In Tearing Haste

by Patrick Leigh Fermor

  Tons of love from

  Paddy

  [1] Between the Woods and the Water.

  28 November 1987

  Mani

  Darling Debo,

  Tip-top, your page about the sheep sale! Lots of pace and brio. You are clever. I wondered whether the last bit, about Botticelli etc, was a bit Philistine; [1] but I think it’s OK, we don’t want you travelling under false colours if you know what I mean. The rest is spanking. Do send some more.

  When your letter arrived, I had just finished writing one to Mark Amory, oiling out of reviewing Frances Partridge’s book, because I’m v. fond of her, but wouldn’t have known what to say about the captions. Gracing the bottling party was pretty rotten.

  I am alone here and I wish my third vol. of Shanks’s Europe was spinning along like yours.

  Keep in touch, and tons of love

  Paddy

  [1] DD ended her description of a sheep auction with, ‘I would give a lot to see [the auctioneer] on the rostrum at Christie’s. He would make the Bond Street dealers sit up and look sharp or the Rembrandts would walk away, here come the Botticellis, sound in reed and udder, change the tup and you’ll get a van Gogh . . .’ The Estate, A View from Chatsworth, p. 48.

  28 January 1988

  Mani

  Darling Debo,

  We went to stay for ten days with Janetta and Jaime over les fêtes, in a warm and spacious borrowed house between Arles and Les Baux. It was lovely and I listened to the carols in Provençal that I was wild about half a century ago. [1] An enormous ram drew a wicker cart up the aisle full of bondieuseries followed by twenty thoroughly shaggy shepherds in scratchy cloaks, each with a kid or a lamb in his arms, till the whole place was full of baa-ing and bleating. It was all a glorious change. I walked for miles and miles in the Alpilles, then trudged round the Palace of the Popes at Avignon. We ate till we could hardly move at that marvellous restaurant in Les Baux – the Oustau de Baumanière – but no more expensive than that beastly lunch at the Ritz. I sat in cafés, watching others buy delicious things for dinner at the market stalls, lulled by the clink of boules as I sipped a drone’s Pernod . . .

  Love from

  Paddy

  [1] ‘ “Pastre dei mountagno,” etc. sung with Guy Branch and Balasha Cantacuzène before the war.’ (PLF)

  29 June 1988

  Chatsworth

  Bakewell

  How did the telly week go? [1] RSVP.

  All v good here, no other news, which is good news. Much love

  Debo

  [1] PLF was being interviewed by Melvyn Bragg for The South Bank Show, broadcast on 28 January 1989.

  8 July 1988

  Mani

  Darling Debo,

  Well it’s all over! The TV visitation, I mean. A team of three came out for two days first, cased the joint, hired quarters, commandeered transport etc, then there was a bit of a lull till the Director [1] came back again. He stayed with us up here. The only thing was he was terribly tight a lot of the time, after having been a Double First, loved and then cast off (because of the demon D). He played chess a lot with Joan, and very well; but when later the others arrived and occasionally rode over him roughshod, he would weep on her shoulder: ‘They all hate me so.’ He was far the nicest and most gifted. Eventually all eight were assembled in the village. We gave them a feast up here, and made them as happy as we could with wines, spirits and grub (they were v grateful. Apparently some of their ‘subjects’ treat them like dirt. The US Celebrity, John Updike, [2] during a week gave them neither bite nor sup. They had to send miles for a cup of Nescafé). Melvyn Bragg came out for 2½ days, to do the ‘key interview’. He seemed much nicer than in London. The ‘interviewing’ went on all over the house, on mountain tops, in grottoes and caves, Byzantine churches, some in a caïque in search of the entrance to Hades. George Psychoundakis [3] came over for three days from Crete. Anyway, it seems they shot and taped enough for several hours, and were constantly patting one on the back. They even got Joan to appear for a few seconds (she hates it). We strolled across the terrace, then down an avenue of cypress and rosemary hedges . . . Well, it was all so cheery and congenial in the end that we all felt rather abandoned when they buggered.

  Tons of love, dearest Debo, from

  Paddy

  [1] David Cheshire (1944–92). Television director and producer.

  [2] John Updike (1932–). The South Bank Show interview with the American novelist was broadcast on 28 October 1990.

  [3] George Psychoundakis (1920–2006). Cretan resistance fighter who served as a dispatch runner for SOE. Author of The Cretan Runner.

  27 May 1989

  Mani

  Darling Debo,

  We had a marvellous journey in the Yemen for much of last month, and the beginning of this, with Xan and Magouche, flying from Cyprus in the evening, leaving the sunset over Taurus Mountains to the north, then darkness falling over the desert, with first Medina, then Mecca twinkling below. I hadn’t quite realized that the country is all mountains, with spectacular fortress villages like Bastilles, standing in the Empty Quarter and Thesiger-land. The inhabitants are the nicest imaginable, full of jokes and kindness – they must be nice, as their very pretty children are without fear, dash up and shake hands or simply slip theirs into yours to lead you about and show you things, and never beg, but they do murmur ‘Kalam! ’ (Arabic for ‘pen’) in a pleading chorus. Forearmed, we distributed them by the dozen and won all hearts. The only trouble was Ramadan. We hadn’t reckoned with it, they snooze all day, but when the sunset-gun goes, and all the muezzins in all the minarets start wailing together, everyone makes whoopee all night. They wait for the bang with all spoons poised over plates of delicious soup; then chew a mild hallucinogen called kat all night (which puffs out their cheeks like Derbyshire Neck) and smoke hookahs till daybreak. I got unpopular by halting the hired Range Rover in villages to buy headdresses to be turned into tablecloths, and Xan to buy melons. I urged that textiles last longer, Xan replied, ‘Yes, but they don’t taste as nice.’

  Lots of love,

  Paddy

  18 December 1989

  Mani

  Darling Debo,

  A little while ago, John Julius Norwich sent me the marvellous alphabetical verses which he and I have both been after for years. I knew only the first two lines, An Austrian army awfully arranged / Boldly, by battery, besieged Belgrade. They are early 19th century, and the author is unknown. I tried to do something similar, but starting with Z, backwards, in a style which is much freer in every sense of the word; it takes a rather racy turn, here and there, as one was more at the mercy of alliteration than meaning. It was worse, but I’ve bowdlerized it here and there with that lovely BLANCO fluid. Anyway, I send it with all greetings for the Winter Solstice – it’s too late for Christmas, and too un-Yule like.

  I’ve got a lovely suggestion for twin vols for your false door in the library, not mine, alas, but in a glorious book called Remainders, by Eric Korn:

  J’accuse by Emile Zola

  Emile Zola by Jack Hughes.

  (Nancy would have liked that, with her passion for the Dreyfus case.) He also suggests Morgan Forced Her by Howard Zend.

  It’s a wonderful December here. Joan and I went on a picnic today under the olive trees. (We’ve just finished our harvest. Not up to much. No rain for months.) In spite of the rainlessness, it was billiard table green under the branches, with a flock of snow-white goats grazing, a vast sweep of blazing sea below, and a single cloud. I hope it stays; for Christmas, poor old Niko Ghika is coming, with John Craxtonr [1] to hold his hand, and Niko’s Portuguese maid to help.

  Tons of love,

  Paddy

  [1] John Craxton (1922–). Distinguished British artist, member of the Royal Academy, who illustrated the dust jackets of PLF’s books and who settled in Crete in the early 1970s.

  FÊTE CHAMPÊTRE

  ‘ZUMMERZETSHIRE ZIDER’ – ZONKED, Zen-zombies zig-zag . . . Zippy


  Young yobs, yahoos, yeastily yap – yelp – yell – yowl ‘Yippee!’ Xerodermatic xiphoid xenophobes X-ray Xantippes, While wanton, woad-wet, wasp-waisted whip-wielders wallop willing whipees.

  ‘Vain, vapid voluptuaries vie vacuously’ (Voltaire)

  (Underground, Uniate underdogs unlace used underwear . . .)

  Toxic, tipsy, tympanists tirelessly tap trite tattoos,

  Sleazy soloists suck straws, swig sherry, swill shandy. Some stir stews,

  Rousing red-headed, roughneck, ravenous Ribena-fed retinues.

  Quaint, quirky queues quaff quarts. Quiet, questing queens

  Pathetically pursue puce pederastic palanquins,

  Obsessively out-Oscaring Oscar’s otiose

  Notions. Now noisy nymphomaniacs nobody knows

  Misguidedly manhandle mildly mascara’d matelots.

  Look! Lords lambaste ladies! Ladies lords lacerate!

  (‘Kossacks kidnap Kappelmeister!’ ‘Kalmucks kibosh Kate!’)

  Jeep jangles jeep, Jehu jolts Jezebel, Jack jostles Jill,

  Idle idiots imbibe ideas idler imbeciles instil.

  Harmless homosexual hedonists hold heterodox heyday,

  Gracious gay gadabouts gather, gracefully going grey.

  Furtive fops follow fleetingly-flaked-out fairies’ feuds,

  Eager ears eavesdrop. Every eye extrudes.

  ‘Dentist deflowers dons, dairymaids, duchesses, dingos, dudes . . .’

  (Cling close! Clasp cobber! Cool! Clap clear clinch concludes . . . !)

  Bogomils * broach bashful burglars, but bent buglers bungle blast,

  And all, after acid’s acrid aftermath, abscond aghast.

  Inam 9891.01.32

  Romref Ghiel Kcirtap

  * Bulgarian heretics. They gave up marriage and giving in marriage, and turned towards their own sex. They are the originals of the old English ‘Buggers’, who were here, till blanco’d out and replaced in the cause of propriety.

  2 January 1990

  Chatsworth

  Bakewell

  Darling Paddy,

  I was just thinking, AGES since I heard from you & somehow we didn’t coincide in August so I was v v pleased to get yours.

  The reaper has been at work over Xmas. First Stanley Olsen, [1] then both Droghedas &, worst of all, Sybil [Cholmondeley].

  She spent Christmas Day with gt grandchildren, decided to stay in bed a bit on Boxing Day & the person who took her lunch up found her propped with pillows, specs on nose, book in hands, dead. About to be 96. Oh how I loved her.

  I’m going to Houghton in two weeks, can’t imagine how odd it will seem without her presence. Or perhaps she will be so strongly there one will only be aware of her & the others will be the non-existent ones.

  We had all the children & grandchildren for Xmas except beloved Stella Tennant who has gone to Chile to stay with Lucía Santa Cruz [2] for a few months.

  Isabel Tennant, Celina & Jasmine Cavendish, [3] all sort of grown up now, are incredibly nice. Isabel & Celina are lovely but the fashion is to make the very worst of your looks. They sit at dinner with hair & face in the soup, hooped backs, & someone cleverly said they (and their peers) are heaps of wool. But they are SO nice. William Burlington [4] has got shoulder blond hair & he wears a mac two sizes too small which he bought 2nd hand some years ago. He’s called the Apparition. Also incredibly nice but you wouldn’t give him a lift however hard it was raining.

  My book is finished & has gone off to Macmillans. What a wonderful feeling. A year late.

  LONGING to see you. Please enlarge on London dates. I shall have to come to London sometime re illustrations for my stupid book. Jim [Lees-Milne] says he can’t read it, it’s above his head.

  Much love

  Debo

  I LOVE the Bulgarian heretics being buggers & J’accuse & Jack Hughes.

  [1] Stanley Olsen (1947–89). Anglophile American author of John Singer Sargent: His Portrait (1986). ‘He bicycled round London with a Cocker Spaniel in a basket on the handlebars. Having lunch with him on a wintry day, I was impressed by a big bowl of Iris reticulata on the table – typical of his unusual style.’ (DD)

  [2] Lucía Santa Cruz (1943–). Historian. Daughter of a former, very popular, Chilean ambassador to Britain. Stella Tennant’s godmother.

  [3] Lady Celina (1971–) and Lady Jasmine (1973–) Cavendish. The daughters of DD’s son, Peregrine.

  [4] Earl of Burlington (1969–). DD’s photographer grandson married Laura Montagu, née Roundell, in 2007.

  13 January 1990

  Mani

  Darling Debo

  Your letter’s just come – ½ an hour ago – and the airport taxi is waiting under the olives. Dinner in Athens tonight. Paris next day.

  Marvellous description of Sybil Ch’s death. The spectacles set the scene.

  I’m writing crampedly because I’ve drawn a riddle the other side. The answer, perhaps stale – is in looking-glass writing below.

  Love

  Paddy

  [‘Name of W. Stickers?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You are under arrest.’ Question: What will tomorrow’s headline be? Answer: Bill Stickers will be prosecuted.]

  3 April 1990

  Chatsworth

  Bakewell

  Darling Paddy,

  A typical thing. When we moved here in 1959 I had a wallpaper made for the Centre Dressing Room, a v complicated affair copied from a fragment I found in a cupboard. Cole’s of Mortimer St did it.

  D[avid] Mlinaric asked if he could have ditto for a client. Yes of course. Where are the blocks? Cole’s have got them I said. Cole’s said No, they’re at Chatsworth. Never seen them, I said. Oh said Mr Hall (who runs the wondrous factory with clattering man-handled machines, health hazards all) you MUST know where they are. I sent them myself in February 1958 – two heavy packing cases. Oh Mr Hall you come & look for them, I said – he doesn’t know this place & the needle in haystack style.

  Any chance of Nancy’s letters to you? [1] I would be forever grateful if you would let me photo them & I would faithfully send back, no mislaying of them I promise.

  So what to do? Michael Pearman [2] had an inspiration. Jesse Grafton, long retired carpenter, lives next to him, the only living fellow in that dept who goes back to 1958. Oh yes he said they’re in the Plunge Bath. And sure enough they were. So do look in your Plunge Bath & you never know what you might find.

  Much love

  Debo

  [1] For the collection of Nancy Mitford’s letters, Love from Nancy, edited by Charlotte Mosley (1993).

  [2] The librarian at Chatsworth.

  17 April 1990

  Mani

  Darling Debo,

  1,000,000 apologies for being such a sluggard with the pen. It was ’flu first, then the utter and total torment of beginning, writing and finishing those Daily Telegraph articles, [1] the hardest thing I’ve ever done, oddly enough, and I’m afraid not very good. Anyway, I’ve faxed them off on the day I said I would and can breathe again.

  Now, first things first, Nancy’s letters. I’ve had a tremendous search, and can’t find them alas alas! We were never terrific correspondents. I wish we had been, because we were sister-souls talking. I should say 10–15 at the outside. I’ll have another great hunt the moment this is finished.

  Lots of love

  Paddy

  [1] ‘Travels in a Land before Darkness Fell’, Daily Telegraph Weekend Magazine, 12 May 1990, reprinted in Words of Mercury, pp. 40–50, and ‘Ghosts That Haunt the New Dawn’, Daily Telegraph Weekend Magazine, 19 May 1990. PLF had been sent to Romania by the editor of the Daily Telegraph, Max Hastings, to report on the aftermath of the fall of the Ceauşescu regime.

  10 May 1990

  (My mother’s birthday, 110)

  Train to London for 1 night

  Chatsworth

  Bakewell

  Darling Paddy,

  Any hope of you for the dance (7 July)? [1]

  So excited re your articles in D Te
l.

  I wonder if I shall manage them. There is a v good best seller by my bed, called Woods & Water or some such name. I’m going to read that one day.

  Much love

  Debo

  [1] A ball held at Chatsworth to celebrate William Burlington’s coming of age.

  26 July 1990

  Mani

  Darling Debo,

  I still haven’t quite come round from that amazing thing on the 7th! It was a marvellous grand arrival there – the expanse of empty black-and-white check floor, then the great swoop of scarlet stairs, with your solitary triumvirate welcomingly halted half way up . . . It was as if the whole house had transformed into a different element, half familiar and half unknown, like a fair, or an aquarium full of resplendent creatures and any number of friendly faces, starting with Henry’s. [1] The tented acreage – those steps and the normally outdoors reclining statue and dog being indoors gave a real through-the-looking-glass feeling. The whole thing, that array of people looking after us, everything being marvellous and on time, as though being painlessly managed with a magic wand – there were so many openings for things being held up, or going wrong. None did and, for me, the whole thing dissolved into one of those golden Turner radiances. I know you weren’t too keen on the Masque, but it was lovely it being from an Inigo Jones drawing in the Library, and as for that thunderous Beethoven accompaniment to the fireworks, words spring so abundantly to the nib that I’ll spare.