Nancy Mitford (9 page)

Fire-watching was another duty she failed to relish for it entailed spending part of the night in a camp-bed at Crewe House. On these occasions she would don old trousers and a tin hat, and sally forth into the blackout armed with a stirrup pump. Once she and Mollie extinguished some fire bombs in Hill Street off Berkeley Square, Nancy carrying the pump and Mollie two buckets of water, laughing all the way. ‘She
made
my war,’ said Mrs. Buchanan. When the flying bombs descended Nancy would plead in her cooing voice: ‘Come and look at the V.s. They are so pretty. Do admit.’ Survivors staggering out of the rubble they left behind them were less prone to admire their prettiness. But when her grocer was bombed out of his house she
invited
him to hers with his wife and children and they stayed for several days. ‘He was not an
attractive
or interesting grocer,’ added a friend who was one of his customers.

To her mother she wrote (26th February, 1944): ‘You never saw anything like the burning. I pack a suitcase every night and always dress which I
never
did before, but the raids are very short,
exactly one hour, so that’s no great hardship only chilly. Also we have a very good fire party here so I have great hopes that we could get anything under control.’ And later in July: ‘Nobody minds the bombs any more (I never did) but they are doing a fearful amount of damage to houses. One going over here knocked panes of glass out of my neighbours’ top window
simply
from the vibration of the engine, which is unbelievable unless you have heard the thing… But how can the Germans be so stupid as to get everybody into a temper now, just as they must see they have lost, it is really too idiotic of them and seriously I think minimizes the chance of a decent peace… I do dread losing the house because oh
where
would one live?’

When so many mooched about with long faces Nancy’s resolute cheerfulness was a tonic. Hers was a peculiarly English type of beauty and it did not belong entirely to this age. Her clear smooth skin and clear quizzical eyes under a high forehead with chestnut hair like a wavy
turban
above it would have been portrayed to perfection by Sir Joshua Reynolds. She appeared much younger than her age and her humour had the gaiety of girlhood. In spite of her
intellectual
bent she could not be described as an intellectual, nor could she be described as sensual or worldly. She had natural good taste, not only in the clothes she wore. In those days she could not afford to indulge her love of elegance yet in the neat black velvet jacket and black wool skirt she usually wore in the shop she looked better dressed than many a more prosperous friend: her husband contributed nothing to her few amenities, if he ever wasted a thought on them.

In March 1944 Peter was ‘living near the ruin of our villa (the Rennell villa near Naples) and using our servants and burning my ma-in-law’s frightful furniture for firewood, isn’t it strange. He goes to the beach head every day—says it is hell on earth.’ He was back in London before Easter. ‘Peter is to and fro and one never knows which until he appears and he doesn’t know from one minute to the next. I think he is getting a very important job and he goes on being a colonel, which people generally don’t when they come home and which makes a huge
difference
in money.’ No huge difference to Nancy, however. Usually he was to be found at the Savile Club, and he would ask me not to tell Nancy that he was in London. Soon after finishing
The Pursuit of Love
in May 1945, Nancy informed her mother: ‘Peter has rushed off to Transport House to see about a constituency, egged on by me, as candidates get 90 coupons. I fear it will be no good though, married to a Mitford!’

Although she felt ‘a pudding of tiredness’ she hoped to go to Paris in August. As a result of this fatigue she wrote from Heywood Hill’s: ‘What do you think I did? I decided not to come here Saturday morning as I was really tired, and forgot to lock the door on Friday so the shop was full of wandering people trying to buy books from each other. Wasn’t it a nightmare? By the mercy of Providence Heywood was passing through London and happened to look in. He wasn’t best pleased and I don’t blame him. The fact is I’m too tired but it’s no excuse for such dottiness.’ In the meantime Peter was skipping about canvassing for Mason Macfarlane. ‘Isn’t it typical, the Christian names of our candidates are Mason, Brendan, Clifford and Wegg. Why aren’t politicians ever called Tom, Dick or Harry?’

Despite her feminine volubility, Nancy was too proud to speak of her troubles, yet they were only too real. It was far from pleasant to think of her sister Diana (Lady Mosley) in prison, and
of another sister Unity still suffering from the trauma of near suicide, her mind confused by divided loyalties. And when Diana was released from captivity Nancy had to cope with a siege of inquisitive journalists. The shop rang continually with their telephone calls which she and Mollie took turns to answer. Fortunately the beautiful Diana had an overflowing share of the Mitford
esprit de corps
. As her husband relates in his autobiography:
1
‘After telling me one day about the treatment of the women in the early days by one or two old harpies in a company of wardresses… she remarked that she yet felt she had an advantage over them: “It was still
lovely
to wake up in the morning and feel one was lovely
one
”—it went straight into one of Nancy Mitford’s books.’ The sisters were reunited with screams of delight. But the death of their brave and handsome brother Tom, who was killed in Burma, was a deep and lasting sorrow, though Nancy tried to console herself with the thought that he had thoroughly enjoyed his life. All his friends had basked in the radiance of his intensely musical personality.

Peter’s escapades had become painfully embarrassing. He spent whatever money they scraped together (or rather what Nancy scraped) and he was notoriously unfaithful. After one of his nocturnal rackets he would peal the bell of their little house in Blomfield Road at 5 a.m. in a state of maudlin intoxication and undress, without money to defray an exorbitant taxi fare. Nancy either kept such incidents to herself or laughed them off. She was far too reserved to admit her essential loneliness with Peter. She could forget it in Heywood Hill’s shop which had become a rallying point of her friends in uniform or mufti who happened to be in London. And in the meantime the Free French had fired her imagination with a growing love of France. I
suspect
she was already looking forward to pastures new when she embarked on her semi-
autobiographical
novel,
The Pursuit of
Love. This begins in the bosom of her family and ends with a glowing Parisian romance. Fabrice, duc de Sauveterre, is an embodiment of the gallant Free Frenchman who had captivated her mind and coloured her future outlook. Fabrice, the hero of the Resistance, was caught by the Gestapo and shot but Nancy revived him in her future
novels
and historical biographies. She remained on friendly terms with Peter Rodd, but her
annoyance
was noticeable on the rare occasions he invaded the bookshop.

That Peter could show a chivalrous side to other women has been confirmed by a lady who had a happy affair with him. According to her, he could be passionately romantic, even
poetical
, and he wrote the most beautiful love-letters. She still remembers him with tenderness. Unfortunately his attitude to Nancy was one of cynical and selfish exploitation, or so it seemed to her friends. In his case the jokes which Nancy so keenly enjoyed with others went too far. Probably he was a natural philanderer who could not endure the marriage tie. Though Nancy had longed for children she never com plained of ‘Prod’. But she had given up any pretence of enthusiasm for his eccentricities, which had left no warm after-glow.

On 22nd July, 1945 she wrote to Heywood Hill: ‘I have been given
£
5,000 to start a
business
with, would you like to have me as a partner. I can’t work full time any more… I want to concentrate on the import and export side which I shall know more about when I have been to Paris… I have a personal letter from Oliver Lyttelton imploring me to trade in books, and another from the F.O. recommending me for an exit permit…’

To me, still seconded to S.H.A.E.F. in Paris, she wrote breathlessly: ‘I am planning to put some money into the shop and be a partner and my dream is to be fixed up with some Paris shop and do delicious swops so that I can be the purveyor of high brow frog books here and vice versa. Anyhow I can find all that out when I arrive—meanwhile I am planning to enjoy myself and to become deliciously baked (it is snowing here, need I say)… There is a new man in the shop, a pro, taking my place as after this week I am only going part time. He thinks I am perfectly raving mad and keeps saying under his breath “This is a most extraordinary
establishment
”. His favourite writer (because a best seller, I don’t think he reads) is Mazo de la Roche and he wants to order hundreds of his (her?) forthcoming book and fill the window with it. I have gone quietly, so to speak, into the Maquis and am using underground methods of
sabotage
with complete success.’

‘Tomorrow the Rothermere party for the election. We are asked from 12.30-3.30, fork luncheon. Evelyn [Waugh] says, “I intend to arrive at 12.80 and stay to 3.30 using my fork all the time.” It is rumoured there are to be 150 people and only
6
lobsters so one must hope for a
miracle
.’

‘I’ll tell you as soon as I know when I arrive—don’t know where I shall stay… Oh! I am excited like a child.’

On 4th August she wrote again: ‘Advised upon all sides I have settled now to go in September, it seems more sensible, and P. writes that he may be in America if I go in August which would be a pity as I shall need all the support I can have. I do hope you won’t have gone for good by then it would be disappointing… Our new young man is a menace… I struggle away, you can imagine! but dread to think what the shop will be like in my absence. The thing is he is awfully NICE and one doesn’t want to wound him in any way.’

‘I’ve been correcting my proofs, always enjoyable I think it reads better than I had expected really.’

Those were the proofs of
The Pursuit of Love
, which was to enjoy a success surpassing Nancy’s wildest expectations.

The slim blue volume of 195 closely printed pages on poor paper ‘in conformity with the authorized economy standards’ was published later in the year at what might correctly be called the psychological moment. The general climate was one of war weariness and disillusion after the elation of victory. Churchill’s government had fallen to a Socialist majority under Mr. Attlee. The verdict of the General Election had forced our colossus to tender his resignation, and the verdict was shocking for its base ingratitude. Amid the ensuing gloom, with mediocrity
vengeful
and triumphant,
The Pursuit of Love
was like a gloom dispersing rocket. Evelyn Waugh’s
Brideshead
Revisited
had paved the way for it and Nancy submitted the manuscript to his scrutiny before sending it to Hamish Hamilton, her enterprising publisher.

A master of the craft of fiction as well as a staunch friend, Evelyn offered several
suggestions
including the title, for which Nancy always gave him credit. But the feline humour and lightness of touch were entirely Nancy’s, and the style is more finished than in her previous
novels
. There are hints of Evelyn in the ‘entrenching tool, with which, in 1915, Uncle Matthew had
whacked to death eight Germans one by one as they crawled out of a dug-out’, but I cannot detect ‘the inspired silliness of Ronald Firbank’ which L.P. Hartley noted. Though free from intellectual pretension it will be consulted by historians as an authentic record of a phase of English civilization and of country-house society when more consciously sociological novels will be mouldering in dusty shelves. The characters may be caricatures but they have the
vitality
of a Rowlandson at his best. The sheer fun of existence at Alconleigh sets the pace. Uncle Matthew and all the Radletts are drawn with the assurance of intimate knowledge. Unwittingly she started a hare that is still running, to judge by recent letters in
The Spectator
. Uncle Matthew’s pronouncements on correct English usage had the honour of being quoted by Professor Alan Ross of Birmingham University in an article on ‘Upper Class English Usage’ which was
printed
in a learned Finnish journal, the
Bulletin of the Neo-philological Society of Helsinki
(1954). This had a hilarious sequel which was solemnly swallowed by those who accused Nancy of snobbishness. In fact she was teasing the snobs but she kept a poker face while doing so. But I must not
anticipate
. The sequel, inspired by Professor Ross, appeared ten years after
The Pursuit of Love
, and some people still think twice before mentioning words classified as non-U.

In spite of, perhaps even because of, the accusations of snobbishness,
The Pursuit of Love
appealed to an enormous public, and Nancy found herself more secure from financial stress. Unfortunately, having been posted to Germany, I missed Nancy in Paris, and I was at home in Florence when she wrote to me on 28th December: ‘I’m not enjoying the party much at
present
, I so hate being back in London, was so completely
blissful
in Paris. Perhaps darling John [Sutro] will film my book and make millions for me and then I could live where I like. I am
sending
it to you by the way and hope you will be able to read it… The shop is doing brilliantly and I am a partner now.’

Nancy was so encouraged by the success of
The Pursuit of Love
that she retired from Heywood Hill’s shop in March 1946 to devote herself to writing. But she corresponded
frequently
with Heywood and his partner Handasyde Buchanan and, having bought shares in the shop, considered herself a ‘sleeping partner’.