In Tearing Haste
Page 21
But our side of this palisade was still Aragon. We had broken into it when we ran through that narrow slot, the Port de Bénasque – Vénasque – and, on the other side of the valley, we could see another religious outpost, the Refuge of Rencluse. Circular tarns were scattered about this chaos, among them one of the seven sources of the Garonne! The water comes out of a rock, gathers in a pool, then goes underground. Someone discovered this by pouring in tons of red liquid; everyone for miles was on the lookout for its re-emergence and, after a long subterranean journey, it duly came out, far away, and proved the link. Nothing but peaks were in sight, except the valley winding below. We went down through steep grazing land with autumn crocuses and harebells, then followed the valley of the Esera through endless-seeming woods until we came to the little town of Bénasque. The inhabitants talk a mixture of Aragonese Spanish and Pyrenean French – ‘Bigorrois’ here, I think – and Catalan, a patois which few strangers can follow. They were great smugglers once, perhaps they still are. There’s a lovely Romanesque church and some rather fine hidalgo-ish houses with broken pediments and corner towers. It had been a terrific day so we went to bed after masses of garbanzos and jars of purple ink.
Again we were driven up a valley in the dark, did half of yesterday’s journey backwards in record time, then dropped into the tremendous descent by defecting down a forest road from the Hospice, through huge beech woods with rushing streams; then, at last, after legging it nearly all the way to Luchon like three phantoms in a muck-sweat, we found a small wayside bistro and ate and drank ourselves to a standstill. That night we had a final trout and Jurançon, and lots of delicious Corbières. It was the last day of September, with a railway strike threatened the day after, so we had to make a break for it.
Andrew was to fly back to London next morning, just after Xan and I had pushed on into Spain by rail. He came to see us off and spotted a headline somebody was reading in the Pau Station Bar: ‘Pope John-Paul dies in the night after a reign of only three weeks.’
Bright pink from the sun, he waved his check cloth-cap as we pulled out and we flourished frantically back. He had enjoyed it tremendously and so had we. He took my big rucksack back to London and now I’m as light as Xan who sensibly had only a small knapsack for the whole fortnight.
It was now Sept 29. We went over the Somport Pass, changed to a bus because of the stove-in tunnel, crossed the Spanish frontier at Canfranc and headed west through some peculiar Meteora-like Aragonese mountains to Huesca, then on through the falling dusk with a Spanish middle-class family clattering as loud as ducks all the way to Saragossa. Here we found a tiny room with two beds of different heights, one almost under the other; and after eating some quails in a nice cellar, tried to sleep but failed, owing to a room next door full of almost non-stop gas-bags who all snored fortissimo when they weren’t arguing, and left, long before dawn, with shrieks and laughter, lugging what sounded like kegs and firearms.
We flew to Madrid and spent a long morning in the Prado; drinks in the Café Jijón; then, after a vain search for your sucking-pig restaurant, we had a delicious luncheon in a vaulted place hard by. Doing a bust, we took sleepers – vital after last night – and our train crossed the whole of Spain, bringing us to Ronda at eight in the morning. We found a taxi and tiptoed in as Magouche was still asleep and so was Essie, her mother (they hadn’t got Xan’s message). The house is absolutely charming and totally run-in. It’s only four years since we all inaugurated it. Essie is the very straight upright-sitting widow of an Admiral who must have been very pretty (not the A.), a little vague and confusing in conversation and extremely nice. Magouche is very kind to her. She (M) has a heart of gold and is awfully good with Xan’s once-in-a-blue-moon snicketty-snaque utterances.
We went for a picnic and a very long walk in the hills under a blazing Mexican-looking sky that reminded me of Peru. We looked across the sea to the Pillars of Hercules and Gibraltar and the Atlas Mountains. Tomorrow to Málaga to see Essie off to Biarritz and a grand specialist, then New York. Our triune plan is to walk for a few days in the Gerald Brenan country, beyond Granada in the Alpujarras, before I go to Tramores just before Janetta gets back; then Blighty on the 23rd or 24th.
I’ve read lots of Xan’s Wind-Book [7] and it’s absolutely tip-top. He’s totally emballé by it, charts are everywhere, and excitement reigns, which I beg him to let infectiously rip. I bet it’ll be a great success.
Every night, when lamps are lit, green baize is spread on the table by the fire and out come the Word-Making-and-Word-Taking squares you cut out. They are marvellous and treasured, and all are loud in praise of your differentiations between M’s and upside down W’s and particularly by the short line along the top of the Z’s, making it impossible to muddle them with N’s lying on their sides.
Love from all here and lots more from me.
Paddy
[1] Although out of sequence, PLF’s letter to DD has been included at this point because of its enclosure: an account of the Pyrenean walk, which was based on a letter PLF wrote to his wife at the time.
[2] ‘And the moon has buggered off on top of everything else.’
[3] ‘Quick! Quick! You’ve got only four minutes!’
[4] In Remembrance of Things Past, Proust’s narrator was taught as a child that it was incorrect to pronounce the ‘n’ in ‘Tarn’ and ‘Béarn’.
[5] Robin Fedden, The Enchanted Mountains: A Quest in the Pyrenees (1962).
[6] ‘Those people shoot at anything that moves.’
[7] First published in German as Das Buch der Winde (1988), and in English as Aeolus Displayed, A Book of the Winds (1991). PLF considered it Fielding’s best work.
13 January 1979
[Postcard]
Mani
Did you know that Miss Mitford (author of Our Village) [1] could write and read at the age of three? Also that, at the age of ten, she won £20,000 in a lottery, by insisting on the number 2224, which added up to her age?
A thought for the day.
P.
[1] Mary Russell Mitford, who descended from the same Northumberland family as DD, published her sketches of village life between 1824 and 1832.
1 February 1979
c/o Heck [1]
Lockinge Manor
Wantage
Darling Paddy,
Alright then, I did know about Miss Mitford’s nice win on the lottery. But I freely admit I didn’t know why she chose the numbers. So you ½ win.
(Note. When the French Lady wrote Highland Fling [2] Lady Redesdale suggested it should be called Our Vile Age (see?) but Evie had just done Vile Bodies so it wasn’t.)
Andrew says he is going to you for a day or two at the start of his walk. [3] My word, it would be a comfort if you set off with him, even if you can only manage a fortnight.
Julian Jebb plans to do a documentary film for telly on the Fr Lady. I do wonder if it’s a good plan. We’ve sort of said yes & now I’m getting cold feet. The letters at home are DYNAMITE, can’t let anyone just dig in at them in case, you know, & I’m too lazy & TOO BUSY to do them myself but I can see I shall have to.
Much love
Debo
[1] Hester (Heck) Loyd (1920–2001). An old friend of DD. Married Major Guy Knight in 1944.
[2] Nancy Mitford’s first novel, published in 1931.
[3] Andrew Devonshire’s plan to walk through southern France into Spain the following spring did not materialise.
22 February 1979
Mani
IN TEARING HASTE
Darling Debo,
I do wish I could kick off with Andrew for the first bit, but I don’t see how on earth I can.
I’ve already put off going to Petra with Joan, which I had promised to do year after year; and I’ve just managed to get going on the bit of the book which my muse had been refusing for months, as a pony refuses a fence . . . But I will try and join him later on for a bit.
I’ve just got a boast-card from Daph, depicting a Crana
ch portrait of a cove called Duke Heinrich the Pious [1] – doesn’t look very pious to me – a terrible ruffian in slashed doublet and hose, a feathered hat at a tilt, sword half drawn, a dreadful scowl and a lurcher crunching some ugly trove at his feet, which she says looks exactly like me. I’m very concerned . . .
Tons of love, darling Debo, and more later
Paddy
[1] Daphne Fielding had sent PLF a postcard from the Old Masters Picture Gallery, Dresden, of a portrait by Cranach the Elder of Henry IV the Pious, Duke of Saxony (1473–1541).
21 February 1979
Chatsworth
Bakewell
Darling Paddy,
What are:
Heart of Oak
Hue & Cry
Dan’s Mistake?
What is:
Tender & True
Spartan Sleeper
Now then. Your turn to be shown up. I shall be furioso if you know.
Much love
Debo
24 February 1979
Mani
Darling Debo,
Heart of Oak is our ship.
Hue and Cry are our men (i.e. either the late Ld Sefton, or Prof. Trevor-Roper in a famous hotel off Piccadilly). [1]
Dan’s Mistake was ever getting into that den in the first place.
Tender and True is the sirloin that cannot tell a lie, even under your piercing gaze in the shop.
Spartan Sleeper is a yoga-practising Greek peacefully snoring on his usual spike-mattress.
Would Ruff’s Guide to the Turf (easy to lose your way in a club that size) have helped me to the right answers? Do tell. Joan and I have been scratching our heads like mad.
Tons of love,
Paddy
[1] Both men’s first name was Hugh. The famous hotel off Piccadilly was the Criterion.
17 March 1979
Chatsworth
Bakewell
Darling Paddy,
Now then. I LOVED your answers to my questions. Very clever, but wrong, one & all.
Hue & Cry, Heart of Oak, Dan’s Mistake AND Queen of the Nile (which I forgot to put) are all GOOSEBERRIES.
Spartan Sleeper is an ONION.
Tender & True is a PARSNIP. And no doubt you wot of an excellent spud called Pink Fir Apple.
Have you read a book about the Sitwells called Façades by one John Pearson? [1] It is completely fascinating. I read it on orders from Uncle Harold [2] who suggests that this Pearson does the history of the Cavendish family. So I’m going to meet him next week to see what he smells like. The only trouble is that he wrote the life of Ian Fleming & I remember Ann loathing him, or would she have loathed anyone who set about that? I haven’t asked her, as I don’t want to be put against him yet. You might think the history of the Cav family is dim in the extreme but the funny thing is it isn’t. Every generation produced one or two amazing people, i.e. Henry Cavendish of laboratory fame couldn’t order a suit except when the moon was in a certain state, & some of the dukes were extremely rum & noteworthy.
Mark Amory is nearing the end of editing Evie’s letters, [3] really Nancy’s to him are marvellously good. ‘Now Evelyn I am not, repeat not, a communist. I am a Christian, early if you like.’ And he ends one ‘and if by bugger you mean de-camp’ – almost too sharp, eh.
Much love
Debo
I’m going to be 59 in a minute. How can I have lived so long. Sophy is 22 tomorrow. Emma will be 36 next week.
[1] John Pearson (1930–). Author whose books include Façades: Edith, Osbert and Sacheverell Sitwell (1978), The Life of Ian Fleming (1966) and The Profession of Violence: The Rise and Fall of the Kray Twins (1972).
[2] After retiring from politics in 1964, Harold Macmillan took up the chairman-ship of his family’s publishing house, Macmillan Publishers.
[3] The Letters of Evelyn Waugh.
19 March 1979
Chatsworth
Bakewell
Darling Paddy,
Since I know you will see the point of the gooseberry names, I have discovered a book called The Anatomy of Dessert, most beautiful print on ditto paper, written by one Bunyard, limited edition of 1000 signed by the author, 1923. But do you think they sold 1000? OH DEAR, if not.
The chapter on gooseberries is CLASSIC. Apparently ‘it owes its development to the Midland workers who raised new seedlings for competition and so was the Big Gooseberry born in Macclesfield & other industrial towns’. Lord Brougham, Lord Derby, Lord Eldon, Ranter, Bribery, Queen Caroline, Prince Regent (dull claret red, very large oval), Glenton Green, Ocean, Lander, White Swan (slightly hirsute), Mitre, Careless, Antagonist, and in the Hairy Yellow class, Criterion, Gunner & Caterina. Red and very hairy are Ironmonger & Beauty.
It says ‘the Gooseberry is, of course, the fruit par excellence for ambulant consumption. Freedom of the bush should be given to all visitors.’ Do admit.
This is really a gooseberry letter so will leave it at that. Much love
Debo
This came, usual thing asking for money. Poor Archbishops, I thought, feeling the pinch. But it turned out to be monkeys.
Mayday 1979
Athens
WRITTEN WITH ONE FOOT IN THE STIRRUP
Darling Debo,
I’m so sorry being such a rotten correspondent, just when you’ve been such a faithful and funny one. I loved all the names.
This is written in a bit of a hurry, chez Barbara and Niko Ghika in Athens, on a sort of shady roof garden embowered with exotic plants and in the distance I can hear the rhythm of communist choruses, baying like a chorus of trained jackals about a mile away to celebrate their favourite day. Give me maypoles.
Last Sunday night – Easter Sunday in the Orthodox Church – our car was blown sky high with an explosive charge and a length of fuse, with a red poster with hammers and sickles. I think they’d got the feast confused with Ascension Day. I think it’s all part of an attempt of ours to erect a modest bronze plaque to Fallen Comrades in Crete. It was to go up at a certain Abbey in the island. The Abbot and monks all consented, there was a feast to honour the decision, but a week later, it was withdrawn: four men in cars had turned up, Communists from Heraklion, and frightened and threatened the monks. The same thing happened at another monastery, where our submarines used to surface on the same coast. Then a splendid village said they’d have it, and shoot anyone who tried to disturb it; and a few days later, BANG! at our doorstep. There is quite a powerful Comm. Party in Eastern Crete. The west is all O.K.: shows what a minority can do. The amount of telephone calls and telegrams from Cretan pals and Greeks in general – indignation, sympathy, etc, has made it almost worthwhile. But not QUITE, as insurance pays nought for Malicious Acts. Bugger them all.
Tons of fond love from
Paddy
1979
(as from White’s)
Sevenhampton Place [1]
Swindon
Darling Debo,
It has been an orgy of dictionary game here, with croquet by day, and I thought I was doing rather well, when up turns a young shaver called Bannister – son of Sir Roger Bannister the Miler [2] – six-foot-six tall, bashes them through the hoops almost without looking and strides on to the next with the pace of the Long-Legged Scissor Man, leaving one rather pensive and humbled.
Tons of fond love from
Paddy
[1] PLF was staying with Ann Fleming.
[2] Roger Bannister (1929–). The first man to run a mile in under four minutes.
11 September 1979
Chatsworth
Bakewell
Darling Paddy,
Did I tell you I’ve been commissioned to write a book. [1] What madness, but I’ve gone & signed a contract so there we are. V trusting of the commissioners, they think because my sisters can write I can too. Ha ha. They will be sorry soon.
Much love
Debo
[1] The House: A Portrait of Chatsworth. An account of restoration work undertaken by the Devonshires, t
ogether with excerpts from the 6th Duke of Devonshire’s Handbook (1844). ‘For one heady week it topped the Best Seller List in the Evening Standard.’ (DD)
2 October 1979
Mani
Darling Debo,
We’ve got two owls here, very close to the house, who hoot like anything just beyond the sort of arched gallery where we dine. I’m very jealous of Joan, because she’s an ace at imitating them through clenched palms, as I bet you can too. I can’t do it, like being unable to whistle, because of two front teeth being too far apart, I suppose. Anyway, when Joan breaks into their dialogue, there is an amazed or embarrassed silence, then bit by bit they answer, until an enthusiastic three-sided exchange begins, which it is hard to break off. I can hear them now (8.30 p.m.).
I wish I could whistle like you, you’re the most skilful whistler I’ve ever met. I think of you at the wheel, driving medium fast, and whistling ‘There may be trouble ahead, let’s face the music and dance’. Miraculous.