Nancy Mitford (25 page)

‘Erlanger’s
Louis XIV
is out—far the best thing he has done but I was shocked to see that he has published a letter from Mme de Maintenon which is well known to be a forgery. Voltaire and Racine’s son were the first to denounce as such a batch of her “letters” published by La Baumelle—apart from their statement of the way in which La Baumelle went to work (he stole some real letters and published them mixed up with fabrications of his own), the style of the false letters is utterly unlike hers. So—Erlanger must know it. I wait with interest to see if
anybody
shows him up! Very foolish of him as the rest of the book is admirable, though he is too
spiteful about Mme de Maintenon.’

More impatiently she wrote next April: ‘They are still printing my wretched book and have been for months and now I see another one on the same subject is coming out—it’s all too boring, that will make three with Erlanger’s deplorable effort which has been hailed as one of the twenty
greatest books on history. I
really think the French have gone mad, but of course I can’t say so except to you or they’ll think it’s sour grapes.’

Despite her professed aversion to modern travel Nancy continued on her round of
summer
visits, in June to stay with Mark in Athens: ‘I’ve ordered an air ticket… really life has become too exciting to bear. Fond love, old architect of les menus plaisirs,’ she wrote him. Athens would be perfect, she said, ‘if not so hideously ugly… Seven hours in Rome airport seemed endless… The clock seemed to stick instead of carrying one swiftly towards the grave as it generally does.’

In July she returned to her beloved Venice. ‘All friends pleased, I think, to see one but the number is terribly diminished. I had a long talk with Vittorio the bagnino [bathing attendant] which consisted in him reciting the names of the dead and me saying Oh Vittorio every now and then and crying. It’s Victor [Cunard] one misses so much. Alphy Clary, my other great friend here, is tortured by arthritis and can’t come to the beach any more. Rome airport seemed for ever… No paper backs one could bear to read—dictionaries of sexology—lives of the First Ladies and so on. I think of all the dead, except relations I miss Robert [Byron] the most, closely followed by Victor. It’s the jokes…’

In September she visited me in Florence and we were joined by Christopher Sykes, a friend since her childhood, who had written a masterly appreciation of Robert Byron. We laughed most of the time but alas, I cannot remember specific jokes. The only fiasco was a dinner with a kindly American couple who had restored their ancient villa in sumptuous style. ‘It’s like a grand hotel,’ she remarked. ‘It may sound silly, but I like, specially in houses, a certain degree of shabbiness—couldn’t tell you why.’ Nancy shook hands with the butler, who had
previously
been with a Venetian family and was proud to welcome her, but, as the hurt hostess told me later, Nancy had not deigned to shake hands with her. During dinner another guest explained too audibly to her ignorant neighbour that Nancy was one of the famous sisters, one of whom had been a Nazi, another a Communist, and I fear Nancy overheard, for as soon as dinner was over she complained of a racking headache and said, ‘I really must be going.’ And off we went before the coffee was served. Otherwise, as she wrote me, Florence was ‘perfect heaven, everything I like best… Oh Italy, there’s nothing like it!’

Nancy received frequent messages and a telegram from Violet Trefusis insisting that she visit her villa L’Ombrellino, ‘the most beautiful in Florence,’ but Nancy had no desire to do so even in Violet’s absence. She was happy enough on the sunlit terrace of La Pietra and there was a
surfeit
of more interesting sights. After her return to Paris Violet ‘summoned me to her bedside and put me through such a fearful exam on the Ombrellino that in the end I had to confess I hadn’t been there. It was like this, Did you go into the house? No, of course not as you weren’t there—we saw the view. How could you have seen it without going into the house? But Violet, from the
terrace. How did you get to the terrace? And so on, my replies getting feebler and feebler. I ought to have done ten minutes’ prep with you first. She is very cross indeed but more with me for
daring
to go to Florence behind her back than anything else… Violet is madder than ever. She said to a friend of mine, whom she has just met, do you know who I am? (I said the answer should be the Man in the Iron Mask?) I am the daughter of Edward VII
but don’t tell anybody
.’

‘I found the proofs [of
The Sun King
] and a re-proof for having gone away and so I must bury myself in them. The book, read thus, seems exceedingly dull I’m sorry to say.’

‘G.P. is now on the board of les musées de France. I say his first deed must be to hold a sale—la vente P.—of everything which isn’t shown, the money to go to foreign writers living in France. “Are you mad?” he says—“Violet would get every penny.” Very true, no doubt.’

From Fontaines she wrote to Mark, then employed by Shell in Athens (15th November, 1965): ‘While writing three books of history I’ve become awfully good at research and now my enormous talent and industry are entirely directed to finding teases for ye… My drawing-room is a vision now with new curtains and a new bonheur-du-jour [small writing-table with
drawers
] on which I spent most of the pittance bequeathed by Uncle Matthew. How I wish Shell would employ me at
£
1,000 a day including free rides in cars and free chocs—oh how I do wish it. My work, gentle tease, is purely voluntary… Came here hoping to sit in autumnal
sunshine
but this morning I note the wandering snowflake… P.S. Cyril’s [Connolly’s] name for Cecil [Beaton]: Rip Van Withit.’

Nancy had spent her waking hours at Fontaines pulling up and burning nettles, ‘so you see on est plutôt abrutie.’ Home in Paris, ‘I refuse all invitations and hug my stove.’

IN 1966 NANCY definitely decided to buy herself a house at Versailles. The rent of her
apartment
in ‘Mr Street’ had been raised exorbitantly and she longed for a place of her own: this was the leitmotiv of her letters through out the year.

‘Vilely cold, tons of snow, everybody falling down, oh how I hate the winter,’ she wrote to Athenian Mark. ‘The American who lives upstairs gave me a huge white azalea and then, while I was still sort of dazed by it, ordered me to go and see some American dancers with him
tomorrow
… I rather love this sort of weather in the country when one can plunge about like where the saint hath trod. Here they half melt the snow with salt so the streets are icy canals up to the knee and virtually uncrossable—pavements are solid ice. Oh no. Old Marie hates going out so I’ve just been to get tomorrow morning’s milk for her.’

To Alvilde Lees-Milne she wrote at the same time: ‘My Italian friends are here [Brandolinis] and, as at Venice they come and take one to the Lido, here they come (same time, 11) to take one to the Bois where we plunge about in snow instead of sliding on grey ice as in the streets. It’s awfully agreeable, I greatly love them… L’oiseau de pluie [Rainbird the publisher] writes about twice a week with suggestions for a new book—practically every stock figure of the fancy dress party has been evoked. But I’ve no desire to write anything at present I’m loving total
idleness
… Louis comes out on 1st October… Have you read
The Group
?—[by Mary McCarthy]. Screamingly funny. What people of horror Americans are. If you ever see Paul Taylor and his Company, flee the land. I was taken last night, Théâtre des Champs Elysées. They are huge American spastics who galumph about the stage on bare dirty feet to the tune of modern music. No décor of course. Theatre quite empty—the chap who took me said gloomily Parisians only like dancers in spangles and ballet shoes. So do I.’

29th January (to Alvilde): ‘All the beauties here give inter views about their
knees
, which they rub with various substances such as wine or snow. Are your knees dry? Oh dear, another thing to fuss about in the morning, rubbing one’s knees. I begin to long for the eternal disembodied state so soon to be upon one. Oh but, the resurrection of the body? The knees will be drier than
ever after a few million years… I lunched with L’Oiseau de Pluie yesterday—Mrs Law is still part of the set-up. He offers me Casanova (Colonel screamed) no thanks!’

‘We are having a lovely scandal here—one hangs on the wireless hour by hour. Le récit du concierge du coquet immeuble where the body was found, after which the wife (we think in name only) says “il est parti faire un tour parce qu’il avait la tête comme un chaudron.” They said Figon was such a nice change from the last locataires—Asiatics. Five hundred people have put in for the flat (though the body has only just been removed—pools of blood) because it sounds so cosy. “Molto cosy,” as Brando always says. Then the English, it seems, have been cheating like hell in the Monte Carlo Rally. What has come over the old land—first the bridge champions and now the drivers—ay de mi.’

Mme Costa de Beauregard died in February and Nancy was deprived of ‘almost my
greatest
friend here and a second home.’ Fontaines had been a perennial haven, a favourite provincial microcosm of la vieille France. No doubt Nancy had embellished it in her imagination, availing herself of happy accidents of atmosphere and obliterating any chance discord or blot. She had depended on it as a spiritual health-resort. Her other greatest friend Princess Dolly Radziwill was failing and, as Nancy was wont to exclaim, ‘How I hate new people!’ After sixty it is less easy to make new friends—it is like learning a new language—whereas old friends increase in value.

The premature death of Evelyn Waugh was another irreparable loss: he had been so much more than a literary arbiter. To Christopher Sykes, who was also devoted to Evelyn, she wrote: ‘Oh Evil! When has one been so sad?
Daily Telegraph
obituary vile. I’m so tired of hearing that he was a sort of lower class milk deliverer who got on in society by pushing—such rot if one knew his family… I haven’t sent my piece (in French) to Auberon because I never think they care for the other Evelyn being mentioned, but I was obliged to do so as she was the reason why I knew him almost before any of us did—and of course she is the clue to so much… I think I’m going to move to Versailles, where I’ve at last found a house. It’s such a step, I feel on the brink of a cold plunge.’ And on All Souls Day, 1966: ‘I think of Robert [Byron] today—my brother Tom, Victor Cunard, Mrs. Hammersley, Evelyn and Roger Hinks. The fact is it’s people one has jokes with whom one misses—the loving the good and the upright much less. What an awful thought. Robert is still the person I mind about the most.’

Before the reign of Chaos and Old Night descended Nancy decided to uproot herself. On Easter day she informed Alvilde: ‘My plans are, I go with the Brandos to Debo [Chatsworth] for about ten days on 2nd May and to Greece and Venice middle of June to August and otherwise shall be here… I’ve found a dear little old house at Versailles which is just the very thing and will buy it if I can be sure that a skyscraper won’t go up under my nose. There’s a nice garden (800 metres) at present very private. Unfortunately it’s in the quartier de Montreuil, further from the château than I would have liked, but of course that makes it cheaper. Also, enormous bait, a sweet maid longs to stay there. There’s a self-contained flat with bathroom for such as you (if you deigned) and Debo.

Violet [Trefusis] is now quite off her old head. She tells everybody that she had a long affair with the Colonel. He has written her a sharp note: étant donné que vous êtes la seule femme à
Paris à qui je n’ai j’amais fait la cour. Then she has got a ghastly American in tow… She says he’s the son of the man who wrote
Le Guépard
[Prince of Lampedusa]!!! Wretched Alice, aged 80 and ill, is still made to cook and wait hand and foot. I lunched there—never again. Vi spat out a great lump of food and with it still in her hand took some salt—she is too vile. She said to Cristiana [Brandolini] if you will introduce me to those good-looking Italian boys I see going to your flat I’ll introduce you to French intellectuals. So Cristiana asked her in after dinner and she arrived with the horrible American and Philippe Jullian!… One has only to know about other people’s lives for one’s own to seem completely perfect… Troyat’s
Tolstoi
… I’m living in it—best book I’ve read for an age.’

Nancy also informed a mutual friend, Robin McDouall: ‘Violet wrote a thumb-nail sketch of herself in
Figaro Littéraire
as follows: “Vaste salon dans la rue du Cherche Midi. Merveilleuse
cuisine
. Très beaux bijoux. Très liée avec la cour d’Angleterre. L’Egérie de Philippe Jullian. Ecrit ses mémoires.” She asked me for a title for her mémoires (I thought she had already written them) and was not pleased when I suggested
Here Lies Mrs Trefusis
.’

In fact Violet had been advertising her memoirs and cogitating the title over the last decade. The title was the crux of it and everybody offered suggestions: ‘I think of calling my new book of mémoires either
Queen Fausta or No Moss
’. Looks round at the company. ‘What do you say, Mr Coop?’ Nervous young Yank: ‘Well Mrs Trefusis I think perhaps I would choose
No Moths.’ ‘Moths
, Mr Coop? Have you never heard of a rolling stone?’

When Violet heard of Nancy’s plan to live in Versailles she said: ‘Nancy’s making a big
mistake
. She thinks society will run all the way out there to visit her. They won’t. At least no Frenchman will. It’s much too inconvenient!’ But Nancy was tired of random callers and she could always count on seeing her true friends. As she told Mark (25th April): ‘I’m not really social and in any event never dine out. I so long to see blossom in the spring, mists and mellow
fruitfulness
in the autumn and white, not grey, snow in the winter. It’s such a cosy little house and yet has such heaps of room. I shall put in a third bathroom and hope for ye.’

Back in Venice, however, Nancy entered zestfully into the sociabilities of her hostess Contessa Cicogna until, as occasionally happened when she saw too many people or kept late hours, she lost her voice and had to retire. ‘Here I am in what is still the most beautiful place in the world and, in spite of many horrors, the most unspoilt,’ she wrote Sir Hugh Jackson in July. ‘One rages against shop windows going slap through Byzantine arches and such things, which would be unthinkable in France, and against the ever-increasing motor traffic and against plastic bottles bobbing in the canals (and one has the awful feeling that they are indestructible, unlike glass ones, and will still be bobbing in a thousand years) but all the same there are acres of
marvels
. One or two signs that the Italians are beginning to realize what Venice is. Since last year San Sebastiano has been marvellously restored by a rich woman from Milan. It is Veronese’s church and one of the very most lovely and fascinating…’

‘I’m reading a life of William III—struggling with it rather as it is almost unreadable. The American author doesn’t bother to explain two things I have never fully understood—the title of Orange and the exact position of the House of Nassau in the Republic. I’m also reading an
excellent life of Voltaire by Jean Orieux… The other book is
£
3, imagine, and not specially well produced. Mine is going to be 3 guineas but then it has got masses of pictures and a beautiful binding—huge print and lovely paper. I’ve got an advance copy and am delighted with it.’

To her sister Debo she wrote in more frivolous vein: ‘Two English beatniks in trousers and long hair made a scene on the beach, bagged somebody’s cabin and the bagninos first told them to go and then manhandled them and the beatniks knocked out two and a policeman. When they were finally arrested they were found to be girls. That’s the stuff. I saw one elderly man,
balding
, with long grey hair to the shoulders and a wreath of gardenias. Eet was deesgosting…’

‘I sat next to Charlie Wrightsman four meals running… I asked him what had changed him from a polo playing tycoon into an art collector and it was seeing a Louis XV commode. He said, I’ve spent eight million dollars on objects of art.’ (In parentheses, Mr. Wrightsman was one of the few male Americans whose company she relished. He amazed and amused her, and she admired his taste in French furniture.)

‘I’m still here for another week,’ she told Sir Hugh Jackson on 4th August, ‘my enjoyment distinctly modified by a total extinction de voix. Having struggled away for several days of huge luncheon and dinner parties I have now collapsed into my bed—a bore for everybody. The funny thing is, however chatty people are by nature, if you can’t put in a word here and there they dry up. The town is full of amusing people, a French general called Stefflin who was
intimate
with Goering before the war and who sent home accounts of the full extent of Nazi
armament
which of course nobody read—Mary McCarthy—Isaiah Berlin—John Sparrow—as well as all my delightful Italian friends, it’s really annoying to miss it all… I’m reading a life of Goethe, roughly translated from German into American. I see that after Tolstoy he was the nastiest
living
person—I wonder why geniuses have to be so horrible. I expect the writer of this very poor book misses a good deal of the point—one could make Voltaire unrelievedly horrible I suppose by not understanding him. As I don’t know German I daresay I shall never get under the skin of Goethe and must take his genius for granted.’

‘Fifty-two years now from the outbreak of war which I well remember. I really think that the world today is worse not better? and getting worse all the time? If on top of all, there is to be black ruin the outlook is poor. A Frenchman said to me there is much to be said for living in a country which has had its revolution. Yes, but we are always told we have had ours, bloodlessly and painlessly—perhaps in fact the tumbrils are ahead! Certainly Mr Wilson seems more
powerful
every day in England and more slavish in America… I shall bury my head like an ostrich at Versailles.’ [Referring to proofs of
The Sun King
she had sent Sir Hugh] ‘Misprints not my fault, mistakes which are, so that I quite dread what the critics will say. You must be truthful.’

Launched under favourable auspices,
The Sun King
met with a reception beyond Nancy’s most sanguine expectations. ‘The coffee tables seem to be loaded,’ she told Robin McDouall, ‘and my grateful European publishers are giving me a banquet at the Frankfurt book fair which will be a rare lark, their names sound like a team of footballers. My agent says 100,000 have been sold in England and Europe—not yet out in America…’ The
banquet
disagreed with her: ‘Try being polite to two German booksellers at 10 a.m. in an
ogre’s castle feeling sick!’

The success of
The Sun King
was well earned and well deserved: edition followed edition while Nancy concentrated on the little house she had bought at Versailles, 4 rue d’Artois.

Nancy was more of a novelist in life than in literature. She superimposed her own image on what she was seeing, yet she wished to be seen in the role she had assumed, a Muse of Comedy—and to appear more worldly than she was. For all her pseudo-Parisian sophistication and the growth of her fame she retained her pristine naïvety. A virginally romantic sensibility coloured her outlook. Great wealth and historic genealogies cast a glamour on their possessors even when these were dowdy and plain. Her next abode was much prettier in her mind’s eye than in reality. Its façade on the street was unassuming but its interior was adaptable, and she
proceeded
to arrange the rooms with discriminating taste. The street itself was quiet and suburban, with a solid grey parish church round the corner. For Nancy the garden behind the house was its cynosure. With her cult of fresh air she could read and write in it when the weather was fine. The garden was her ‘necessary luxury’.