[4] Edward Adeane (1939–). Private Secretary and Treasurer to the Prince of Wales 1979–85.
[5] William Herbert, 18th Earl of Pembroke (1978–). After his father’s death in 2003, he left his job as a designer to run his family estate at Wilton in Wiltshire.
[6] The Prince of Wales’s wedding to Camilla Parker-Bowles, Duchess of Cornwall, on 8 April.
[7] Andrew Parker-Bowles (1939–). The former husband of the Duchess of Cornwall had known DD since he was a boy.
[8] Keith Mellors was houseman at Chatsworth; his wife, Stella, was housekeeper of the private side of the house.
[9] Michael Howard (1941–). Conservative MP and Leader of the Opposition 2003–5.
[10] DD’s bedroom and sitting room were on the first floor at Chatsworth.
10 July 2005
Chatsworth
Bakewell
Darling Paddy,
I rattle on here while the Old Vic is being got ready. [1] A huge job as roof & floors were all wonky. That saint David Mlinaric is giving me a hand with things like where to put baths & electric points – all the things you take for granted but must be done. He is so extraordinary, eye on ball all day, explaining to electricians, plumbers etc in their own lingo. When I think of the places he’s done – Covent Garden, National Gallery, V&A, Spencer House, ETC ETC – you can imagine the Old Vic is the smallest fry & just done out of kindness. Amazing.
Nicko Henderson has been here & Robert. It was the weekend of the concert in the park & the one & only remaining Lancaster bomber, accompanied by a Spitfire, flew down the river & lumbered along very low, making a terrific racket. There was Robert, stick in hand, looking & listening to this elephant slowly turning & offering to hit the roof of this old dump. It was v moving, all in floods of course. We asked Robert what it was like [2] & he was pre-Lancaster, flew in a Handley Something, was navigator and let the bombs go when lying more or less on his stomach in the nose of the thing. Navigation hopeless he told us. Sometimes just on ETA, often when they met ack-ack fire, they just decided to let the bombs go. ‘Perhaps we’re over Hamburg.’ ‘Oh yes I expect so.’ ‘Let ’em go.’ That sort of thing.
Jon Snow’s [3] telephone went in the middle of dinner. Of course, we all thought Blair had started another war, but no. It was his daughter saying Dad, any chance of some tickets for Glastonbury?
Now then. Robert Byron. [4] Alas I never knew him but I bet you did? Such a fascinating thing, letters galore from Nancy, Tom & Diana AND MY PARENTS to him have sprung out of the packing cases the niece is bravely sorting through. I hope to buy them, can’t wait to see. I’ll tell you the sort of stuff when (if ) they land here. [5]
There is much going on here but that’s nothing new.
Much love. Keep on keeping on
Debo
[1] Following her husband’s death, DD was moving from Chatsworth to the neigh-bouring village of Edensor.
[2] Robert Kee served in the RAF in Bomber Command. His plane was shot down over occupied Holland and he spent three years in a German prisonerof-war camp, an experience he described in A Crowd Is Not Company (1947).
[3] Jon Snow (1947–). DD met the Channel 4 News broadcaster through her sister Jessica.
[4] Robert Byron (1905–41). Writer whose best-known book, The Road to Oxiana (1937), was a record of his journeys through Iran and Afghanistan. He was a friend of the Mitford family and of Nancy in particular.
[5] DD was successful in buying the Robert Byron letters.
[August 2005]
Dumbleton
Darling Debo,
It’s too queer, when I got here 3 or 4 days ago, bang on top of a pile of letters was a card from you, that managed not to get forwarded, though long out of date.
‘Did you know’, the text of the P.C. runs, ‘that the Vikings called Constantinople Micklegarth? Well, they did. Much love, Debo’
I did know it, and have written fruity paragraphs about it in that book called Mani. It’s really Micklegard, but only a near miss. ‘Gard ’ and ‘garth’ are pretty well interchangeable, and akin to ‘grad’ as at the end of Petro- and Stalin-, meaning a ‘place’ or ‘town’ – the ‘big one’ here. Micklegarth was regularly visited by Harold Haardraada – his steeds were always in a muck-sweat – as well as Jerusalem, which he called Mittelgard, because he thought it was in the middle of the world. H.H. was later King of Norway, and landed at Stamford Bridge, hoping to capture England before William the Conqueror did; he was helped by a horrible man called Tostig, but got killed by our King Harold, who rushed north just in time, and then marched south again at high speed, just in time for William’s landing. A crowded week, ending in the Hastings arrow in the eye.
ENTR’ACTE
25 August 2005.
Debo, I must have written the above illegible stuff three weeks ago, in a maelstrom of old envelopes and bills and I’ve only just discovered it, and, at the same time, that unless I take care, my writing becomes totally illegible.
I go to London from time to time because of seeing specialists, who are intervening in a few of the minor things that infest the aged and turn the first quarter of an hour at any meeting of those over ninety into an Organ Recital. I ought to be getting back to Greece, so it looks as if meetings will be off till later in the year.
I’m off to spend the Bank Holiday Hol at Antony & Artemis Beevor’s house in Kent, which I look forward to. He’s a great Cretan War expert and she is my literary executor. Do send news here, when I briefly return, or, if much later, to Greece.
What news of your new quarters?
Tons of love,
Paddy
30 August 2005
Chatsworth
Bakewell
Darling Paddy,
Micklegarth. I’m still surprised. I can see you aren’t. I love them all being in such a hurry, up & down England. Tostig is just the name for a horrid person.
New quarters coming along in the slow way they do. Won’t it be odd, moving.
Do you remember when Somerville & Ross had to move to a smaller house, in despair at the fact that ‘under everything there is something’.
All love
Debo
13 November 2005
Chatsworth
Bakewell
Darling Paddy,
Here is chaos. I’m on the brink of moving, trying to undo 46 years-worth of GLUT. My rooms have got cardboard boxes, one for THROW, one for KEEP, & now I see a third is needed for UNDECIDED.
Although the Old Vic is huge, it is vaguely smaller than here & there’s no hope of getting even KEEP in.
There are marvellous entertainments called car-boot sales & that’s what I need. You can buy a Rembrandt for a few quid in any old field. So why not sell a few?
The awful thing about it all is that only I can do it. I MUST go & fill a cardboard box.
Much love
Debo
Mid-November [2005]
Mani
Darling Debo,
You’ll never guess why I’m writing on this kind of paper. [1] The reason is that my alignment always seems to get tangled, like the barbed wire on the Western Front in early films. This makes a move in the direction of legibility.
I had a shock two days ago. Woke up, opened a book to read, found the print v smudged on the right-hand page, and nothing on the left hand, so got driven in haste to Kalamata. When I got there, I found I could read all these rows of diminishing capital letters with utmost ease. It had all come right, in a mysterious way, caused by something called a ‘blood-spasm’ in Greek, so all is well. I long to see Mr ffytche this time next month.
The book I was reading was Duff ’s diary edited by J Julius. [2] I thought it a bit indiscreet at first – then changed my mind, and enjoyed it a lot. I always liked Duff (I know you didn’t) and loved Diana. I wonder what you would make of it. Antony Head [3] has one entry in the index, but no mention of the funniest thing about him that Diana used to tell. When he came to stay at Chantilly, Diana showed him
his quarters, and said, ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to share a bath with Duff ’, to which he immediately answered, ‘All right, but bags I the non-tap end.’
Tons of love, darling Debo,
Paddy
[1] Heavily ruled writing paper.
[2] John Julius Norwich had edited a volume of his father’s diaries, The Duff Cooper Diaries, 1915–1951 (2005).
[3] Antony, 1st Viscount Head (1906–83). Minister of Defence 1955–7, High Commissioner in Malaysia 1963–6.
14 March 2006
Edensor
Bakewell
Derbyshire
Darling Paddy,
Eyes. A terrific nuisance. Have yours made reading difficult with their tunnel? [1] Or isn’t it like that? RSVP.
Mine are getting worse, inevitable I suppose, & people’s faces are dirty sponges & anyone with their back to the light is a dead loss. Colours have rather gone west, blue & green pretty well indistinguishable, never mind.
Helen [2] & I have been desperately busy putting together an exhib of Andrew’s life in SEVEN rooms at Chatsworth. Your Three Letters from the Andes is bunged between his boots & socks & filthy old coat & looks fine.
Last night was the press evening. It was JUST ready in time. They seemed to like it. Good. One room has fourteen works by Lu Freud, nine oil paintings & some drawings, a bit of a showstopper, & at the end a whole long wall of photos of the funeral procession – amazing. It will all remain for two years.
I’m having three days hard labour with a French telly crew. Because my daft book has sort of taken off in France [3] so the telly are following up the incredibly & totally unexpected things the journalists wrote after lots of interviews. What a big surprise.
The telly woman is hard work, never a smile & doesn’t seem to see the point of anything. I forced them to go to the Farmyard in the snow this a.m. & two schools’ worth of five year olds were riveted by watching a cow make a mess. Don’t think the cameraman got it but that’s typical if you see what I mean, missing the point.
Tomorrow we’ll ‘do’ Alan [Shimwell] & my hens, that’ll learn them & I showed them Madame Mère & Pauline B & Napoleon in the Sculpture Gallery [4] which vaguely cheered them. They said ‘Do you think it is time to get rid of your royal family?’ ‘Certainly not’ I said ‘we’d have a dreary old president.’ ‘That’s what we’ve got.’ ‘Yes, so you know?’ Heaven knows what the prog will turn out like.
Much love from
Debo
[1] PLF was suffering from tunnel vision. ‘It’s called Simplonitis.’ (PLF)
[2] Helen Marchant (1961–). Secretary to the Devonshires since 1987.
[3] Counting My Chickens had been published in France as Les Humeurs d’une châtelaine anglaise, translated by Jean-Noël Liaut.
[4] Marble portrait busts of the Emperor and his mother by Antonio Canova, and of his sister by Thomas Campbell.
[April 2006]
Mani
Darling Debo,
Many apologies if I’ve sent you the enclosed during the last century, but I’ve just come across it and send it in hopes of a smile. It’s a rather dated ‘Meow – meow’ campaign ‘abolishing the cat’ etc. I’m busy wading through old letters, papers etc. Writing is still rather disorderly, but I plan to improve.
Lots of love,
Paddy
AFTER LUNCHEON THOUGHTS
For an advertising campaign for KIT-E-KAT
KIT-E-KAT for Felines of Distinction . . .
(Is your cat a KIT-E-KAT? You can tell by its whiskers . . .)
Top cats eat KIT-E-KAT
‘What are the top cats saying?’
‘What’s in the MEWS?’
‘No mews is good mews, as purr usual.’
‘Purr ad ventura . . .’
‘Wise witches choose KIT-E-KAT (Quickens acceleration, more climbing power)
Cats have nine lives, but only one KIT-E-KAT!
Why abolish the cat? Give him K-E-K and watch out for the sleekness . . .
K-E-K for dreamless and refreshing catnaps . . .
Lots of love
Paddy
12 May 2006
Edensor
Darling Paddy,
Thanks so much for Kit E Cat. It is perfect. Best. V v clever and makes me rush out to buy it in spite of being cat-less (and dog-less too, odd).
Are you in touch with one Dr Mitchell, [1] chosen by his peers to write the life of M Bowra? University Coll Oxford is his grand address.
He wrote to ‘The Keeper’ Chatsworth asking to see MB’s letters to Nancy. So me being her keeper I answered & sent them, only three but never mind.
I told him that Emma’s generation when at Oxford called him Old Tragic, an interesting fact which he didn’t know but on the strength of it he’s asked me to lunch in his glamorous diner. Shall I go? I rather long to.
When people talk like that, refer to Librarians & co as keepers, I naturally think of them as gamekeepers. Oh never mind.
This house is becoming alright, better than it was when we had the Old People’s New Year. [2] I really love it. Can’t explain why but perhaps it is the atmosphere.
Much love
Debo
[1] Dr Leslie Mitchell; historian and Emeritus Fellow of University College, Oxford.
[2] ‘Paddy and Nicko Henderson had spent New Year 2006 at Edensor – the first non-family guests as I had only moved in on 14 December 2005.’ (DD)
9 July 2006
(The Usual)
Darling Debo,
How I hate using this beastly paper, but it’s the only way to remain on the rails, I’m afraid. (I must have a serious talk with Mr ffytche.) The only alternative is to use v thin paper, and have a sort of grid underneath. Anyway, to hell with it!
I’m so sorry being such a sluggard in writing. I think, subconsciously, it’s probably shrinking from this stationery. You note how upright my writing has suddenly become? It’s part of my plan to become steadily more legible. Also, note the presence and clarity of the date. In the past, one was lucky if letters had the day of the month. One didn’t seem to worry about years.
It’s been very queer here recently, but a bit better now. Tremendous heat, for which the local remedy is to keep the windows and the shutters firmly shut from the moment it gets at all light at dawn, until after sunset, when one flings them all wide so that cool air can waft about the house all through the hours of darkness. The daylight darkness is a bit eerie. I toil away rather slowly at Vol III of my stop-press youthful travel book. A French critic refers to me as l’escargot des Carpathes.
Fond love,
Paddy
(envelope torn asunder)
Real stop-press!
P.S. I had just sealed the envelope with a letter to you in it, when your last letter suddenly turned up under a pile of books, so I rent it open, and I was so amused by the contents that I couldn’t do otherwise. I’ve even been driven back on to unruled paper, so must take care.
First. How did your feast with M Bowra go? There’s lots to be said about him, most of it v good but spoilt by a streak of v bad. Anyway, a fascinating theme. Lots to be said when we meet. Maurice adored Joan and gave her all his poems, many extremely funny, some appalling – not in prosody but in content, some not to be read out loud. Joan went through them a year before she died and told me that as she knew he had given similar bundles to Pam Berry [1] and a few others, she would burn her set, which she did next day. The reason being, she said, that they could make many people utterly miserable. All v complex and best explained unwritten. But he did far more good than harm, in the sense of being a liberator from inhibitions, family gloom etc. A v. complex case. The editor of his poems behaved extremely nicely to me, wrote and said ‘would I mind if the two poems that deal with me were published’. One was harmless, the other not, so he cut them both out of the published vol. [2] Another such brand from the burning was Billa [Harrod]. So he’s a good egg. John Betj gets it in the neck, although a great friend. My own p
rivate conclusion is that Maurice could become v faintly cracked for as long as it took to write a poem, then stepped back into being a marvellously funny, cheerful fellow.
Please send news and gossip, P
[1] Lady Pamela Smith (1914–82). Political hostess. Married, in 1936, Michael Berry (created Baron Hartwell 1968), proprietor of the Daily Telegraph.
[2] New Bats in Old Belfries, a collection of Maurice Bowra’s scabrous satires, published in 2005, edited by Henry Hardy and Jennifer Holmes.
29 July 2006
Dumbleton
Darling Debo,
What is very queer about tunnel vision is that one suddenly notices that one’s interlocutor (or interlocutrix) at dinner has two mouths, four eyes, and four nostrils but by a twist of one’s face, I can reduce the features to the normal quota. Sometimes I can manage more or less respectably with no ruled lines at all. It’s very wayward, and rather maddening. I think I will try and write in a very clear script, as I’m doing at the moment, as one did when very young. Thank God, I can still (touch wood) read all right, and I’m deep into the umpteenth re-reading of The Road to Oxiana by Robert Byron. It’s wonderfully funny and clever. I wish I’d known him better. I met him about three times in 1938, once with Sachie Sitwell, [1] once with Bridget Parsons, and once with Mark Grant, but never well. I bet you did, unless you were still too young. Yes I did see him once more, at an exhibition of Willy Acton’s [2] paintings. He and everyone was tremendously tight.
I so hope this is more or less legible. One way of dealing with seeing double (turning Salisbury Cathedral into Cologne or rather vice versa) is to wear a patch, but I always forget.
With tons of love,
Paddy
[1] Sir Sacheverell Sitwell (1897–1988). PLF had been a friend of the writer, youngest of the famous literary trio, and his wife Georgia, since 1937. ‘When war broke out, I enlisted in the Irish Guards but they couldn’t take me for a month or so and I lived on tick at the Cavendish Hotel. Sachie and Georgia heard of this, and I was asked to stay with them at Weston, Northamptonshire, until the Guards depot had room for me. I spent Christmas there on leave: total bliss. Talk, music, fun, paper games, fascinating neighbours. It was a wonderful retreat.’ (PLF)
In Tearing Haste Page 40
