Nancy Mitford

by Selina Hastings

  The work at the shop was more than usually tiring now that every ten days Nancy and the other assistant, Mollie Friese-Greene, had to spend the night fire-watching, one of the dreariest of all war-time duties. After they finished their day’s work they changed into slacks and jumpers and, having dumped tin hats and gas-masks on a couple of camp beds, settled down on the roof of Crewe House, half-way down Curzon Street, to wait for incendiaries. They got one once in Hill Street, Nancy displaying a courage of which Farve would have been proud, dashing up the stairs with her bucket while Mollie followed behind with the stirrup-pump. On the strength of this Nancy was asked to lecture on fire-watching to trainees, but had to give it up almost at once; the trouble was the affectation of her voice: it irritated the class so much, said the lady in charge, embarrassed, that it was Nancy they all wanted to see put on the fire.

  No one, not even Mrs Hammersley, realised the extent of Nancy’s unhappiness. She went on as usual seeing her friends and going to parties – there was a party at Cecil Beaton’s in Pelham Place, at which she spent the evening sitting on the sofa with Eddy Sackville-West, the pair of them hooting with laughter as they dissected each guest in turn. She herself gave a dinner-party at Boulestin at which the guests were Raymond Mortimer, Jim Lees-Milne, Clarissa Churchill, Alice Harding, Gerald Berners and Stuart Preston, the ubiquitous American serviceman known as ‘the Sergeant’. At a luncheon at Emerald Cunard’s Nancy startled the company by turning on the Greek Ambassador with uncharacteristic ferocity and attacking him for referring to the French as ‘rotten’. This was a new habit of Nancy’s which people were beginning to remark, an unshakable conviction that France and the French were in every way perfect. Some of her closer friends thought, too, that they detected a note of hysteria in her laughter, a more than usually mocking tone in the banter. She made a great point of being indifferent to the bombs, an indifference that Osbert Lancaster among others interpreted as a direct consequence of a new-found unconcern for Peter’s misbehaviour. But nothing Peter got up to could affect her now: her unhappiness had nothing to do with her husband.

  And the envelopes from Algiers continued to arrive from time to time, mainly in thanks for the unfailing flow of letters and the parcels of books sent from the shop. ‘Je commence à être un peu honteux de recevoir et de ne jamais donner … comme je vous suis reconnaissant de veiller à mon entretien cérébral … Je trouve que Peter Quennell a fait une tres brillante réussite avec le Cornhill [magazine]. L’essai de Max Beerbohm est parmi les meilleurs que j’ai lus … vous me comblez de gentillesse, mais surtout comblez-moi de lettres.’ There was little he could offer in return, except for the occasional item of news to be sent over in the Bag, as, for instance, the arrival of the Coopers, Duff having been appointed British Representative to the French Committee of Liberation. ‘Diana est arrivée. En voyant le chambre de sa villa, Louis XV et miroirs, elle a dit: “It is very nice, but, Olga, isn’t it a little too much like a b …” ’

  Then in February 1944 yet another member of the Free French Forces came into Nancy’s life. Marc, Prince de Beauvau-Craon, was young (in his early twenties), rich, good-looking and brave, having just escaped through Spain having been captured while working as a ‘passeur’ in Andorra. More important, he knew the Colonel: his mother, Minnie de Beauvau, was a close friend of Gaston, and so he was able to talk to Nancy about her longed-for lover. For this reason she saw as much of Marc as she could. They dined together nearly every night either at the Savoy, Claridges or the White Tower, after which they would go dancing at the Hungaria. During the day Marc joined in with enthusiasm the constant cocktail-party atmosphere at the shop. Mrs Hammersley, when she was told about this new development, was quite shocked. ‘Of course Beauveau has ousted Col. In fact you’ve become fickle to use a polite word … The truth is you … are fast becoming femme fatale. Perhaps he and Col will fight a duel on your account. Little Prince will I suppose kill the Col and break your heart.’ But there was no danger of that. Nancy enjoyed Marc’s company, happy to be able to talk about Gaston and flattered by his attention, but there was no question of a rival to the Colonel. And in a month Marc was gone – off to Algiers to join de Gaulle. From there he wrote to Nancy in a far more affectionate manner than the man she loved was ever to do: ‘Nancy darling … do you think of me a little bit, if so how much? … écris moi et dis moi, comme dans la chanson, si tu m’aimes, je t’aime!’

  No sooner had Marc gone than a letter arrived from Peter announcing his return. He was still in Italy, ‘cruising round just now looking for a nice cosy battleship to give me a lift … Build up a small supply of cigarettes whisky and other delicacies for me there is a kind wife.’ He arrived in March, laden with cheeses, oranges, brandy and a ham, bronzed and fit and full of his adventures. He and Nancy had a celebration dinner at the Ritz, and then he disappeared again almost immediately to prepare for the invasion. Nancy, running into Jim Lees-Milne and Billa Harrod at a wedding reception, was able to tell them that ‘Peter actually knows which beaches they are to land on’. Jim was a great comfort, an old and trusted friend who did not enquire too closely into Nancy’s private emotions, and who was often available to lunch with at Gunter’s or to chat with at Sibyl’s or Emerald’s. One warm, sunny Sunday at the end of April he drove Nancy and her dog Millie down to Polesden Lacey, one of the National Trust properties under his care. They picnicked on the verandah; then, while Jim carried out his work of inspection, Nancy lay in the sun, after which they strolled across the fields together picking cowslips.

  One morning at the beginning of May Nancy answered the telephone to hear the voice of the international operator: it was the Colonel in Algiers. Nancy was so taken by surprise that she was quite unable to put what she felt into words. The telephone was such a bitterly unsatisfactory medium, and the distance between them too great for her instantly to summon up the gaiety he had been expecting. As soon as he had rung off she sat down miserably to write him a letter. ‘Je suppose que vous avez dû me trouver assez bête ce matin – ce n’est pas une indifférence aux événements mondials mais plutôt une espèce d’absence d’esprit qui me prends lorsque j’entends la voix Coloniale. Oh isn’t French a difficult language, you are clever to know it so well.’

  But this unsatisfactory exchange was forgotten a month later when, one Sunday at the beginning of June, the Colonel appeared in person. ‘At 7.30 this morning …’ Nancy wrote to Mrs Hammersley, ‘I was woken up by my Col telephoning, & soon afterwards he appeared in a royal car, lent for his visit. It is supposed to be a great secret but no doubt will have been announced long before you get this. So you can imagine if I am pleased He spent the whole day here & has just gone … He looks extremely well, thinner & younger looking & is very important, as you can imagine. What heaven it is to see him again & oh the jokes!’ That was her account of it to Mrs Ham. This is what happened to Linda in The Pursuit of Love, also lying in bed one summer Sunday morning, dreaming of her absent lover.

  ‘On a sunny Sunday morning in August, very early, her telephone bell rang. She woke up with a start, aware that it had been ringing already for several moments, and she knew with absolute certainty that this was Fabrice.

  “Are you Flaxman 2815?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got a call for you. You’re through.”

  “Allô-allô?”

  “Fabrice?”

  “Oui.”

  “Oh! Fabrice – on vous attend depuis si longtemps.”

  “Comme c’est gentil. Alors, on peut venir tout de suite chez vous?”

  “Oh, wait – yes, you can come at once, but don’t go for a minute, go on talking, I want to hear the sound of your voice.”

  “No, no, I have a taxi outside, I shall be with you in five minutes. There’s too much one can’t do on the telephone, ma chère, voyons –” Click.

  ‘She lay back, and all was light and warmth. Life, she thought, is sometimes sad and often dull, but there are currants in the cake and here is one of them. Th
e early morning sun shone past her window onto the river, her ceiling danced with water-reflections … Sun, silence and happiness … Early the next morning another beautiful, hot, sunny morning, Linda lay back on her pillows and watched Fabrice while he dressed, as she had so often watched him in Paris. He made a certain kind of face when he was pulling his tie into a knot, she had quite forgotten it in the months between, and it brought back their Paris life to her suddenly and vividly …

  “And how soon shall I see you again?”

  “On fera la navette.” He went to the window. “I thought I heard a car – oh yes, it is turning round. There, I must go. Au revoir, Linda.”

  ‘He kissed her hand politely, almost absentmindedly, it was as if he had already gone, and walked quickly from the room. Linda went to the open window and leaned out. He was getting into a large motor-car with two French soldiers on the box and a Free French flag waving from the bonnet. As it moved away he looked up.

  “Navette – navette –” cried Linda with a brilliant smile. Then she got back into bed and cried very much. She felt utterly in despair at this second parting.’

  Fabrice stayed in London for one day, Colonel for just over a week. On June 14 he and the General embarked on a destroyer at Portsmouth, and sailed for France. Nancy wrote to Mrs Hammersley, ‘Yes I do feel gloomy without the Col but I don’t believe it will be another year before I see him again & I must say it cheered me up – all the jokes you know & they are in such spirits … The Colonel knew all my letters by heart (flattering?).’

  And to Palewski himself:

  Colonel I have begun to miss you most dreadfully again you wicked Col. Do you get my letters? Please please say … Now where am I sitting? In Mr Luxmoors garden, waiting for Jonathan3 to finish his Sunday lesson. Two boys have just wandered by & I thought I heard one of them say ‘Oh, Eddy DO let’s’ It all reminds me of 20 years ago when I used to visit Tom – toi que voilà qu’as tu fait de ta jeunesse? Is one’s failure in life always absolutely one’s own fault – I believe it is Everything really happens inside one’s head doesn’t it & Verlaine couldn’t have felt more enclosed in a prison cell than I do.

  I went yesterday to see a news reel of the Gen & got one glimpse of my dear col looking very happy – Oh col I hope soon you’ll look like that all the time … I seem to make the worst of every world but then as I’m always trying to explain to a doubtful Colonel I really am not cut out for this sort of thing at all.

  Osbert Lancaster said at Luncheon on Fri: that Aly F4 told him you were so frightened in that raid on Thurs: that you kept ringing him up – I said furiously that is a total lie. I was with Palewski all night. Sybil Colefax: all night? N.R. Well, you know what I mean.

  With the liberation of Paris in August, Nancy felt the Colonel was further away from her than ever, further than he had been in Algiers, now that he was restored to his beloved city, reunited with his friends, and working night and day with the General to put France on her feet. In London Nancy felt increasingly cut off. She was tired and dispirited and hating her job at the shop: the Hills were ‘hell’, her salary barely enough to support life, and, as she told Muv, ‘I am so tired, simply limp. I must leave the shop or I shall look 100 soon.’ Even more to the point she was charged with emotion and longing to start work on a book. This had been diffidently suggested to Hamish Hamilton (‘I expect your list is enormous, & you may not want it’) who had jumped at the offer, but how to get permission from the Ministry of Labour for leave of absence in which to write it? Keen though he was, Hamilton knew that the writing of a novel by a little-known author was unlikely to be considered essential war-work. Nancy told Evelyn Waugh, now in Yugoslavia, that she longed to start work, ‘but £sd rears its ugly head – I write so slowly & my books always come out at moments of crisis & flop (my last 2 never covered their advances & as you know that is not encouraging. And one was a loss to C & H)’. Then the project had to be further postponed because of the Christmas rush at the shop, ‘complicated this year by the fact that there are no other presents to be given but books. Today two quite separate people came in & asked me to think of a book for the Duke of Beaufort “he never reads you know” If somebody could write a book for people who never read they would make a fortune.’ But Evelyn encouraged her not to give up. ‘It is good news that you may take up the pen again. Please give the results to Chapman & Hall. They love losing money and I will get you a substantial over advance.’

  He himself had just finished Brideshead Revisited, which he had sent Nancy to read in proof. ‘A great English classic in my humble opinion,’ she told him. ‘Oh how I shld like to chat about it, there are one or 2 things I long to know. Are you, or not, on Lady Marchmain’s side. I can’t make out … One dreadful error. Diamond clips were only invented about 1930 you wore a diamond arrow in your cloche. Its the only one, which I call good – the only one I spotted at least.’ When it came out in May 1945 he asked her to report back on its reception. Colonel, she was able to tell him, had telephoned from Paris to say that ‘people are giving luncheon parties to discuss the book & the Windsors have given it to everyone for Xmas. Rather low-brow circles I fear but still!’ And she herself had ‘a great deal to say - 2 air letters (1/-, agony) if necessary & the whole evening before me … I am answering your letter about Brideshead. I quite see how the person who tells is dim but then would Julia & her brother & her sister all be in love with him if he was? Well love is like that & one never can tell. What I can’t understand is about God. Now I believe in God & I talk to him a very great deal & often tell him jokes but the God I believe in simply hates fools more than anything & he also likes people to be happy & people who love each other to live together – so long as nobody else’s life is upset (& then he’s not sure). Now I see that I am absolutely religious. I also see this because what is a red rag to a bull to several people about your book is the subtle clever Catholic propaganda & I hardly noticed there was any which shows I am immune from it Now about what people think:

  Raymond: Great English classic

  Cyril: Brilliant where the narrative is straightforward. Doesn’t care for the “purple passages” ie death bed of Lord M. thinks you go too much to White’s. But found it impossible to put down (no wonder)

  Osbert: Jealous – doesn’t like talking about it ‘I’m devoted to Evelyn – are you?’

  Maurice: showing off to Cyril about how you don’t always hit the right word or some nonsense but obviously much impressed & thinks the Oxford part perfect.

  SW7 (European royal quarter) Heaven darling

  Diana Abdy: like me & Raymond, no fault to find

  Lady Chetwode: Terribly dangerous propaganda Brilliant

  General view: It is the Lygon family. Too much Catholic stuff.’

  At the end of the letter is this modest paragraph: ‘I am writing a book, also in the 1st person. (Only now has it occurred to me everybody will say what a copy cat – never mind that won’t hurt you only me) It’s about my family, a very different cup of tea, not grand & far madder. Did I begin it before reading B.head or after I can’t remember. I’ve done about 10 000 words & asked Dearest [Heywood Hill] for a 3 month holiday to write it which I believe I shall get – I’m awfully excited my fingers itch for a pen.’

  Heywood Hill gave her the three months, and in March she went up to Ashford in Derbyshire to stay with Andrew and Debo. ‘You can’t imagine the heaven of hols,’ she wrote to Diana, ‘after a 3 year solid grind in that shop.’ From there she moved on to Faringdon to stay with that remarkable eccentric, Gerald Berners. Having originally met him with Diana, they had become great friends, Gerald’s iconoclastic sense of humour, often subtle and sardonic, at other times extremely childish, enormously appealing to Nancy. He was a Master Tease, and his elegant eighteenth-century house near Oxford was full not only of magnificent pictures and furniture but also of jokes, jokes of an undeniably schoolroom nature: a notice on the dining-room two feet from the floor reading ‘No Dogs Admitted’, a flock of pigeons flutt
ering about the garden dyed all the colours of the rainbow. He was, too, the perfect host for a working writer: Faringdon was luxuriously comfortable (while Nancy was shivering on the roof of Crewe House fire-watching, the red bedroom at Faringdon was always the place she longed most intensely to be), the food was delicious, and Gerald, himself a serious painter and composer, understood the creative artist’s need for discipline, refusing to allow Nancy out of her room until she had fulfilled her quota for the day.

  It was while she was at Faringdon that she heard the news that Tom had been killed fighting in Burma. Gerald took the telephone call, and, appalled, went upstairs to tell Nancy what had happened, begging her to stay in her room, not to think of coming downstairs for dinner. But Nancy wouldn’t hear of it: she insisted on behaving as though nothing had happened. It was nonetheless a fearful blow. Tom, her earliest confidant, ‘Civilization’s Fattest Boy’, had been the most delightful and charming companion, her link to the world outside, the only member of the family for whom her feelings were unclouded by jealousy. ‘It is almost unbearable,’ she wrote to Decca. ‘Oh Tud & if you knew how sweet & nice & gay he has been of late & on his last leave.’ But, although she was deeply grieved by his death, it did not mean for her, as it did for her parents, that all pleasure in life was over. Tom and Nancy had seen less and less of each other over the past ten years. Their interests were very different: Tom was a lawyer, a Germanophile and deeply musical. Ever since their difference of opinion over Hamish, they had remained, although fond, at a distance from each other. And now Nancy was in love with Gaston. As long as Gaston was safe, nothing really could touch her.