for mail. Jokes get sillier every day. Smashing grub and great comfort…’
On 21st May, to James Lees-Milne: ‘We all wondered if, when the time comes, you would write about Muv in The Times as you did for Tom? It would be good of you and greatly appreciated if not too much trouble. You have known her for so long. Happily she now sleeps the whole time—the last few days were truly dreadful. We have been here nearly a fortnight and each day is supposed to be the last. It is very hard to detach oneself from the body, evidently. The good Scotch doctor doesn’t force us to keep her alive in horrible artificial ways—the nurses say it would be very different in a hospital.’
To me she wrote later: ‘The extraordinary beauty of the Scotch scenery, the fact that we were among friends and that all which has to be done was done by her own crofters, softened the horror of death, I shall never forget her departure from her island, over a glassy sea, bagpipes wailing and the men in the boat talking softly in Gaelic. Better than the London Clinic, all the same!’
‘I really think I shall never be able to cry again,’ she told Mark. ‘I’d had doubts about going to Venice in such deep mourning but Dolly [Radziwill], my mentor, says it is quite all right to do so. I’d like to have two or three weeks there and then take a boat to Athens and then a boat home, a thing I’ve always longed to do.’
In retrospect Nancy ruefully confessed that she had never loved her mother, for whom Mrs. Hammersley and Mme Costa had been emotional substitutes. Eldest children are seldom a mother’s favourites. I suspect she was more deeply attached to her father. ‘Uncle Matthew’ was a flesh and blood character whose violently virile foibles were endearing to so feminine a daughter. But even if we are no longer young, we feel younger and in a sense more secure with a living mother to turn to and, in Nancy’s case, to laugh with. She often reverted to the jokes they would have shared, as when she read Anne Fremantle’s memoirs: ‘I was riveted to note that Anne’s mother, Tiny, was seduced at the age of twelve by an uncle of Muv’s at Madras. Oh dear, Muv would have liked that and now too late.’
In the meantime Princess Radziwill was failing and Nancy was worried about her: ‘If Dolly dies I really am done for as she’s by far my most intimate friend.’ Her beloved Mrs. Ham was wreathed in black merino and gloom…” “One or two very tiresome things have happened this morning.” “Oh dear, does nothing nice ever happen?” “Never”.’ Mrs. Hammersley was to die next February.
The ‘picture book on Versailles’ was approached with cautious hesitation. Nancy mentioned it again rather casually in a letter to Sir Hugh Jackson from Fontaines (11th October, 1963): ‘When I was in Venice I thought that perhaps masked naked men, orgies and unlimited spying are an accompaniment of maritime powers in decline. Certainly the whole Ward affair comes straight out of Casanova, except that Keeler would have been a nun and Ward the abbé de Bernis. I went to Samos from Athens when poor Ward was in a coma—no papers on Samos-—at last I made a friend go to the police station to find out what had happened. “Dr. Ward is dead. You have lost a fine man!” Samian wine, by the way, is delicious. Yes, I had a cloudless six weeks and felt quite guilty about friends at home. A slight bore in Greece is that one is discouraged from swimming from a boat as there are sharks. This is quite new and said to be Nasser’s fault, he is supposed to beckon them through the canal to eat us all up. I don’t greatly fear death but it would be too ridiculous—even one’s greatest friends would laugh if one were eaten I feel!’
‘I am writing a little pot-boiler on Versailles, to be illustrated. One of those boring books millionaires give each other for Xmas. The publisher asked for it and I’ve nothing else on hand so said all right.’
This was the germ of The Sun King, another feat of which Nancy had reason to be proud. Though she approached the subject on tiptoe it engrossed her for the next few years. She had been enchanted by Versailles while writing Madame de Pompadour and a recent visit to the palace at night illuminated by candles as of yore had been a magical, almost mystical, experience. Again she longed for a house in the vicinity. ‘I sometimes wonder if I don’t mind about places more than about people,’ she told her sister Debo. ‘If I do I am a sort of human cat I suppose. I only wish I’d never taught myself to look at architecture as it brings more pain than pleasure nowadays.’ But Versailles never ceased to give Nancy pleasure, even when she was in physical pain.
On 3rd January, 1964, she told Alvilde Lees-Milne: ‘I am working and have to be surrounded by about 60 books which lie on the floor and drive old Marie mad for dusting purposes. I’m doing what will become almost a biography of Louis XIV via the King at Versailles. The trouble is it’s all so fascinating I keep going off at a tangent and have just spent a week on Mme Guyon who one can’t say has much to do with Versailles!… Old Marie retires in October—don’t! The idea of showing a new person how to light my stoves without setting the chimney on fire wakes me up in the night. And then the chat. You at least know how to cook but think of me starving sadly to death. I went to the kitchen to learn but pulling the vitals out of a dear old hen is beyond my powers—I don’t feel hungry enough, it’s not like when one was young.’
Fortunately the indispensable Marie stayed on with Nancy for many more years. Lesley Blanch, who also lived in Paris at the time, has reminded me that Nancy was entirely helpless in the kitchen.
‘“I simply can’t,” she would sigh. If Marie was out she could not even make a cup of tea. Once, I recall, we were deep in talk, and it was raining and dark, and she who seldom if ever ate any thing at night, at home, said she would love me to stay on, but Marie was out and so—what to do? I suggested I might cook an omelette. “Dearest, I don’t know where anything is…” We went to the kitchen, and found an absolutely empty frigidaire, Marie’s habit being to buy exactly what was needed each day, and no more. Nancy seemed helpless, hopeless, unaware of a store-cupboard, where were the matches, the gas jet… and also impervious to any pangs of hunger herself. Though she tucked in and much enjoyed a good blow-out, such as she offered at her lunches. She always seemed to enjoy my cooking efforts, and was a rewarding, second-helps guest. She took much trouble to train Marie. I would not think her in any way a voluptuary—that is, one profoundly aware of the pleasures of the senses—except perhaps for some foods—dishes Marie soon learned to cook beautifully. Togethe
r they would pore over the little Larousse cookery book. Marie had I think begun life making hats, and that inbred French hand, so light with ribbons, straws and feathers, was presently transformed to soufflés and such… A propos Nancy’s helplessness in domestic affairs she described to me an evening she had spent with her mother in Rutland Gate: the servants were out and the cook had left a macaroni cheese ready, with instructions to put it in the oven for half an hour or so. This in due course the ladies did, but neither of them had thought to light the oven, and were quite puzzled to find it stone cold and uncooked when they took it out.’
Nancy Mitford Page 20
